(Training) Chapter I (Solo)

[Sighard]

Fall 1st, 511 A.V.

Antinous Training Grounds

Darald was an imposing figure, who stood several inches higher and wider than his son. His old age was but a spectacle in the guise of a few wrinkles and peppering of gray that spotted his coal black hair, but he stood as proud and exuberant as any youthful knight. His strides across the Antinous grounds were both elegant and precise, and did not include the hesitation which often marred his sons. He lifted his wooden blade and fell it upon the shield of his opponent, a bulging squat man who staggered back at the powerful blows of Darald and let out raspy, heaving sighs every time his squat chubby feet had to skitter back in retreat. It seemed as though this was the entire spar though, and the man eventually grew too tired to hold guard for which he was promptly punished. There was a sickening snap and a crimson spray of blood that stained the dried brown grass below and landed upon the steel tipped boot of Darald as he whipped the tip of his sword against the bridge of his opponent's nasal passage. There was no smile or cheer given, but continued somber expression as Sighard's father stood patiently, offering contemplative glances to his now suffering match.

"Shym, see to it that you reach a healer promptly. I'll have no injured squires under my command, is that understood?" Darald commanded, the lines of his features tightening and his voice escalating so as to project his authority to the sniveling boy of fourteen.

"Y-yes, Ser!" A nasally pitch escaped Shym's mouth as he moved a fat, blood-smeared hand from his broken nose. He skittered away, kicking up clouds of dust as he made his impression on the ground at his leave.

The old man ran a plated gauntlet through the thick sheen of his coal black hair and allowed a few droplets of moisture to trickle back onto the ground. His eyes ran askew towards the sky and for a moment it seemed the vigor and strength which constantly pervaded every inch of his being left with the huge disappointed sigh that he belted towards the heavens. He regained himself immediately afterwards and shifted slightly so as to accommodate his view to the next of matters on the list. With hawk-like precision he pointed his sword towards an arbitrary copse of trees, right where his son had been spying on his training session and commanded, "Come, Sighard! One can only learn so much through watching."

Although it could have been construed as an invitation, the boy knew better. The Beleld sense of humor was extremely dry, almost non-existent. Their uncanny ability to cut through all the nonsense with direct poise and wording was a trait he'd not yet managed to pick up. Awkwardly he rose to his feet and dusted himself off. Lords knew what it meant to show up unkempt to Darald Beleld, even in these circumstances. A few branches rustled and nimble hands pressed their way against a thicket, and the splendor of the boy did illuminate nicely in the afternoon kiss of an orange son. He maintained that same, strong posture of his father, but his wiry frame managed it awkwardly and as he attempted to sauntered forth his movements were rigid and full of disjointed swings. Better to let father know I am trying and fail than to let my guard down for a second. I'd hate to end up like Shym I would. . .

"A spar, then, father?" Sighard called out, trying to mimic the impressive tones of his father, but also falling desperately short of that feat. Darald merely nodded in response and Sighard collected both a wooden sword and shield from a nearby bin. As he moved to turn the thunderous tones of Darald rang true.

"DROP YOUR SWORD! YOU'VE NOT YET EARNED THE RIGHT TO STRIKE!"

[Sighard]

And all of sudden the fiery passion which exuded from Darald's throat warmed the deafening chill of brisk autumn air and seared the ringing eardrums of Sighard who all at once flinched and his released his grip on the handle as if it had grown snakes meant to bite him. It clattered raucously against the ground and its echo shadowed the entire field which now served as its dominion. There was an eerie silence that respectfully paid heed to the booming tenor of the senior Beleld, and those moments seemed to hang, frozen in time. Sighard knew that if he'd kept his back to his father too long the consequences would be fierce, but he preferred to keep the flush of his features hidden as long as possible. Begrudgingly, and with as much discipline as he could manage he whirled around and looked his opponent directly in the eye, expecting the worst.

Darald Beleld's features were as stone cold as ever, and if anything his shoultincreased the semblance of structure in his demeanor. His eyes, glittering jades that bored holes into one's soul set firmly in place upon his son. The once ratcheting jaw which helped project his powerful commands now set itself where it belonged and all else seemed even. The change in tones between Darald and Sighard's hair was small consequence when concerning their similarities. The boy often felt he was staring into a mirror when he looked across to his father. They were definitely of the same blood, it was just difficult to imagine such a notion as they stood across from each other and reflected two disciplines. Where Sighard still sought his, Darald was its epitome, its master. From his father and his father's father, and his father's father's father, all Beleld men underwent such a transformation. It was why they all prospered in the Syliran Knights, why their name was so respected.

The lesson began with no words, only the procession of Darald which in and of itself did manifest itself as a terror. The heavy step was pronounced by the dull whine of shifting metal as joints slid easily against each other and allowed for the man's full range of movement, even in plate. His father moved as naturally as if he were naked and there seemed to be no measure of encumbrance that marred his step. However, the display of veteran prose was far from arrogant, and it seemed to Sighard that his father approached him as if he were dueling the direst of his enemies. His sword and shield were raised to strike and when he got into position he did just that.

Sighard hesitated, and, expecting a blow from the blade pivoted to allow less area for his father to strike with while giving his shield arm a greater range to defend within. The movement did not bestir his father's own, but rather he acted as he normally would have, slicing the air with his shield at deadly speed in which the boy thought to be a horizontal slash but he wasn't sure. He perhaps got an opportunity to twitch his arm in response before his face jerked abruptly to the side and a stream of blood flew from between his cheeks. His world was a blur, and in that same moment he felt a hard, crushing press to his midsection that simultaneously knocked the air out of him and lifted him off of his feet so that in the next second he found himself face-down in a pile of dirt. He knew nothing of what happened except that his upper lip had begun to swell and that he was gasping for air and doing his best not to sob.

"Up, Sighard!" Darald barked. He offered no advice, and did not apologize for the sword andshield combo he unleashed upon his son with brutal efficiency.

[Sighard]

Sighard's body rattled, a heaving mass of flesh and leather lifted at the behest of two thin, wiry arms. His palms, supplanted firmly beneath him thrust their heels into the gravelly terrace and hoisted upwards. Elegantly he rose from his knees and stirred back, catching the whip-like stroke of his father's sword in the process via a forceful counter-swing of his shield. The resounding impact transmitted shock-waves that lapsed against Sighard and caused him to stagger back, raising his knees high and awkwardly to catch himself from falling. His world spun madly and equilibrium seemed a distant dream. There was no balance for him, and he was impelled to amble around in a dizzying rhythm. While his eyes swung in pendulous strokes, he caught sight of Darald's movement.

Snap, a brutally blunt force against the side of his right knee caused him to collapse onto one leg. He appeared subservient to the man who stood above him with his wooden blade held high in the air. Sighard heard the horrible sucking in of breath and the whine of joints as they slid to their full extension. The hinges of his father's metal armor cried mercifully as they were extended to their limit and with a subtle whine they were released from their agony. Darald offered an unusual grunt as the full force of his swing was aimed at the unexposed skull of his son and hit a shield instead. The force of the blow was cataclysmic and dissipated along the entire surface area of the practice buckler, causing it to shudder and then snap into several useless shards into the ground.

The momentum of the swing was weak enough that as the blade came crashing through it swerved and tapped a leather pauldron of Sighard's. Blade scraped leather and with uneasy footing Darald staggered forth. It was a rare occasion that such a man lost composure in the heat of battle, but the boy had seen enough to action to recognize the ostentatious opening. With one foot dug into the ground at its base he drew upon the strength of it and flung himself upwards and forth as Darald drew nearer in the same direction. His right, unarmed hand swung wildly up in a vicious uppercut and the boy did growl as passionately he could upon the impact of knuckle to jaw. For a moment it seemed there was a glimmer of uncertainty set into his father's eyes.

And then it all went away, for his head snapped up in a sweet motion and the tangles of his wild mane were sent splaying back from the impact. The bristles of his beard moistened with warm blood but still he remained resillient. His neck muscles strained and caught the momentum of the blow in the smooth transposition of his head. His body remained even and it seemed he would catch himself to guard the next blow had it not already come.

Sighard's now freed left fist followed the uppercut quickly for a hook whilst Darald remained off kilter and dazed. This time, the great heaving structure that was his father did stagger back on one foot which was firmly planted in the ground. A plated gauntlet snapped out with surprising speed to catch the boy's next wild punch and held it firmly in place whilst he squirmed beneath. The boy let out a cry of pain as jagged metal cut deeper into the flesh of his palm as his father squeezed harder. Helplessly he looked to the older man for signs of mercy.

Darald looked back, and he was smiling with exposed yellow teeth stained with specks of his own blood. Rivulets of the red liquid has spilled past his ashy lips and trickled downwards. And though the menacing look did drastically alter his demeanor, he seemed incredibly calm and level.

"Good."

[Sighard]

Darald spit haughtily unto the light layer of frost that had begun to accumulate on the ground below. His saliva was a mixture of nauseating phlegm and blood which he erased disgustedly with the tip of his boot. He pushed and unclenched the fragile, bruised hand of his son, Sighard and sent the boy stumbling back and attempting to catch himself. With a softer scrutiny the older gave a quick evaluation of the battle via a quick glance to the boy and concluded the battle markedly by dropping his sword. He was disciplined, tough, and thorough but he was not stupid. Much of what he’d wanted to instill into the boy through this little display had been, although it would take a bit for the boy to firmly grasp its lesson. In time the pain and wounds of battle would heal, but the wisdom never truly left. The ability to think on one’s feet in times of desperation and save themselves from complete hopelessness was an invaluable resource.

If the squire had picked up on it, however, it seemed to be lost amidst the catering to his bruised and bleeding lip which had marred his otherwise charming exterior. Gingerly he pressed and the expanding bulge near his mouth and scowled when he’d realized that his fingers were numb. His shield arm was sore and his knuckles bloody from their reckless collision with the powerful jaw of his fathers. To be quite frank the pain was unbearable, a searing rage of flames that spread against unconnected parts. He wanted to cry then, so desperately that he could release the emotion he tried so strongly to conceal. The rationality never came, however, and he stayed standing. A numb expression of fatigue defined his condition and his upper lip trembled but he did not cry. Not for his father, not for everyone.

“Are we done for the day?” He asked in strained tones that offered a sort of listless rush. He didn’t want to sound whiny or weak, but the proposition of more sparring chilled his bones and made his heart race fervently. His gaze lifted from the ground and he chewed on his tattered lowered lip, spit some blood onto the ground and took comfort in the fact that his father had dropped his blade.

Darald nodded, and set the precedent by moving sullenly to place his shield and blade in an appropriate bin. He sauntered across the training field and approached his son, wordlessly eyeing him with that muted stare which afforded no comfort or emotion. Only the thin bubbling streams of red that ran across his bruised chin made him seem human. Everything else seemed to be forged of cold steel. However, his coldness had a certain appeal to it that made him admired. Sighard took great comfort in knowing that when danger came, this was one of the men that headed the charge to confront it. With fire in heart and ice in veins, the Beleld demeanor was one to be revered.

Then, the older man did something that was not expected. He raised a plated mail gauntlet hesitantly, allowing his arm to dangle loosely in the air for a second before he patted his son on the shoulder. The smile he offered had some semblance of warmth and recognition and Sighard’s jaw dropped. The embrace lasted only a few seconds, and it was wordless, but to be touched by that man was something powerful. The squire stood there long after his father had left the field. His state was a mixture of mental euphoria and physical pain but all his senses seemed deadened. For the first time he’d felt he’d gained true recognition from his father and in many ways it was his first step to bringing honor to his family name.

Sighard left the field and had his wounds treated by a local healer. Even the bitter herbs and stinging remedies did not push him away from this mood. All of his life he’d felt somewhat lacking carrying the title Beleld, but now it seemed a burden to be managed and handled with great dignity. He’d felt from here on in it would be honing it to such a degree that he could master it and further the legacy of his family. The wonders of the youth’s imagination were a boundless indeed.

[Sighard]

Night

That night at dinner had been rather quiet. The sound of scraping utensils as they expertly flung food into the young's squires mouth dominated all other queer noises that pervaded the medium-sized apartment. There was dim lighting by nearby candles and torches, but all about the room there were shadowy precipices that told that night had come. Darald was nowhere to be seen, and that seemed an obvious, painful fact. His wife, Winon, hummed quietly to herself as she swept about the room in her presented joy and Sighard made move to clean his area upon finishing his supper.

Many a night were spent this way. Following the rigorous training of the day Sighard would come home and eat. He'd spare a few words to his mother and then fall to sleep rather quickly as he was exhausted. Darald often took the shift of Night's Patrol, and lead some of the more risky groups out to defend uneasy territories. Many knew that dangers lurked outside the protected walls of Stormhold Castle, and the tension that pervaded the Beleld household could have been cut thrice with a knife every night. There was a mutual reverence held for Sighard's father, and the thought that some unfortunate event might overtake him someday always lingered in the minds of Winon and her son.

"Your father mentioned you today, Sighard. He seemed very pleased with your progress. 'That boy's got strong blood in him, he does. He'll make a fine knight one day even if he doesn't think it yet.' I believe he said.'" Winon spoke in lilting, sweet tones that fell into the rhythm of her practiced sweep. Her words were accentuated with a pretty smile that reflected off her ageless features. She did not offer more, for she knew that was all that needed to be said before the young boy went to bed. Although Sighard nodded his head respectfully to his mother and did not respond, she knew her son a little too well to know his pride had become swollen from that and as such he would sleep well tonight.

[Chevalier]

Sighard

LORE

• Learning is Doing
• Defensive Focus
• Being Recognized

EXPERIENCE

Skill	XP Earned
Observation	1
Shield	3
Unarmed Combat	1
Tactics	2

Storyteller Notes

Secret :

Fantastic, an excellent job capturing the dirty, injurious nature of combat.