[Kendoka Sasaran] Steam

[Razkar]

5th of Fall, 512AV

The beat kept him steady. The tempo of flesh and leather on leather. Even after he'd fallen into a rhythm and got creative, mixing punch combinations with slashing elbows, striking kneecaps or stabbing headbutts, Razkar felt his own heartbeat quicken, but then steady.

Still, he knew it wasn't enough.

The Myrian felt a bead of sweat journey from his brow to his chin as he pounded the punching bag. He'd bought it earlier that day, a rare impulse purchase that had cost him an additional five gold mizas, but he knew himself well enough to understand it was necessary. His frustration was coming close to boling over, and this was the best way to release it.

Thump-thump-thumpthump-thwack!

Razkar was taught from a young age that fair fighting, isn't. All it did was limit a warrior, restrain his potential, close off avenues that might otherwise lead him to victory. His mother always told him that their Goddess was one of Victory and War. Period.

As long as you won, what did it matter how?

Case in point: three hard punches with his knuckleduster-wrapped hands, followed by a knee to where a man's crotch would be, and a punch to the throat. The punching bag swung backwards in the dim light of his lodgings and when it swung back, he sidestepped out the way, bouncing on the balls of his feet to the right of the target, dropping himself low and swinging out a leg to hammer where the back of the man's kneecap would be.

Taut muscles straining, Razkar straightened up, leg muscles burning after an hour of this routine, and spun, doing almost a full 360-degree in a blink, ending it by slamming his elbow into where the back of the wobbling man's head would be.

The Myrian snarled, frustration boling over. He paced, sweat glistening over the ink and scars adorning him, naked save for his loincloth. This just isn't enough.

Where it would be. Where the leg would be, the head, the heart, the joints, the scalp. All just an illusion. A lie he told himself, a balm he applied after days of fruitless searching.

The Myrian paced even harder, steps became stomps, and out of sheer instinct he snatched up his gladius from beside the bed. The weight of that moulded steep always soothed him, reassured him, stopped him from floating away on the wings of his own anger. But that time, it did not aid him.

Such a civilized city. Oh, so lawful, so proper. Populated by warriors and yet with no war. Marked and dotted with defences the likes of which he had not seen outside Taloba, and some even larger, but nothing to defend against. Two days of trawling bars had gained him nothing but the stink of these barbarians on his flesh. This was not worthy of him, this was not worthy of his-

"Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaahhhhhhh-!"

The snarl of rage came unbidden and unwanted, exploded without restraint and yet, even as he succumbed to it, he felt a fierce joy. He pacing stopped and he drew back with his swotd arm, blade horizontal, muscles eager to be used, and stabbed forwards in a glittering blur. The sword pierced the bag where he had aimed, buried itself into the bag and through it so the leather covering it brushed against Razkar's hand, holding the hilt.

Right through the heart. The heart...

Razkar spent a long minute there, breathing heavily, teeth bared, hands clenched and desperate for action. This building... how many were there? A dozen? Two dozen? He could slaughter half before the alarm could be raised. The Akalak who owned it would be problematic, but challenging, a glorious fight. And the woman...

That moment was when he realized he needed some real sparring. Not against a bag or a post or a board that could not hit back, but a flesh and blood opponent to pit his skill and speed against. Because otherwise...

He pulled the sword free and straw cascaded gently down onto the clean floor. He blinked, and frowned. A slight, curious smile crossed his face, but only for an instant.

All he could think of was that it would be rude for him not to clean that for Mistress Kala.

Razkar shook his head and took the punching bag down, carefully gathering the straw and setting both to one side. The needle and thread in his healing kit would be able to fix that, and the repetitive motion would calm him.

He knew where he had to go. He had heard of it, and dismissed it, believing foolishly that he would not need mere sparring. But things changed.

[Razkar]

Four bells and a dozen fractured conversations and requests for directions later, Razkar stood before the Kendoka Sasaran. He must have looked such the tourist, clad as he was solely in leather boots, breeches and cloak. The leather shirt was still... unusual. Riverfall was far colder than his native jungles and it did chill him, but he hated the fell of additional layers on his skin. His cloak would suffice, as it had always done.

But the sounds stopped him dead before the door. He cocked his head to one side like an animal. Shouts and yells. Barked orders and even laughter. Grunts and the heavy, unmistakable thwack of wood on flesh and leather. Razkar felt his heartbeat quicken just a tad.

A definite improvement, he thought and swung wide the doors.

[Razkar]

He was impressed by the stone walls and glass windows. The racks of weapons, some of which he didn't even recognize. But the fighters discipline truly impressed him. There were several dozen on the floor, exchanging blows with as many species of weapon. Anywhere else, he might have expected them to stop and stare at him. Glare and sneer at the savage newcomer.

No-one did. All were focused on the task at hand, and if they did see him, they kept their minds on their business. The Myrian appreciated that.

One being, however, did notice, and Razkar was truly stunned when he approached. He had seen the Akalaks were magnitudes greater than his own kind, but this one was a full two feet taller than him. He had to step back and strain his neck just to make eye contact, finding a pair of cool, calculating orbs looking back down at him.

"I am Mizra Aqdas," the Akalak warrior rumbled in a voice that seemed to be summoned from a deep sea, arms as long as Razkar's body crossed over his chest, "And you are?"

Razkar swallowed and straightened himself. No matter who this Akalak was, he was still Razkar of the Shorn Skulls, and he would feel inferior to no-one, especially a barbarian male.

"I am Razkar." He said in halting, slow-paced Common. His tongue still had problems negotiating that new language, and he was taking baby steps. But he had decades to learn, after all, and he knew the basic vocabulary. "Of Shorn Skulls. I want to train." He gestured to the whirling, circling, yelling and striking figures peppering the spotless white floor. "To spar. I pay."

A bushy eyebrow raised was all the response he got from what he assumed was the master of this training house. Mizra took a breath and seemed to study the far smaller being before speaking again, polite enough to speak slowly for the foreigner.

"And what do you want to learn?"

Razkar blinked. "Learn?"

"This place is one of teaching. Of learning. Not merely an arena for combat." Grey eyes flicker down to Razkar's breeches and there's the briefest nod at the weapons there. "Gladius and handaxe, correct?"

"Yes."

"You wish to strengthen your skill with them?"

Razkar couldn't stop himself: "I want to fight."

He could tell right away that this was the wrong answer. The Akalak cocked his head to one side and his eyes narrowed just a fraction. But in that fraction Razkar could see the man changing his perception of Razkar: from a potential student to a potential problem. Knowing that he needed to salvage something from this mistake, he shook his head and patted his weapons.

"I not hurt here. Ah, people here. I not kill. Only... learn."

He waited for the Grand Mater's response, the two of them an island of hesitation amongst the sea of roiling fighters.

[Razkar]

Mizra knew Myrians. Not intimately (we was certainly no anthropologist), but enough to understand some of their actions. Most thought them brute, blood-hungry savages, and they would be right. But the mistake was always thinking they had no intelligence to back up their brawn, and many a fallen, mutilated warrior had paid for that assumption. They did have a mind and, therefore, they had reason.

More importantly, as Mizra knew, they also had standards. Not morality as the denizens of this city by the sea would understand it, more... rules.

"If you give me your word," he said, still slowly but in the irresistable, looming was a glacier was slow, "as a warrior of your clan that you will harm no-one here, and remember you are a guest both in our city and my house, I will let you train."

Mizra could tell it was the right angle. The little Myrian straightened up visibly, surprised and suddenly very intent. He held out a tattooed arm and Mizra shook it. He had to hand it to the much smaller man: he never looked away. Those black eyes bored into his and Mizra felt no chill of a lie in that gaze.

He didn't see much in the way of compassion or mercy, either, but you couldn't have everything...

"I give my word. No harm."

"Then let us begin."

[Razkar]

Razkar thought he would feel naked without his axe and sword close by, but once he got his hands around the wooden practice sticks, he actually found it familiar. This was almost like the training yard back in Taloba.

Apart from the lack of sand and burning sun over his head. And the fact that they flat-out intended for you to hurt your opponent. Or the constant, uneasy, thrilling yet frightening possibility of the Goddess-Queen herself observing you from her perch. Or the screams and barks in Myrian.

OK, so it wasn't like the Training Grounds, but at least this way he would keep his word.

"I know you are no stranger to combat." The massive Akalak said as they walked, Razkar hurrying a little to match the long, easy strides of the blue-skinned giant. "So our beginning class may be a waste of time for you. What do you think?"

Razkar struggled to make himself heard over the constant crack of wood-on-wood-on flesh. He watched one sparring couple exchange blows with blistering speed, cuts and parries before one overstepped and the next strike smacked him on the thigh, bringing him to his knees and then the wooden sword was at his throat. The Akalak rolled his eyes and got back to his feet, limping but determined not to make that mistake again.

"I start small," he said, shrugging, "Wherever you think."

Mizra nodded and gestured to an older student idly twirling his training stick. Razkar knew at once he was not young student. His movements were economical, unhurried and practiced. He had a beard that belied youth and eyes that did the same. Half-a-foot or so taller than Razkar, he walked over to Mizra and bowed slightly.

"Grand Master?"

"This is Razkar, Omshev. He wishes to spar."

Omshev blinked once, and then again. His eyes flew to the Myrian and then to the older warrior and Razkar understood the confusion instantly. He hands clenched around the training sticks but he remembered his promise. No harm. No killing.

Even when I'm being questioned for my right to combat.

Mizra seemed to understand, too. "Razkar has given his word no serious harm will befall anyone he spars with. That is good enough for me."

Omshev grunted softly: "Serious harm?"

"This is a training ground, Omshev," Mizra said coldly, already turning his back to resume his endless circling of his students and his hall. "Not a flower-arranging class. I will be watching both of you. Proceed."

The blue- and dark-skinned warriors watched him go, and then regarded each other. It was not the friendliest of starts. The wooden clamor around them seemed to dim as they took each other in, weighed the other, measured reaches and muscles. Razkar wasn't overly concerned about being harmed, but he wanted to assess his opponent.

Big man. Big reach. But get in close, or wear those big muscles down, and he's yours.

Omshev nodded over his shoulder and walked to the corner of the room. Razkar followed, training stick in eager hand. The Akalak spoke without turning around.

"Ready?"

"Yes."

The final letter was barely on the breeze when Omshev turned on his heel and bought the training stick crashing down in a verticl arc.

[Razkar]

The Akalak was fast, but Razkar was a shade faster. He didn't survive Goddess knew how many skirmishes, duels, ambushes and battles in the jungle by being slow. As the wooden stick comes crashing down he slid to his left, Omshev's blow sailing through the air his body used to occupy.

Razkar brought his own stick in a short horizontal chop to the bigger man's kidneys and slid out of reach, knowing that-

"Rargh!"

-Omshev would attempt a similar counter-blow in retaliation for the stinging strike on his side, but once again, Raz was out of range. But he had to hurry to do it, and his initial suspicions were right: reach was going to be his problem, here. And this would be the easiest he would have it. The two men circled each other warily now, two-foot long training sticks held ready. Razkar's stance mirrored Omshev's: knees slightly bent, stepping lightly on the balls of his feet, stick held in front and to the side, ready to slash or parry.

A cold, intense glare crackled between the two men. Raz had injured his pride, won first blow and deflated his attempt to quickly beat someone he evidently saw more as a something. So... it would be more than just "training", now.

The Myrian grinned at the larger, broader fighter.

Good.

[Razkar]

Continued here

[Gossamer]

. Character: Razkar Experience: +1 Boxing, +1 Gladius, +1 Observation, +1 Endurance Lore: Riverfall: Civilized, Lawful, Proper *gag*, Its Polite To Repair Damage Caused, I Need Enemies, The Pains Of Communication Without Common Language, My Word Is Everything, Additional Note: Short and I wished you’d have given a bit more detail. I wasn’t sure if you wanted experience for Wooden Sticks or not so I gave endurance instead. If you want to change your terminology to 'wooden training gladius' I can give more gladius XP. Let me know if you want changes. .