[Flashback] The Devil's Brew (Rhuryc)

[Sighard]

Spring 21st, 510 A.V.

He could remember the day as if were yesterday. A fresh boy of fifteen eagerly training under the guidance of his Steward Knight, Ser Tons who’d taught him that knights were not prided on their penchant for combat, nor their physical prowess. Sighard, less aware and more absorbent than anything, had gone throughout the entirety of Syliras spewing the proverbial word of god, claiming his mentor to be the wisest of all the knights. The claim was not necessarily unfounded considering the age of the veteran, but it had led to the squire’s fair share of shooing from those engaged in work and study. Although he’d been practicing furiously at his martial abilities as per the dictation of his father, he much preferred the honing of intellect at that age. The painlessness of such an experience was certainly an added benefit.

This of course, made the situation that Sighard had placed himself into rather compromising. Here he stood, a charming gentleman who stood staring at the being whose charming magnetism reflected his own. Each stood several paces across each other with blades gripped firmly in hand. The moment urged that any second could begin the conflict. A contest of skill was to be the game and the prize was the injured honor of the defeating. If the situation seemed contradictory of the boy’s usual, cheery demeanor, it’s because it was. The implications of this spar reached far beyond the comprehension of the boy who stood tenuously by and wondered how he’d gotten himself into this position.

The truth of the matter was that the details were rather hazy. Imagine Sighard smaller than he is now. Fill that vessel with considerable amounts of alcohol and allow the hubris of a young adolescent to shine brilliantly and create consequences in the aftermath. Reflecting on the situation, he seemed to recall a swelling of pride at one point in which he’d loudly proclaimed in a tavern that his family was the greatest swordsmen in the knights. It necessarily sparked hostile comments from a man who spoke calmly off to the side. The words were hazy, but it was to the likening of the man not seeing the translation of such abilities into the young boy.

Offense was taken, and now that same man stood across from him, a living, breathing test to the boy’s proclamation. To lose the fight would be to mark the Beleld name in a fashion his father could not honor. He knew victory was tantamount to erasing his mistakes but he was so young. . so doubtful. . and so lacking the alcohol that had previously given him confidence. His disadvantage was that he’d no prior knowledge of the man’s abilities and knew only of his own which were as shaky as the boy who stood and attempted to assert himself.

[Rhuryc]

Rhuryc grunted. What was this all about again? Here he stood, a man annoyed, inside the training grounds of the Syliran Knights across from a boy squire that could not keep his mouth shut. While the details may have eluded his opponent, Rhuryc remembered them well enough for the both. It was common to visit the tavern after his work. The Ironworks left a man thirsty, tired, and wanting nothing more than good company and strong ale. It was there that Rhuryc took his rest. And it was there that the squire had made an ass of himself. Not that he could blame the boy, on more than one occasion he had made such a mistake himself. In fact, he had seen the drunk tank more often than he cared to admit. Right then. The details. He was bragging. The squire. Something about the greatest swordsmen in Syliras. Perhaps Rhuryc had accepted the challenge out of pity, maybe he did it just to get the boy out of the bar. Whatever it was, he was here, now. So there he stood. In his right hand he carried a practice sword from the nearby armory and in his left a shield to match. The weapon paled in comparison to the one sheathed at his hip, yet it suited the visage. A Syliran by birth, Rhuryc looked every bit a Knight. Broad of shoulder, light of hair, and with a countenance made of steel, the man might as well have been the squires patron if he had actually held any sort of rank. The leather coat he wore did well enough to act as a thin sort of armor, but a little pain was not something he much cared to acknowledge. Besides, from the look of the boy, there were already seconds thoughts swirling about up there. Yet he would not back out. This fight was about honor. "By your leave, Squire." There was no mockery in that baritone. Rhuryc was oddly polite, bereft of accusation, and calm in his manner. He offered the boy a short bow then set himself, shield raised before his sternum, extended forward as his blade came to his side; it was held a aloft from his hip, the edge hovering just above the ground. He waited. Silent. Content. Watching and waiting for Sighard to make his move.

[Sighard]

“Right. . .” Sighard managed in strained tones that attempted to force the uncertainty from his voice. The baritone was a profound, yet awkward mimicry of his father’s imposing voice which could often rattle the opponent before the match had even begun. Such was not likely under these circumstances. His rather diminutive frame coupled with oversized armor and shield made him appear almost comical. Though his movements inferred he was practiced in such conditions, the errant shift of leather and wavering of his heavy shield told his obvious disadvantage. Honor would not be won so easily.

Sighard’s gaze latched onto Rhuryc as he fell neatly into his position. It didn’t take a full-fledged knight to tell that the man was no novice. The squire swallowed hard before taking that first, pronounced step. His body transitioned in that pivotal role, bending at the knees and drawing his shield much nearer to his body while his sword postured itself alertly at his side. His grip was loose and maintained by three fingers, thumb, ring and pinky. His procession was slow and unwieldy, full of contemplative doubt that marred the fluency of his steps. These nuances were subtle, but to the trained eye of a practiced swordsman, could be taken advantage of in order to ravage Sighard. The distance closed quickly, and the time for words had ended.

There was clear direction in the arc of the squire’s swing, as many hours of swinging at the pell had taught him. The confluence of his elbow and hand pushing upwards and out from a lower position to higher was accentuated by the simultaneous rotation of Sighard’s hips that added momentum to the blow. His aim, in the quick strike was to force the edge of his blade into the side of the blacksmith’s head. If successful, the swing should have –just- barely gone over the top of his opponent’s shield to hit behind it and reach the intended target.

The boy’s leather rustled and his shield groaned at the sudden, purposeful shift. It stayed close and high enough to protect most of his midsection, while offering full visibility of the opponent. Although there were rough patches in its execution via a slower swing and overall jerkiness of the arc, it seemed, at least, that the boy had known what he was doing.

[Rhuryc]

The subtleties were the first thing he picked up. Here in the training yard he could rely on the flat ground; no stray debris, not uneven footing, Rhuryc was set solely on his opponent. And with that realization came its own level of freedom. His body remained still, muscles loose, his gaze even and narrow. When Sighard came he was ready. First to deal with that strike. Already set at a low angle, Rhuryc stepped in with his left foot and swept the weapon up, nowhere near matching the dedication of the offending strike; instead, his sword clattered against the flat of the Squire's blade and sent it reeling off course. He leaned into the motion and carried himself forward while his opposing hand twisted about, his elbow coming across his chest as he flailed the shield out in a backward strike and slammed the surface against the squire's own protection, doing little more than issuing a sharp, bruise of a warning. No matter the result Rhuryc separated himself from the combat, his body sliding back and away from his opponent. He reset his stance almost immediately and kept his focus locked on Sighard, allowing the boy all the time he needed to set himself.

[Sighard]

Swords crossed, dull metal clattered and the resonating unique pitch of such a sound filled the tranquil air. The parry was not elongated however, but rather the men tested each other with whip like motions generated through each combatant’s natural finesse. The blind eye saw only an ephemeral blur, an instant in time that seemed pivotal to each other’s moves and one truly realized that in such a battle there was no feasible way to approach it methodically and rationally. It was all innate, instinct created through hard-work and grueling practice. In that instant the boy had –felt- the true scope of his opponent’s abilities and so he reacted as such. To play games with Rhuryc would have spelled his demise.

Sighard responded appropriately to the parry, and although it was aimed in a critical location, the priority of the strike was not so profound that he found himself unable to twist his wrist in the opposite direction following contact to bring the blade back to his side. He had no intentions of playing games with the man who’d taunted him so. There was forever the urgency to end this quickly so as not to draw out and exaggerate the possibility of a humiliating loss. He took a step forth to meet the older gentleman’s own in order to dull the momentum of any incoming offense and was proud as he felt the powerful blow of a shield against his own. He braced, allowing his back foot which stuck out perpendicular to the frame of his body to slide back slightly in the dirt. This was the only ground he gave up, and although his shield rattled and his body wavered he continued with a grunt.

Simultaneous to the brace was the follow-up to his previous attack, naturally transitioning from high to low in a sweeping cut to the back of his opponent’s left leg. The motion required the simultaneous twisting of his elbow and wrist in order that the blade –snapped- to wrap about Rhuryc’s knee and aim at the back. Generally, these areas were the least armored in order to provide the greatest flexibility and mobility to the knights. The success of the blow considered many factors, considering their already close proximity, the general experience of Sighard as a swordsman in utilizing quick and decisive blows, as well as the variable of Rhuryc’s movement backwards which may have offset the position of the landed strike if it hit at all. In any case, it was clear that the boy was an aggressor.

[Rhuryc]

Again with the strike. There was a pattern in the squire's movements; not so much a rhythm, but a theme, an aggression that hinted at desperation. Rhuryc recognized it. He wanted to win. And badly. All he had to do was exploit that. In the very brief few seconds before Sighard found the will to retaliate the older man had already decided upon his course of action. Rhuryc immediately shifted his weight and came forward, his left arm scything out as he slammed his shield into the extended blade. The resulting clang rang rattled about the training ground in a discordant symphony, blending in with the bangs and clanks that drew from the music of combat. With the opening provided, Rhuryc lifted right leg and shoved the ball of his foot into the boy's chest. The kick was raw power, designed with little more intent than to throw his opponent off balance. He landed with a heavy thud and continued his assault, the blade coming next in the combination of movements, swung over from the left shoulder and down at the elbow of Sighard's sword arm. Not a smart target; it was easy to dodge, easy to combat. Strange. There was a queer look in his eye. Not anger, not passion, but a calm, expectant gaze. It was clear that this engagement meant very little to the blacksmith.

[Sighard]

The clangor which resulted from sword against shield was eerily hypnotic and a familiar sensation that forced a reaction that was all to instinctual for Sighard. A parry always meant that the fighter drew their blade back in preparation for the next attack or parry. This much was obvious to the boy. What was disheartening, however, was the expectant result of the blow. He had literally felt the gratifying sensation of hitting soft flesh, and the idea had so rapidly consumed his mind that upon the stunning block, he was momentarily disabled. When lost in the euphoria of the moment a surge of force sent him reeling back.

Although Rhuryc's boot did kick, it hit the shield which had not left its close proximity to his midsection for the rest of the match. His small frame exaggerated the size of his defensive utility which ultimately protected him from any bruising damage a forceful blow that might have incurred. Naturally his feet fell back in a staggering motion to catch his balance of the momentum. With his attention drawn nearer to the combat, he made an effort to lift his blade forcefully above his head to parry the blow set upon by his opponent. There was simplicity in the strike, and that worried the squire. He was positive that the man had clearly outmatched him skill-wise, and his previous, stunned position left him open for any fanciful flourish Rhuryc might have conjured.

He continued his quick retreat from their close proximity, legs expertly clambering backwards and hopefully creating separation if the blacksmith did not pursue. Sighard spoke then, his eyes never leaving the gaze of his opponent. "You are toying with me?"

[Rhuryc]

"Am I?" Rhuryc flurried his blade and shifted his shoulders, shield held at his side while he circled the squire. Somehow he managed to avoid any sort of scathing cynicism. At least in tone. His words were designed for a specific purpose, to agitate. To taunt, perhaps. "You claimed your family was the best, didn't you? I very much doubt I would have the ability to 'toy' with you. Then again. You press when you should defend, and you leave yourself open with every strike. I imagine if we were fighting for our lives you would be dead." He paused. During his brief monologue Rhuryc had managed to place himself on the squire's side. "Defend yourself." Rhuryc was faster than he looked. His foot twisted amidst the gravel of the training yard and he came forward, both sword and shield brought about in a sudden rush at Sighard. His momentum did not cease when he reached the boy. Instead, he funneled his speed and aggression into his assault, his blade sliding from across his hip up toward his opponent's left side. The strike was followed in close succession with the shield, the steel disk brought in before he sent it out in a controlled bash to the face. And he did not stop there. Relentless in his manner, Rhuryc pushed forward, one flurry leading into the next in a fluid, practiced form. The last strike lead to a spin, the blacksmith's torso crossing alongside Sighard's body and ending with a slash at the shoulder. He came forward again, forcing the boy to move with him, directing his path and controlling the field at hand. It was a dance. In every attack there was a new direction, a different move that brought the engagement one step farther toward its conclusion. At least now Rhuryc's strike were true; hard, meant to inflict injury.

[Sighard]

The words bit into Sighard hard. No amount of armor or big a shield could defend him from the sinking feeling that followed. Adrenaline ceased to pump incessantly through his veins and all at once he became more perceptive, so far as being grounded would do to a person. All exuberance and enthusiasm escaped with a listless sigh that caused him to drop his guard momentarily—a fatal flaw that would have indeed tempted the fighter who drew himself subtly closer via encircling the boy. He bit hard into his lower lip to protect himself against a softened expression. The feeling was so incredibly hard to manage, but his ingrained sense of honor and pride forced him to maintain. He felt the battle would truly begin now, and so the period for testing each other had ended. He’d shown what he could do, and that would have to be enough. Wordlessly, he stepped forth and met the challenge with all the confidence he could muster. His heart slammed mercilessly against his chest and he felt a cold sweat break out that was frigid as a spring breeze lapsed against it. His shield caught the edge of his opponent’s blow, and the remaining parts of that battle seemed a blur.

His memory was gracious enough to remember the earnest attempt to swing his head backwards to avoid the second strike, but this was inevitably futile. A boy’s unpracticed timing and clunky movements were bound to catch up with him when caught in the presence of such grace and power. The edge of Rhuryc’s shield caught his jaw and jerked it askew as if there was little to no resistance at all. Sighard offered a cry of pain, and ambled backwards, blind to the movements of his opponent but reverting to his most basic of human instincts regardless of consequence. A sharp pain arose from his shoulder and he’d not had time to cry out before he fell submissively to one knee. He drew his shield high above his head and his blade rigidly to his side. The world to him was a confusing mess of spinning colors that could not clearly decipher the situation. His eyes were squinted in order to try to focus into view any further moves made by his opponent, but a combination of the sun gleaming into his eyes with the dizzying whirl of his current equilibrium made it a bit more difficult. He was completely and utterly vulnerable for the moment.

Blood began to ooze elegantly along his lower lip and all at once the pain set in. Several prominent throbs thrust themselves beneath his skin and caused his nerves to scream in an agonizing symphony that forced him to grit his teeth and tighten his features. The temptation to yield was there, but his conflicted state left him stubbornly on that one knee. He knew the consequences of physical pain, but the shame he’d bring upon himself and family would have been too great of a burden for him to bear had he submitted so quickly.

“Not. . .bad. . .” He rasped, directing his gaze towards what seemed to be the silhouette of his opponent. His words were muddle with the bubbling streams of red liquid that spit out elegantly at his enunciations. There seemed more to his words, but the rest was indecipherable.

[Rhuryc]

Rhuryc sighed. He lowered his sword and took a step away from his downed opponent, watching the boy flail about in an effort to defend himself. Was he ever like that? He waited. For some time they stood apart; or rather, he stood. The boy uttered something. Mercy? No. There was too much pride riding on such an encounter for that. After all, who was Rhuryc but a blacksmith? A man from the Ironworks. Speaking of that, he did have work in the morning. And this was growing tedious. "I yield." Rhuryc said as he threw his sword down. The weapon clattered about at his feet. "Now you can tell your family you were victorious. Congratulations. You have defeated a laborer." His words rang hollow. Perhaps that was the intent. Whether he was taunting the boy or making a point, neither option appeared to matter to the man. He passed by the squire and approached the rack in which he had taken his shield. For a brief few moments he left his back entirely exposed, unaware, the borrowed implement at his arm left without intention. No seasoned warrior would make that mistake. "You should find a healer."