Pit Prep. Day 1 (solo)

[Valorae]

Time Stamp: 2 Winter, sometime after mid-day It was a dark place, that’s what I remember most of it. My hands were bound again, my wrists burned in an agony that reached deeper than the brush burns on my skin. I thought I had finally… Syna, have you forsaken me…? She was brought from her cell into a wide room, dark and moist, it could have been anywhere in the city, out of it, who knew… She was snagged at the door, her hands unbound and the sack cloth bag removed. They pushed her in. It was dimly lit. The large door behind her was slammed shut. She twitched at the noise, the slammed door, an angry aggressor… She had just… She moved away from the door to the corner and curled up, weeping. The sense of entrapment was too much. She had been broken, offered opportunity after having waited so long and now had it stripped away again. She remembered what they said about her freedom, in the blood pits, that’s where she’d earn it. You need to fight for the things you want - the things you need, the things you love… She took a while to stabilize. A guard was at the door looking at her. She was a pathetic mess. But no longer would she have that luxury. He went over to a rack and picked up a short sword. He turned on his heel and headed back for the door, but before he left he took the blade in his hand like so, with the hilt facing upward. He flipped the blade upright, make a few slashes in the air, and finished off with a thrust. While less than expert in skill, it was still something impressive. The man threw the sword at the ground between them and walked out. The door slammed behind him. She looked to the door, and then the sword. She ran over to the blade quickly and snatched it up, preparing herself for what might come back through that door. She was ready to fight for her life, in whatever forsaken pit they put her in. The thought thundered in her head. Come on. Come on! Come get me! Come on! End it! End it!! What is this? I…I… Just… The anticipation was poisonous to her delicate form. She had not noticed that she could keep time that way. It was day. She looked down at the delicate craft. Her arms were shaking. It was wooden, the whole bloody thing. Its fine edges were but a façade in the dark. She cursed it, this whole situation, the damnable world. What have I done to deserve this?! It would be a matter of minutes before she realized she was not in the pits. She was training. They even told her, but where was her mind now? Or at least she should be training. With a wooden sword? The weight was wrong, the speed, all of it. Maybe she wasn’t ready. I’d kill them… She couldn’t, not even with the real deal. her mind was racing, her heart pounding to the beat of madness. The jungles of Falyndar, echoing calls and drums, purging… Where am I…? Her thoughts – Syna… Syna!? – her mind… The room stopped spinning soon enough. She stood in the room, a few meters from the door with the wooden sword in her hand. It was identified as a short sword, standard design, nothing overly complex, though the craft was certainly meant to mimic the true blade it modeled. It might have been weighted, but she’d never know. She went back to the rack and replaced it as she looked over the entire set of carved weapons. Some of them had other components, it was necessary for their proper use of course. She browsed the set a while…plenty of knives and daggers alike. There were several swords, some bows and wooden arrows with larger than life tips to compensate for weight, most likely. There were other blades with twins too. They seemed appealing, but she couldn’t imagine what it’d be like to manage two. Some pole arms were on another nearby rack. The collection was impressive, to say the least, She took her attention to the far off rack. The pole arms all seemed to need a good coordination of both hands, for sure, and plenty of space to work with. Her hands hovered over the shafts. Some of them were worn or ready to splinter, she felt the coarse wood… She’d be in a pit fighting, none of these would suit her purpose. She looked back at the bows as well; she’d be in close quarters. Staring at the replica of a long bow she could tell, there was something about it: that as much as she’d like to use it, now was not the time. She made her way all the way back to the end and saw the daggers and swords again. When it came to the topic of being comfortably close enough, she wanted a sword. She took up the blade she had put back. The man who tossed it before had made a wise choice of character, it seemed. He grinned behind the door, peeking at her progress. She took it to the center of the room and tried to get a feel for it. She held her life in her hands.

[Valorae]

She examined it, the sword, the extension, the life ender. Her hand on the hilt, the feel of the leather, the grip, it all seemed familiar, yet lacking that certain something. Now was far from the time to reminisce. With a hand around the handle, it became obvious she’d only be fitting one around it. What she’d do with her free hand was unthinkable really. She could only hope no one would chop it off. There she was, in the middle of the room with a wooden sword… Now what? The guard behind the door was eagerly anticipating her movements, the door rattled from his excitement. She turned back around and pointed the tip of the blade in defense. Now she was getting the hang of it. She felt the blade. It was no wonder they used wooden swords in the training room. She would kill herself doing some of the things she did with a true metal one. She ran the edge down her palm; that was for cutting and hacking. The tip was sharp and pointed. She would stab with that, or thrust. These ideas existed in her mind as images alone, and truly lacked the words behind them. If they had names, she could not recall them now. She drew her hand back and swung out. The blade guided itself nearly, but needed some push and control. It was fairly obvious to move along the thinner plane. She drew back again and swung with all her might as her confidence began to build. She leaned forward, hardly realizing the hazard that would create in a fight. She stabbed this time, and faster the second, pushed her off balance again. She tried to calm herself. She could feel the building frustration and tears. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing. This needed to feel natural. She needed to be prepared, swift and strong with each blow. Death has little mercy on the strong let alone the weak. She screamed and swung out. Her right foot fell in front and she let herself fall down. The wooden sword sat on the ground and she curled up sobbing. She didn’t want to be hurt anymore; she just wanted it to end. She couldn’t remember doing anything to deserve this. Her company was less than pleased. Maybe he just liked being sick about these things, or was trying to help. He couldn’t be trusted, surely. He stepped in, but she didn’t notice. He picked the sword up, his shrouded eyes watching she didn’t get any malicious thoughts. He moved away and started playing with it. He took his stance, and swung. He swung again and stepped. He grunted with each attack against his shadow, and was sure that when he repositioned himself he was the same. She wasn’t pleased. He mocked her pitiful existence. He didn’t know. No one knew just what she was thinking, how she felt, those thoughts, those memories… She moved her leg back, her sobs were becoming quieter. Her seething rage got the better of her and she sprung up at the man. She was screaming and reaching to pound his face with unruly, undisciplined fists. He smirked. Predictable perhaps. He hadn’t the chance to beat meat for a while. She tried to grab him and the sword and hit him. She wants his face, surely. He grabbed her by the arm and stepped back twisting it. He tossed the sword and improved his own grasp on her. She had a reason to scream now. He locked it behind her back. No one else came in. They must have left him there to guard the door for a while. The screaming was definitive of her too, it seemed. He laughed and mumbled something. Putting a bit more pressure on the arm lock, he made her kiss the dirt floor then pushed her down. He walked out while she lay there, now clenching her own arm. She was learning nothing at this rate, and this was not time to be wasted. She had about five minute to get her act together. The only thing keeping her alive was him disobeying orders. The other would be back soon enough.

[Valorae]

She rolled over and looked at the door as she still laid there, arm clutched. “Bastard,” she whispered. Her right hand had been twisted back just short of a sprain. She was no use to them maimed. There was a friendly viewpoint. Preparing for what was to come was seemingly to become less of this sword fighting, and more about understanding their just motives. She was blind in here though, so the initial would have to be her first approach – force. She brought herself up, legs folded on the floor with the sword out of reach. She kept rubbing her arm. It helped the pain go away. One thing about Myrians, or what little Myrian culture still lived on in spirit within her, is that they were always watching. She took her notes. Now it was time to practice. The pain had faded to that bothersome soreness now, but she could still hold the wooden sword. Grasping it was easy enough, but she could feel the strain when she rotated her forearm a bit. Bastard indeed, well most likely. These people certainly seemed to attract those types, there people, these people of Sunberth that is. Now to replicate the man’s work. She placed her left foot forward a bit, and the right one back, and swung. She was tipping to the right. Her perspective of his movements was one sided, so there was certainly some things to fill in. She readjusted, moving her hind leg forward, and swung again. Her swinging was still wild. Her arm was in full extension spinning down like a windmill’s blade. More balanced for his maneuver? Yes, but her dipping to the right was still very obvious. Finding her stance was a very important part of this art, any martial art really. She spread her legs apart more, and with her legs locked out swung again. The pressure going into her front knee didn’t feel right at all. She tried it again and felt her body shift into it, her leg taking the force of her mass. She brought her legs closer together, bended the knees a bit, and swung… much better, almost. It was all coming together, a far off memory coming back to life. The Myrians were masters of warfare in the highest degree, rather are masters. A life spent like that, in that constant motion of battle does not lose its essence so easily, not even in death. It was a matter of time until she would recall the full comfort of her fighting stance. The sword, however, was something new that demanded more…effort. She brought her arms up, her back arched backward, knees slightly bent, and spread for the balance. She too another swung and leaned forward. Enough of this, she might as well stay like that. Although she had found the sweet spot, it was still a demand of her consciousness. Now that she knew how to stand, she needed to learn to crawl. This didn’t seem too satisfying, she thought many times over. When she’s going to stab that bastard, and she intended to truly stab that bastard some day, she wasn’t going to miss. The sharp edge of the sword would sink through that silly cowl of his and crack his god forsaken skull. His blood would burst like a river from a dam and surge over the metal and earth. He’d drop dead, and she’d laugh. Not exactly the most creative or clean execution, and even a plainer fantasy, but it would work for her. It got the job done, after all. To point was this shadow fighting wasn’t helpful, despite it truly being the best thing for her at the time. She wanted something nice and solid to whack. With a wooden blade it was foolish, but she needed an object of abuse. Nothing other than racks would fulfill that demand. She’s get a good whooping if she started to destroy the equipment at that. She made what use of what she had. She took a breath, and another. Staring forward she tried to imagine the man in the hood. Some sick abusive bastard with no face. She would chop him up, butcher and slaughter would be the words to describe the aftermath. And they’d remove that hood of his and see… A number of faces took their place on that body, none of them the rightful owner, but all of them equally terrifying to her. She looked down and hesitated. She was trying to imagine what would happen if she ever to ever see them again. Pain… Defilement… Anger… …and so many other thoughts swirled within her. She let out her battle cry and slashed forward in vain. Breathing heavy, she reset herself, her body shaking from the sheer anxiety. Freedom had greater purpose. She took her stance, her back lightly hunched over with her sword in her right hand. She shouted with each strike into the air. It was a simple power strike. The sword was briefly brought up or brought back with her arm folding. Then, she would lash out, her upper body turned for the greater extension and power, and she pushed off her hind leg for that extra oomph. She practiced the strike a while. Outside the other guard had returned and watched as well. Unimpressive thoughts probably came to them. The soreness in her right arm exceeded that threshold of pain. She let her arm hang loose. It had spread, so it seemed. Her whole arm had been tired from that basic strike. Each time she was over extending her arm and body. She was lucky her young flesh didn’t get pulled the wrong way. She put the sword in her left hand. When she swung she felt nothing behind it, and realized it clearly. She had to learn the inversion of the stance as well. She put her right leg forward, left leg back, and assumed the same bodily stance. Her toes and arms, generally speaking, all pointed a bit to the left of her forward facing direction. She began the same process once more with the thrusting and slashing. Her breathing was kept constant with her shouting on the strike. She’d get herself killed with that sort of behavior in the streets. But that would be a lesson for a later date. She finished in a half hour, her left arm half as sore as the right. A voice from the door, brief and to the point, “Replace the sword. Look at the wall. Hands behind you.” She did as she was told, but she couldn’t match the voice to a…”face.” She was bound and and bagged, followed by being escorted to her cell for the night. She would eat, sleep, and wake up the next afternoon when she was permitted time in the room alone once more. The conditioning of her body was still a fraction of her overall strain. Will it be worth it?

[Archelon]

Thread Award "..." And the Results!!!!: Valorae : SkillName 1-5 How/why? Observation 2 Unarmed Combat 2 Weapon(shortsword) 4 * See note* Philosophy 1 Thinking of the past and situations. Lores: Shortsword: Partial grasp of the basic fencer's stance Training:Devising a training regimen for oneself. Days as an Ethfael: pondering the Why? Note: Wooden weapons for training purposes come weighted to simulate the real things . Would you like some extra turtle sauce ? : Interesting keep them up ; only 3 weeks though I'm awarding weapon(shortsword) as it seems the best for Valorae's height/weight/body type as an eth. Interesting character development of the thought, etc. Oh- and a training room would come with a training dummy or training post to whack at .