[Antinous Grounds][Training] Meeting Place [Sighard]

[Laurel van Owain]

3rd Winter, 511 AD, Morning Traded again. She'd only had her last patron Knight for a month, barely enough time to get to know the man at all before being shipped off to someone else. What was the point of all this moving if she never got to properly train with her patron before leaving? She had asked in the last letter to her father, his reply being that it was to gain new experiences and make her well-rounded for a successful career in the Knights. That was bull. Laurel knew it. Successful career, what a joke. Her father had given up his rank and his successful career so what did he think he was doing? No, no. They were keeping something from her but asking them questions was like trying to kill a fly with an arrow at sixty yards; frustrating, difficult and pointless. Still, she couldn't stay mad at them. They loved her and were doing what they thought was best. It didn't stop Laurel from grinding her teeth, though. She hadn't heard much about her new patron Knight besides that he wanted to meet in the Antinous Grounds. She'd been waiting for several bells though and had already finished reading her newest novel: “Strong Arms, Stronger Heart.” A mediocre novel, she thought and found herself bored soon after finishing it. Lots of training to be found though and the Grounds were busy today. Maybe it was a test. Maybe her instructor was waiting somewhere, watching her. He probably wanted her to prove herself in some sort of test. Patience? No, probably not. She'd been waiting long enough and chances are she'd fail any true test of patience he tried. Combat? Likely but then why hasn't he here instructing her to get on the field? Laurel decided that she didn't need him. She needed to train anyway and if her new patron came y to see her already working hard then that was certain to leave a good impression. She aimed herself at the closest squire nearby who wasn't actively training. “Hey there.” She said, putting on a smile and her most sociable attitude. “My name is Laurel. You want to spar?”

[Sighard]

Breezes furled outwards and splayed foggy, nebulous spurts of frosty air peppered with white flakes. Courteously they skirted through the air and danced elegantly on invisible currents before sticking, to the chagrin of many, to the flushed faces of knights at work. How lucky they truly were, to have missed the worst of winter’s first great storms. The residual impact was felt, however, in crusted ridges of sparling white which layered the ground and tree branches, icy structures that splintered under the shuddering crunch of metal greaves. One could, if they listened closely, almost admire the song that existed between the rhythms of men stepping against the unfamiliar terrain falling in harmony to their raspy breaths that expelled heated air and condensed into thick fog. There was also the cold. That petching cold.

Sighard stood, comically garmented in heavy cloaks of fur which smothered his plate. It substantially expanded his frame and gave the illusion of musculature which had not yet developed. He’d not so much minded the added burden of the plate, but the effect that it had unto the amplification of the cold was all the more burdensome. It seemed, even with the woolen attire poised strategically under his armor, that the very contact, and grating of freezing and metal and flesh burned. How does cold burn? Curse this death trap and—this woman whose in too cheery a mood.

Akin to his nature, the boy smiled, ascertaining his rather pleasant nature against all other circumstances that pushed him to be otherwise edgy and miserable. “Indeed Laurel, I am Sighard.” His words were accentuated by the quick flick of his wrist which produced the stagnant practice blade at his side, extending it outwards so as to usher the girl backwards a few steps. The dull metal of the blade groaned as it carved through the heavy air and created a turbulence which sent flakes spinning wildly about it in cyclonic fashion. He meant no aggression in the gesture, only as a non-verbal suggestion that she should prepare herself. The Knights wasted no time, it seemed.

Sighard raised his shield, a heater which protected the largest portion of his torso nicely. It was a mammoth compared to his small frame but he seemed to handle the device with relative ease and without much difficulty. The flat of his blade rattled against the metal of his shield and he spoke, a spry smile warmly working its way onto his demeanor. “You’re new. Show me what you’ve got.”

[Laurel van Owain]

"Oh. A tough one." Laurel said. "A fur covered barbarian." The squire didn't at all unfriendly though and had introduced himself as Sighard. Not exactly the most formal introduction and he had already lifted his sword. Straight to business. Laurel fell back a few steps more, both to set her book down and to grab her weapon. The halberd surprised some people. A training version, fully wooden but weighted like the real thing. While most knights fought with sword and shield, Laurel preferred the reach of the halberd and the force it could impart on her enemy. Her armour clattered in the cold, freezing plates against freezing plate. The thin cloth tabard did nothing against the cold but Laurel knew heavy armour and while not comfortable, was okay in her armour like this. Sighard looked muscular and equally comfortable with his sword and large shield. Even his words seemed to invite the challenge. Laurel accepted and took stance, treating the halberd like a spear. "Ready." She said. She started with her back foot, leading her spear strike from the heel to the tip of her foot and into her hips. She thrusted her arms out at the same time, all her energy going forward into the dull wooden spike on the halberd and aimed right at Sighard's chest.

[Sighard]

Sighard blew off the initial comment easily enough, his mild grunt made all the more pronounced by the seething wisps which propelled from his cracked lips. You’ll find more a challenge in me than a barbarian I promise. . . He eyed Laura’s weapon levelly, and although his features remained unchanged, a kinder neutral to accommodate the spar, the inner mechanisms of his mind had begun to whir into action, according his own knowledge of pole arms to the matter at hand. Rule one. . . and so the battle had begun, a loud crack emanating forth from the two combatants. It did well to turn a few heads.

. . .Never waste unnecessary energy thrusting into the opponent’s shield. The tip of the halberd drove powerfully enough, through forth with a veracity that was immediately quelled by the resonant vibration of metal, a compounding of two opposing objects that grated against each other in unholy tones. Sighard never failed to keep such an object too far from the largest, most vulnerable portion of his body. Regardless of his own applied anecdotes, it remained his turn to respond in immediate reflex, that had attained some semblance of knightly grace in his years of practice. Sighard stepped forward following the blow, driving forth and lifting his shield in order to ward the tip of his opponent’s halberd outwards.

Offensively, his swing was crisp, and heralded by the sound of whirring air and vicious snap of snowflakes which parted speedily upon the blades horizontal arc aimed at Laura’s hip. There was a certainty to the initial stages of the battle, practiced response which became as natural as breathing. One may have noted only the slightest in delays due to the heaviness of his armor, but otherwise his movements were hasty, lead on by an innate desire to land a hit at all costs.

[Laurel van Owain]

Laurel's arms went high and out as Sighard pushed the halberd up and over with his shield. The wood and metal thumped and screeched as Sighard came in close and swung the sword skillfully at Laurel's side. She took the blow which hit hard but the heavy armour protected Laurel from the strike. Sword slashes were woefully ineffective against plate and mail, one of the reasons Laurel preferred them, and there was no weak joint in her hip area to hit. She turned sharply and moved back on cue of the metallic scrape of edge against armour. She placed her foot back and drew in the long shaft of the halberd for some close-quarters fighting. She kept her hand in the middle of the haft, thumb pointing towards the blade, and the other hand tightly gripped at the rear of the haft. She tried to keep some distance still, using her knowledge of armour to keep some semblance of agility and speed in the clanking suit. She turned the halberd over, neglecting the spear tip for the main blade. Swinging out from the hip,obliques and biceps like a two handed axe, Laurel placed the broad blade of the halberd on a powerful arc towards Sighard's right leg.

[Sighard]

Close quarters are a risky thing indeed. . . The squire applied his own logic to pole arms to the situation. While the halberd was certainly more adapted to these situations, it was not ideal nor as an efficient as a blade. He gave Laura her due; however, she took the hits as well as any man. That, unfortunately, earned her the same amount of effort and brutality he expended in any such battle, the mindset of a man driven to fight for his life. Quietly he continued, his feet ambling skillfully along the field in the brief reprieve they’d had from physical exertion, a natural pause following Sighard’s blow which deflected easily against the plate of his opponent. Lucky I that plate is not so commonly used. . .

The squire guessed roughly the arc of the swing, offering one of his own as a counter-measure. Blade sung as it hurled through the air and hit a lower section of the shaft. He noted with a grunt that the impact slowed, but did not completely stop the strike. The edge caught his armored calf and a dull pain roared momentarily as the plate pressed inwards, gingerly caressing his flesh and offering that burning kiss. It was a repulsive feeling, one which he reviled and accommodated by an animalistic snarl. Petch. . . finish the move. He offered a prominent step forth, quick steps which transitioned from his parry and jerked his wrist in the opposite direction so as to have the pommel facing the direction of his opponent.

He threw a mild, quick jab outwards in order that the rounded little bit of metal at the butt of his grip could pound into the nasal passage of his opponent. His intent was not grievous injury, but rather a mild blunt trauma that should have sufficed to momentarily stun and cause Laura to stagger back. As an added benefit, he’d noted that, if it struck true enough, aggravation to such an area caused a welling of tears that clouded vision and made focusing all the more difficult.

[Laurel van Owain]

Sighard was getting too close and his aggression seemed to spike. He launched a pommel strike towards Laurel's face. She jerked her head back and sharply to the right. The strike missed it's target but just barely, clipping her ear and dragging down her neck. Hardly fatal but damn, did it hurt. Pain flooded her, mixing with adrenaline, fear, anger and experience. A warrior's cocktail. She drank heartily of the mixture, let it flood her veins and warm her despite the cold. She put all she had behind her strikes. Still, she couldn't risk this distance. The halberd could handle close quarters but not like this. Her mind raced to find ways to push him back and get back to her most effective range. She stepped back and took the halberd up. She made the attack, faking a short spear strike towards Sighard's face. If that worked and he flinched, she'd make the real attack and plant a snapkick to the center of gravity, right above his groin, to either knock him down or knock him back.

[Sighard]

Pull sword back, raise shield, position yourself, quickly now. . . The words were bracing, flickering bouts of information that systematically moved his appendages in appropriate directions. His blade drew immediately back following the blow, his opponent’s slight reel an appropriate lapse in which he could regain himself. He’d had positioning, and he intended to further advantage his. . . Strike, raise shield, divert spear, his movements synchronized with his thoughts but he never thought to expect a fake, and although it had been a part of any decent combatant’s repertoire, he failed to recognize and instead reacted. His lower midsection had indeed been exposed at this pivotal moment in the battle.

Brace yourself! He anticipated the kick, falling back smoothly with the momentum and allowing his feet to catch the momentum of the blow. There was a dull clink of metal, and then the crushing stomp of his boots through the hardened snow which made his retreat all the more awkward and unwieldy. Position had been lost for the moment, and even more importantly the boy was thinking more than he would have liked. Fakes were a thing to consider in this battle, but he could not let such a trivial move dominate his processes. He’d be more wary, and gain the same position. Slowly, then.

“A good fake and kick. It seems I will enjoy my training today after all!” Sighard taunted, his words more exuberant and warm than before. The phantom of icy cold seemed to melt away by the feverish adrenaline which had wracked his body and now consumed his every movement. His smile was maintained, and had deepened to carve harder into the side of his face. Sighard was truly enjoying it.

[Laurel van Owain]

The kick connected and she felt the reverberation of the hit through her entire leg. It was powerful and enough to stagger Sighard and give her position for the halberd. That smile worried her though, it was full of experience and warrior's glee. She prepared herself and moved the halberd back into ranged combat form, hands grasping further back on the haft like a long spear. This was what she liked; distance. She could not use a shield with the halberd making distance and good, solid armour an absolute necessity for defense. Right now she had both. She decided to press it. Driven to impatience, frustration and recklessness, Laurel never was one to retreat or pass up the opportunity for attack. She wasn't one to go half-way in her attack either. She thrust the halberd forward, spear-end first and tried to get it past Sighard's defenses, twisting it mid-way through the attack and attempting to hook the shield or a piece of Sighard's plate with the beak on the opposite side of the axe blade.

[Sighard]

There is a beauty to her aggression. . .Funny it almost matches my own The elegance of Laurel's lethal strides were somewhat diminished by the clunky crunch of snow underfoot which heralded her progression. The echoing emboldened her movements and made them more definitive, easier to follow when the heat of the moment muddled rational decisions. His pose shifted slightly, a snap of his legs that allowed his body to rotate on his heels and move out of the way of the aggressive thrust of his opponent, which, to his dismay hooked upon his shield and pulled aggressively. There was immediate tension as the metals grated and forced the squire prematurely to action.

The strong pull of halberd nearly doubled that of his one handed shield. His feet dug amiably into the ground but they gave much positioning as his opponent threatened to disarm him of it. Supposing the situation as an axis, the young squire used it to literally pull himself closer to the girl, a rapid clockwise pivot that forced him inward and nearer his opponent by succumbing to the tension of weapon and shield. Crunch, crunch, crunch his boots awkwarldy pressed against the snow in his push.

His sword came from the bottom, a short quick arm that aimed to supplant its edge in the vulnerable exposed elbow of his opponent that was nearer the upper shaft of the halberd. The plate of the knights dictated that such an area would be lightly covered in chains which was perfect against slashing damage. However, the dull edge of his practice blade sought to inflict some sort of bruising trauma on the exposed joint.