Use The Pointy End (Rothyr)

[Basha'ir]

*

[Basha'ir]

Summer 75, 512 A.V.

Basha’ir hugged her arms about her body, drawing her long shawl about her more tightly. The morning air was chilly, and a misty fog hung over the water. It was of no real concern to her that she could see no more than a hundred feet out over its surface. She wasn’t really looking for anything, or at anything. In her mind’s eye, though, she was turning over the bizarre series of events that had led her to this beach, on this morning. To have slept in the tent that was now behind her, up the shore more so there’d be no risk of damp getting in. To have spent the night with a man she had just met hours before, though that was nothing so rare for her. But Rothyr had invited her to spend the night with him as a friend, and he had acted honorably. Basha’ir almost snorted to think of that word. She hardly dared to think there were men who acted so, but, it seemed that she had found one.

As planned, after Rothyr had bathed in the sea, they had made their way into the heart of the city and down to the underground bazaar, and the Drykas had helped her select a small knife, and sheath. They had returned to the rocky beach, and he had pitched his tent and made a little fire, and she had cooked some things that she had purchased. After eating, they had talked for quite a long while, exchanging mostly pleasant memories of Eyktol, and then they had called it a night and turned in to sleep. And that had been that. She hadn’t expected Rothyr to turn into some sort of masher. But she had still been very grateful and just a tiny bit relieved that he had remained exactly the man he had been throughout the afternoon and evening.

She had awoken but a short time ago, and he was already gone from the tent. But she had found him working up the fire again, when she had come out into the morning chill. They had eaten a small meal, and now Rothyr was tidying up his things, before they got down to the business at hand.

With that thought in mind, Basha’ir looked down at the little weapon, felling its slight heft in her hand, wondering if she really had it in her to ever use it, on another person. She thought about the day before, and the lout at the bar. Would she have been brave and confident enough to pull a knife on him? That…she just didn’t know.

With a sigh, she turned about and walked the few steps that took her back to the fire. Smiling at her golden haired companion, she asked, “Are you sure you are ready for this? By the gods I hope I don’t accidentally hurt you, Rothyr.”

[Rothyr Windbourne]

Rothyr tightened a rope on his pack, cinching it tighter so nothing in the pack would be lost. It was unlikely he'd lose anything. If he missed something it'd be on the sand, or it might have been left at the barracks. No use, though, he was not worried about it. In truth, he was still kind of sleepy, still waking up and the morning fog didn't help. As the time passed that morning he felt the warmth of the sun reach through the fog that came about in the twilight hours of the night's end. Though, still the fog lingered, it was early still. They had shared the morning with relative silence, and slept together the night before as tent-mates and nothing more. He lay no hands on her, as was planned, as should be. His heart was elsewhere. He was thinking of the last time he lay with a woman, next to a woman, and it bit deeply at his soul, but he did not let it bother him. He didn't touch her.

He heard her speak of hurting him, and returned to the fire without a word. He added a little fuel to it, some sticks he'd gathered not far from their camp. Just a little simple driftwood and sticks he'd found closer to where the grass grew. The fire ate at it hungrily, and the warmth spread.

“Don't worry about hurting me,” he said, “That's one thing about knife-work. If your enemy is attacking you with a knife, or something with an edge, you can't be afraid to get cut. You gotta expect it, really. That's just life in general.”

He stirred the embers a bit, raising the sparks skyward as the heat carried them up.

“Not saying I'll be trying to get cut, or anything, but I won't stop fighting back if I do, understand?” He rose from the fire. He wore only his normal clothing, no armor, “Draw your weapon, and start getting used to the weight,” he said, “Take a few stabs with it, maybe a slice or a cut. Gotta get used to it, aye?”

He stood next to her and demonstrated a stabbing movement, and a cutting movement to her, with nothing in his hand. He showed her slowly at first, then showed how it would look when given force. He would see how she handled the striking motions at first, then see about showing her where they went. He wanted to see how she did, first, before going any further...

[Basha'ir]

Under her veil, Basha’ir blanched, as Rothyr spoke so casually about getting cut. She had been mistreated in many ways, but knife play had never been one of them. Thank the gods that she had never been sent to pleasure a sadist, at least not one who found pleasure in physical torture or anything of that sort. She shivered but tried to gain her composure, though she could not envision slicing into her friend’s flesh, either by accident or on purpose. Gods help her and keep her hand steady enough and her aim true enough that that didn’t come to pass.

He rose and moved to stand before her, and she nodded, holding the leather sheath in her left hand and pulling the knife from it with her right. It was small, and light, but it felt so foreign, wrapped in her fingers. She held it tightly, as if she might drop it, and forced herself to make a slicing arc through the air. Then she jabbed, and almost immediately, the end of her shawl caught on the sharp point and the knife was tangled in the cloth.

With a quiet expletive, she untangled it. The padmina and veil would have to go, she saw that clearly. Unwrapping herself like a gift, she folded both and set them down neatly on a dry rock. She felt much more exposed than she would have liked. For years now, her various masters had seen the wisdom of requiring her to go about almost wholly covered, in order to hide their ‘treasure’, until such time as they saw fit to unveil it to another. Wondering briefly if this better view of her face would have any affect on the Drykas hunter, Basha’ir tried to push all thoughts of her gnosis aside, and concentrated on what Rohtyr was demonstrating to her. He had come to stand next to her, and she tried very hard to emulate his motions. A slice downwards. A jab. A backhanded thrust. The knife felt awkward in her hand, and she had no idea if she was doing it right or not, but she kept on, mimicking his every move, even down to the way he balanced on his feet, until he paused.

She looked at him, feeling silly and slightly embarrassed.

“Well?” she asked, fearing to hear the worst.

[Rothyr Windbourne]

Rothyr saw her get tangled up, and in his jovial manner, which found ways to come about even so early in the morning; he did his best not to laugh and aggravate his new student. He remembered when he was just learning the ways of weaponry, and how he seemed so slow compared to warriors from the Diamond clan. Any thoughts of laughter, though, disappeared when she removed her padmina and veil. He had guessed correctly. This woman was very beautiful. He wouldn't let that affect his judgment, though. She put her trust in him to teach her how to protect herself from bastards like the drunk lout from the Stallion, or anyone else who might force their way onto someone. That was his job for now, to teach her how to defend herself, but he couldn't help feeling attracted to her. She was very beautiful. It happens. He's still a man.

“The thing about knives is,” he said, thinking for the best words to explain it. As deadly as a sharp knife was, one had to know how to use it. The drunk at the bar would have tried to stab him with it, because it was a sharp piece of steel. Jab 'em with the pointy end, really user friendly. The true art of knife-work is knowing where to put the blade where it hurts. You only get so many inches of steel to work with, whether you throw it, stab with it, or slice with it, it's all about location, “...Where you put it.”

He decided to use experience to explain his meaning. He was no doctor, but he had common sense. He knew what had worked for him.

“You can hook your knife behind the knee, and cut there leaving him unable to walk. The neck's full of veins you can cut to bleed an enemy out. My cousin Tylo was fond of going for the neck. He was a knife-fighter, he was. If I could, I'd have him teach you, but he's no longer with us.” He didn't want to elaborate his death on the plain, and frighten Basha'ir from self-defense or fighting altogether. There's no room for fear in a fight for survival.

He emulated his points by pointing to his body, first to his knee, and then to his neck. He showed the veins most prominent that would bleed an enemy dry quickly.

“It's a bit risky, going for the lungs,” he said, “You gotta be careful not to get your knife stuck in the ribs, but if someone's coming to grab you,” he reached out to grab her shoulders, “You gotta step into the strike, block with your off-hand, and give 'em the steel,” he simulated a punch, going slowly while demonstrating an attempted grab with the other, “You see you can stick me in the side, between the ribs, even my heart, and make your escape. It's all about location and timing.”

He didn't know a thing about gnosis, magic, djin, or anything. He was a simple man of the plains. If he saw her markings, he didn't know a thing about what they meant. He didn't try and touch her to control her will, he was just providing an example. Rothyr simply was helping one in need, as his father taught him, as common decency would dictate to prevent another person from becoming a victim of another's bloodsoaked madness. If there was any unspoken will beneath all his walls, it'd be to join his to-be wife, and find that blade sunken into his flesh. Or, perhaps to never have to suffer hearing of another poor young woman at the mercy of a fiend. The problem was, Rothyr didn't know what he wanted.

[Basha'ir]

Basha’ir listened to Rothyr carefully, though she felt her stomach flop over and the blood seemed to be draining from her face. There was a good purpose to this and she had requested his tutelage. But still… the thought of slicing another person’s flesh, going for the vulnerable spots, it made her quite queasy. Forcing herself to pay attention, she also tried to recall what it had felt like the day before, when that idiot at the tavern had accosted her, what it had felt like all her life to be at the mercy of others. One small knife probably would not save her from a person with evil intent. But if she learned to use it correctly, it might… it just might.

Then of course, it happened. Of course this little demo-training session was going to involve some touching. And now that her extra layers of ‘protection’ were carefully folded away over on that rock, she was far more exposed than was good. Rothyr, to show her a move, reached out and gently placed his hands on her shoulders, some of his fingers slipping down to her bare arms. And though she tried to concentrate on the lesson, images flooded her mind. A searing pain of loss, a blood bath on the plains of his homeland, and his greatest desire, to reunite with that special woman he had loved so deeply. Basha’ir felt it, that momentary wish in this warrior, that she should perhaps accidentally plunge the knife right into the spot he had indicated, and thereby end his suffering. But it was all jumbled and confusing. As with many others she had touched, his desires and wants were not clearly defined but blended and woven and layered. And the only two that she had any hope to be able to fulfill, were entertwined in that way, to stop his emotional pain and to join his beloved, in whatever life comes to a man after death.

With a lunge, Basha’ir stabbed the knife as hard and as accurately as she could, right for that spot between Rothyr’s ribs.

[Rothyr Windbourne]

His chest clenched tightly, and the breath was forced from his lungs, the world flashed black and white in an instant. Rothyr had felt iron rip his flesh before, felt claws and hooves and thorns of bushes. He had felt arrows plunge themselves deep in his flesh. This, never this. It came so suddenly, that sharp sting that burns as it goes deeper. He had hardly noticed what had happened before he suddenly felt his clothes get wet.

Rothyr looked down, and saw the knife in his chest up to the hilt. Blood poured forth from the wound, and he speculated his lung had been punctured, for blood came from his lips as he suddenly coughed. The hand that held the knife belonged to the woman he volunteered to teach, but he felt no anger. Only regret, for that should have happened long ago, so that Amora could be alive that day. But, no time to reminisce about what could have been. He loved her, and she loved him, and her soul would return from the web someday, and until then he intended to live for her. There was only one problem in the way of that.

Rothyr was dying.

“No worries, no harm, miss,” Rothyr said, more blood dribbling from his lips, “Accidents happen, I'll be fine.”

He removed her hand from the knife, and took it in his hand, pulling it out slowly with more blood spilling with each inch of dagger. The pain grew, and he found himself grunting as he removed it,

“Hnnnnggh, Shyke!” he said as the weapon was fully removed.

He dropped the knife in the sand, and the sand grew dark on the dagger where the sand stuck to his blood. Fetch it, he'd pick it up later.

“You've the right idea, lady Basha, but use that on someone else, ey?” He laughed with a bloody smile, “I've a campaign soon, and I can't be going out there half dead, now can I? See me to a doctor, if you will.”

Still bleeding, Rothyr began a slow trod back to town to seek a doctor. Maybe his friend Oriion would be available. No matter. He has time...

[Chevalier]

Basha’ir

LORE

• Getting Used to a Knifes Weight
• Go For the Vitals!

EXPERIENCE

Skill	XP Earned
Persuasion	1
Knife	3
Observation	1

Rothyr

LORE

• Go For the Vitals!
• Getting Badly Stabbed

EXPERIENCE

Skill	XP Earned
Teaching	2
Wilderness Survival	1
Knife	2

Storyteller Notes

Secret :

I know this got cut off before it could be concluded, but I graded for what I could see. The injury you have could effect you for sometime, but it won’t cause any complications based upon how far in the future we are now. That’s a pretty nasty wound though, you could definitely expect a scar from that one!