[Bronze Wood] The Axeman (Training)

[Ulric]

PurposeTraining the axe and shield, crossbow (3rd and 8th posts), and fishing (8th post).

1st of Summer, 510 AV Dawn broke over the hills east of Syliras, bathing the walls and rooftops in a pale half-light. In truth, it was a beautiful city – though not so striking as Ravok’s canalworks. Ulric observed the dawn for several moments before reentering the Bronze Wood, where he’d cleared a small training area in the dense underbrush. He preferred to practice his weapons in private. It wasn’t that Ulric disliked sparring; nay, he had always relished the clack of practice swords and the bruises on his arms and torso. During his long, arduous journey from Ravok, he had realized that his skills were far eroded from the summer of his youth. No longer did his axe slice through the air with the same precision. His footwork, once quick, was leaden and deliberate. While years of rowing and hauling nets had strengthened his muscles, they had done little to preserve his fighting instincts. Still, what was forgotten could always be relearned. Ulric began with a series of calisthenics. First push-ups, performed in five sets of fifty with a half minute’s rest in between. By the third set he was feeling the burn in his chest and arms, but it was a minor discomfort. He finished strong, although he felt a series of deep-fiber twitches creep through his elbow and triceps during the last set. It felt unnatural – not to mention unpleasant, but he emerged with neither pain nor injury. Flushed, he transitioned to sit-ups, again performing five sets of fifty. Fortunately the pine needles of the forest floor cushioned his tailbone, but Ulric still had to labor to keep his feet upon the ground. Finally, breathing heavily, he transitioned to squats – his least favorite exercise – performed with an unwieldy log of about sixty pounds, and then chin-ups. By the end of this warm-up, the sun had risen several fingers above the horizon. Ulric pawed the sheen of sweat from his brow, feeling the comforting tightness in his muscles, and strode to where he had laid out his weapons. In battle, he remembered Kell sneering at him, only the corpses are allowed to rest. Caressing the haft of his bearded axe, Ulric slid his fingers up to the sharp, sloping head and its shallow etchings. It was a formidable weapon in the proper hands, capable of splitting skulls and shattering bone, though not quite so imposing as a battleaxe or halberd. His axe wasn’t an elegant weapon, but it was effective – and more importantly, useful. Ulric raised his axe overhead, keeping his shield tucked, and sliced it through the air. It felt awkward, the haft seeming to writhe like an eel in his hand, blade turning slightly to one side. Scowling, Ulric tried the stroke again, and then a third time with scant improvement. Every degree the blade tilted, or inch it strayed from its target, was a glancing blow – not a kill strike. Oh, you could hack a man to death easily enough, but a precise butchering required skill. Ulric was under no illusions; he knew his reactions were sluggish and his fundamentals lacking, the axe seeming more a thing than an extension of his arm. It wouldn’t change over a single day, nor a half-dozen for that matter, but at the very least he could burnish his skills. Sweeping the axe down, Ulric raised his shield to protect his exposed head and quickly stepped back. It was the riskiest of maneuvers, the overhead cleave, exposing both his leading leg and entire right side. A well-placed hook to the leg would easily throw him balance and perhaps to the ground. In addition, his opponent could either deflect the axe with a shield bind or slip to Ulric’s side and deliver a fatal blow. Long ago, Ulric had come to the conclusion that combat was as much mental as physical, with success determined not only by strength and speed, but how well you read an opponent’s mind. Intelligent warriors knew to measure and predict attacks, set traps, and end fights quickly – providing, of course, they didn’t encounter an attack so unexpected that it proved their undoing. Ulric weighed his options. He could attempt to pivot to one side, retreat quickly, or continue to press forward like an enraged bull. Let’s try the last one, Ulric shrugged his shoulders to release the tension. He led with overhead strike again, this time following up with a shield bash and a strike to the head, and then repeated the sequence – this time directing the final blow to the legs. No, scratch that, he scowled. It wasn’t a fluid combination. He was overextending himself at the end, the blow sweeping forward too slowly and awkward. Instead, Ulric mixed in a thrust in a fresh series and a hook to the legs in the next, keeping his axe in the fore rather than bringing it back for another swing. Yes, the thrust and hook were better alternatives to finish the sequence, providing he wasn’t killed first – a distinct possibility if his opponent slipped the overhand. But there was shyke-all Ulric could do about that save wait for an opportune moment to unleash the combination. Combat was as much about what you didn’t throw as what you did, avoiding any fatal mistakes. Lowering his arm, Ulric transitioned to a different stance, this time keeping his shield at chest level and the axe hidden behind his leg. He led with a shield bash and brought the axe scything about in the direction of his opponent’s neck. Nah, too close. Ulric adjusted, sweeping the weapon for the legs. Having closed the distance, it was always probable that he’d merely strike with the haft instead of the blade, at best sending his opponent off-balance. It was important to control distance – especially with axes – because the weapon wasn’t effective upon the inside. Close with a swordsman and he was liable to spill your guts into the mud. Ulric repeated the combination, this time taking a half-step forward and feinting with his shield, then stepping back as the axe swept around. Now, what happened if the bastard ducked or stepped back, and attacked before he pulled the axe back across his body? Ulric ran the combination twice more, first adding a backswing, and then a swipe with his shield’s metal-bound rim. Neither was optimal, of course; his aim was to kill with the primary strike. Inevitably, every attack that was blocked or went astray left an opening for a counter. Shifting his stance, Ulric led with a thrust, feeling himself overextend. More work was needed if he was to forge himself into a weapon. More work, indeed.

[Ulric]

Axes… are like snakes? Ulric scowled at his weapon. It still had a mind of its own, writhing in his hand as he leveled an overhand blow at the sapling, and sending the blade careening off the green, supple wood. In a way, the tree made an ideal pell-pole, although Ulric doubted it would survive more than half a bell beneath his onslaught. Stepping forward, he drove his round, metal-bound shield into its slender trunk with the full impact of his weight, making the sapling sway and its leaves shiver. Ulric had a certain affinity for the shield. It was both defensive and offensive, allowing him to slash with the blunt rim or slam the boss into an opponent’s face or midsection. Hooking his axehead behind the sapling, Ulric used the momentum to sweep the shield around like a blade, carving a notch in the wood. It was an immensely satisfying feeling. Ulric had always preferred a visceral style of combat. He might have mastered the art of patience, but he disliked the protracted series of lunges, parries, and ripostes endemic to swordplay. Oh, he’d stood mystified the other day when he’d seen a pair of knights go at it with their practice swords, raining blows down on each other’s shoulders, but the sword was too much of an artist’s weapon. In Ravok, Ulric had developed a particular dislike of the schools of swordplay patronized by the rapier-wielding sons of noble and merchant houses. He felt there was something distinctly wrong with replacing the deadly with the decorative. What was next, a plague of plumed hats and parti-colored hose? Clearly, the world was going to shyke around him. On a flight of fancy, Ulric twirled in a full circle, bringing his axe around to carve a chip off the sapling. Idiot, he sneered at the ostentation. It was foolish to turn your back on an opponent. Unexpected, perhaps, but foolish. If he didn’t take advantage the first time, surely the second would bring a certain finality to the match in the form of a low sword or spear thrust. Ulric suspected that most warriors got away with such maneuvers because their opponents lacked the skill, reflexes, and experience to capitalize upon the mistakes. Instead, he preferred to train as if he were preparing to square off against a master-at-arms. It forced him to contemplate the drawbacks of certain strokes and combinations that lesser warriors might devote to memory through stolid repetition, and make critical adjustments to his technique. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Ulric danced around the sapling while unleashing a flurry of blows with his axe and shield. At times he skipped back after the first strike, perceiving only danger in pursuing the assault, or continued attacking with the savagery of a rabid wolf. Footwork and distance, he repeated in his head, distance and footwork. No matter how imprecise his strokes, he could still hold his own as long as he had mastered those principles. Slowly, a pile of chips accumulated at the base of the sapling until Ulric’s axe sheared through the battered trunk. Breathing hard, Ulric stepped back as it topped to the forest floor and then strode to his next target. Hopefully the knights didn’t maintain a ban on unlicensed forestry. Ulric held the axe at his side, its head sloping toward the earth a half-dozen paces ahead, and peered over the rim of his shield. He would have to find a sparring partner, eventually. Perhaps one of the knights could be convinced to train with him, although he was loath to solicit their aid. Over the previous few days, the thuggish behavior of certain younger knights had brought a disrepute to the order, begging the question of why they were no longer squires. Ulric took a few, half-hearted hacks at the next sapling, and then stepped back. He was losing focus. Perhaps it was time for a break. Returning to the embers of his fire, Ulric reached into his pack for an apple and a cloth-wrapped chunk of cheese. He ate quickly, washing the meal down with water from his skin. It was not a warm day, but already the sweat ran in rivulets down his face and bare torso. Ulric slid a fingertip through the beads of moisture and brought it to his lips, savoring the warm saltiness, and rose to his feet. His training was far from completed. Poke, shield bash, poke. He grunted with each transition of the awkward combination that ended with his right side exposed. Again. Shyke, Ulric scowled. This was becoming a bad habit. It wasn’t that he had overextended; an opponent would naturally retreat, bind, or step aside, and the reactions would determine his combination. Hypothetically, there had to be a full-on retreat for Ulric to start and finish with a poke. His displeasure stemmed from the fact he hadn’t added any counters after the last poke. Merely stepping back, shield raised, wouldn’t cut it. Ulric ran the poke, bash, poke again, this time adding an overhand after he stepped back. Too predictable, he lamented. But… what if I took two steps back and added a hook on the end? If the axehead caught his opponent’s arm, Ulric could disarm him and conclude the fight with the next stroke. Or he could simply move laterally with a scything stroke, although the blow would undoubtedly be turned by a shield. Unless, of course, his opponent was left-handed or didn’t fight with a shield. Ulric didn’t understand why so few warriors carried them. He felt exposed without its weight upon his arm, and not merely to arrows. Hack, bind, hook stepping back, and thrust. Ulric pawed the sweat from his eyes and repeated the combination, this time adding a bash to the end. After all, practice made perfect.

[Ulric]

Sheathed in sweat, Ulric dropped his axe and shield and squinted through the forest canopy. Judging by the shafts of sunlight filtering through the leaves, it was already past midday. Time for some target practice. Gathering his heavy crossbow and bag of bolts, Ulric made a cursory inspection of the weapon. It was a composite of hardwood, bone, and sinew with iron fittings and prods. A length of whipcord was fastened across the prods – about two feet in length – for a pull of nearly three hundred pounds, while the stock extended about three feet from the stirrup. It was a cumbersome weapon, having a deadweight of nearly fifteen pounds. However, the crossbow was also formidable. At a dozen paces, it was capable of sending a bolt through a suit of plate armor. Having a range of as much as two hundred and fifty yards, it was seldom accurate above seventy-five – or in Ulric’s case, fifteen. He was a poor shot, but the crossbow’s power and ease of operation made it the ideal weapon for an unskilled marksman. While an archer could fire around two or three times faster than a crossbowman, their stave-strung bows required years of training to master; hardly a feasible commitment for a fisherman-turned-renegade. Placing a foot in the iron stirrup, Ulric bent down and seized the whipcord, then drew it back along the polished stock. At a distance of less than a foot, the pull was tremendous. Ulric felt his shoulders, arms, and back strain with the effort before he secured the cord behind the lock. Keeping the weapon at an upward angle, he slid a short, leather-fletched bolt into the ironbound groove (so armored to avoid wear of the stock) and raised the weapon to his shoulder. If he tilted the weapon downward, the bolt was liable to slip from the groove and leave him with an unloaded weapon – hardly an ideal scenario in the heat of battle. Squinting down the sight, Ulric took aim at a broad-trunked beech twenty yards distant and squeezed the elongated trigger on the stock’s underside. In a split-second, the lock dipped into a recess into the stock, releasing the taut whipcord and sending the bolt thrumming into the tree. It struck off-center – an arm, perhaps, or a shoulder; enough to throw a man to the ground in blood-spattered agony. But not a bear, Ulric recalled. He was amazed at how the beast had continued to charge even after he’d placed a bolt in its chest. Hopefully there wouldn’t be a second time. Readying the crossbow again, Ulric took a knee and let fly. This time he achieving a similar result, but lower – around knee level. Such a wound would be debilitating, but non-fatal unless it began to fester. Hardly the result he was looking for. Hooking the lock from its recess, Ulric again placed his foot in the stirrup and pulled the whipcord taut, slipping a bolt into the groove, and sighted along the stock. He peered at the beech for several moments, taking deep, measured breaths to lower his heartbeat, and squeezed the trigger on the exhale. His bolt flashed like a bolt of chain lightning, striking the tree dead-center. Not bad, Ulric smirked. He’d not expected a clean shot at twenty yards, but neither was this a time for jubilation. He still had work to do. Looking to his hands, Ulric saw the pale outline of the whipcord across his fingers. It smarted a bit, and would eventually begin to blister and stiffen from the interrupted flow of blood to his joints. He returned to his pack, taking a quick swig from his half-empty waterskin, and slipped on his gloves. Thus protected, he readied the crossbow again and fired. The bolt flew high and wide, hissing into the forest. Shyke, Ulric scowled. I hadn’t thought my aim was that bad. For a moment he contemplated going to retrieve the bolt, but there was no knowing how far it had traveled. A minute might turn into two, then five, and eventually an hour. No, he’d have to ensure that his aim improved, or replace his bolts at the rate of one silver miza for every errant shot. It was quite a motivator. Ulric’s next shot was dead-center and the next slightly lower; a gut-wound. If the metal-tipped bolt didn’t sever the spine, it was sure to cause a slow, painful death. Ulric continued his practice until all of the twenty-odd bolts was spent – losing only two more in the trees and one that shattered upon impact – and then went to retrieve the missiles. Most had penetrated at least two inches into the wood, forcing him to pry them out with his knife (and later axe, when his frustration boiled over). It was more difficult than cutting them from cooling flesh, that was for certain. Ulric broke another bolt in the process for a total of twenty-seven reclaimed, five lost. Quite a steep price for a bit of experience. Next time, he would have to have to find a range to practice on – or at least acquire a straw target.

[Ulric]

Ulric returned to his axework, slipping the round shield onto his left arm and taking a few practice strokes with his bearded axe. Alone, it was the type of weapon you had to keep swinging, relying on intimidation for a defense. Most foes were wary of stepping within the axe’s range because of its sheer, destructive power. It was more difficult to wield than a sword, having all its weight concentrated in the head. Even if blocked by a sword or shield, a blow could send painful shocks down an opponent’s arm and even bludgeon the weapon from their hands. Ulric had never gravitated toward the two-handed style of fighting. It was too wild for his taste, and too dangerous; even for masters of the axe. Raising the shield to protect his face and upper torso, Ulric bent his knees to make himself a smaller target and performed a series of downward hacks. All too often, the legs were ignored in combat – but never when fighting shield-to-shield. Indeed, the majority of non-fatal injuries were usually sustained to the legs. Ulric was careful to retreat after he’d hacked or hooked to the legs, or pivot to the side, mixing in blows to the head and torso. If his focus drifted to a certain area, an opponent was certain to capitalize by striking where it was the weakest. However, there weren’t too many axe or sword-and-shield fighters these days. Most seemed to prefer the longsword or katana, although the latter was easily broken and ineffective against metal armor. Ulric felt the shield lent him a distinct advantage in such circumstances, almost negating the axe’s defensive failings. Stepping back, Ulric stretched his arms to release the built-up tension. His back was stiffening from the exertion of cocking the heavy crossbow, but he wagered it wouldn’t become a hindrance until dusk. Axe lowered, he extended the shield before him – rim level with his eyes – and moved it to and fro, slowly at first and then faster, until it sliced like a blade through the humid air. When its speed peaked, Ulric began to incorporate upper-body movement, twisting his torso side-to-side to extend the arc past his arm’s range of motion, and then rotated his hips. By now, he was able to complete a full circle sweeping the shield from one side to the other. Next, Ulric pivoted on his left leg, breaking up the circle in two separate sweeps and then combining both into one fluid motion. Such a move could ward off multiple opponents – most likely shattering bones – but it had to be quick and executed to perfection. I’d rather flee under the circumstances, Ulric smirked, and leave valor for the ironscales. Ovek knows, they must be itching for a proper battle, else they wouldn’t stick their swords in the face of every beggar or suspicious-looking cripple to enter the gates. Sometimes, Ulric wished Loren Dyres would initiate a purge of his order’s dregs, else they might soon come to resemble the Ebonstryfe. At the very least, he could force many of the callow youths to prove their mettle rather than allowing them to usurp the mantle of knights. Closing his eyes, Ulric wove his axe in a figure-eight pattern, smiling as he visualized the blade slice through mail and leather surcoats. It was quite relaxing, but contributed nothing to his form. If Ulric meant to improve his skills, he could not afford to waste his time with dreams. Selecting another sapling, he rushed in with a shield bash and then retreated, hacking a deep notch in the supple trunk. It shivered beneath the impact, dislodging several twigs from the treetops that bounced off Ulric’s head and bare shoulders. He ignored them, following up the hack with a low hook and a powerful swipe that made the shield reverberate in his hands. Ulric's precision appeared to be slowly improving, but he still had a long ways to go before he deemed himself combat-ready. After all, why fight when you can’t ensure a higher chance of victory?

[Ulric]

As the sun waned, Ulric felt the pangs of hunger gnaw at his belly. He had planned to return to the city some hours ago, but the axe felt so damned good in his hand that he was loath to leave off until his body was physically unable to continue. Oh, he’d be stiff as a corpse tomorrow – that was inevitable – but then again, did anyone truly learn without pain? Kell’s tutelage had been effective for that precise reason when Ulric was a lad. To be a warrior, you had to embrace pain and hardship. Stepping back from a series of hacks, Ulric flipped the axe into the air, allowing it to rotate twice before he snatched the handle and stepped forward with a poke. It wasn’t exactly a master’s trick, the flip – when all the weight was concentrated in the axehead and the haft was two and a half feet long, it was easy to control the number of times the weapon spun in the air. Naturally, Ulric wouldn’t pull that kind of stunt in a melee, but it lent him the appearance of being a formidable axe fighter. Despite knowing quite a bit about fundamentals and tactics, he still fought deliberately, still unable to rely upon split-second muscle memory and experience. Recall needed to be instantaneous, else you were just relying upon impulse and reflexes – the same as a novice. Ulric hadn’t quite cleared that hurdle, yet. He was still easy to hit. Feint, bind, hack. Ulric skipped to the side, directing a hook to the legs. Inherent in the one-strike-one-kill philosophy was the simple truth that most kills were derived from counters. Although most warriors weren’t cowards, they had a keen sense of self-preservation. Attacks were often tentative, with both parties preferring to remain slightly out of range, doing little more than parry and slash at each other’s weapons as they ‘measured’ their opponents, reluctant to commit to the fight. Ulric knew better than to make that mistake. No prolonged exchanges for him; efficiency was quick and brutal. When an opponent lashed out, you could bind and flank him, hook him off balance, hook the weapon and twist yourself into a position to deliver a kill stroke – oh, the possibilities were endless. According to Kell, a fight should last no longer than ten seconds - and that on a bad day. Sliding his palm up the axe’s haft, Ulric wove the weapon to and fro with short, quick strokes, keeping his shield up to protect his face and torso. Having reduced the distance between his hand and the axehead, the weapon was lighter in his hand and easier to swing in close – perfect for close quarters. However, at the shorter distance Ulric wasn’t able to put much power into his strikes. He could lay open a face, certainly, or slice through flesh and muscle, but the axe lacked the same, bone-crushing impact as when it was handled with a conventional grip. Facing the same, now-scarred beech that he’d used for target practice, Ulric unleashed a series of swift, woodpecker chops that sent chunks of bark flying in all directions, and then stepped back. A bit pointless, that. He scowled and shifted to a conventional grip, hooking the broad trunk with his axe and using it to provide leverage for a shield bash, driving the metal boss into the target at chest level. Few attacks were quite as unexpected – and bone-jarring – as a solid whack with a shield. It was a perfect set-up for a kill-strike, leaving an opponent off-balance and reeling if performed correctly, and even dazed, disoriented, or unconscious if you managed to strike them square in the face. Pity there aren’t more dentists, Ulric mused as he stepped back.

[Ulric]

“Bollocks,” Ulric growled as he squeezed the last drops of water from his skin. He was exhausted from the day’s training, his muscles sore and slick with sweat, but he was loath to halt until the sun disappeared over the horizon. Pushing off with his right foot, Ulric led with his shield and hacked to the legs, then followed up with a shield bash. He stepped back, keeping the shield tucked as he gasped for air. Its bulk was leaden upon his arm, making each chime that passed a test of willpower and endurance. Ulric returned to the first exercise of the day, the overhand cleave. Holding his bearded axe high, he pivoted from side to side, occasionally feinting with the weapon or swiping with his shield to mimic a bind, while he used his footwork to move in and out of range. By now, precision wasn’t an option; he was too fatigued. Ulric swung the axe with abandon, again and again, to the serenade of crickets. It was the type of flawed repetition he so despised, but he was too stubborn – or masochistic – to stop before he had reached his limits. There’ll be time enough time to rest when I’m dead, Ulric repeated as he lashed out wildly. However, his wildness was somewhat less wild than when he’d begun. He was following hooks with bashes, maintaining a constant lateral motion, and mixing in pokes when he retreated; subtle adjustments that would have a significant impact in combat. Halting for a moment, Ulric sank to his haunches for a breather. He was nearly twenty-seven, a year or two from his prime, but his knees clicked like an old man’s. Hardly a good sign, he thought as he straightened and assumed a new stance, axe and shield held wide and at his waist. A dangerous stance, obviously, but sometimes you needed to lure the bastards in. Most shield-bearers seldom exposed their torsos unless they were particularly zealous in their application of shield swipes and bashes – a tactic Ulric admired but was too pragmatic to follow. Squaring up, he spent several chimes stepping back and hooking with his axe – meaning to catch an opponent’s weapon or wrist and thus disarm him – and then transitioned to stepping forward, striking the imaginary blow aside with his shield, and hacking to the head. Counters were inevitable, but he hadn’t the insight of a master to plan so many moves in advance. Ulric dropped to a crouch, bringing his shield up to protect his face, and scythed his axe in a savage, calf-height hook meant to tangle the legs of an opponent and send him tumbling on his arse. Stepping back was a more prudent move. However, if an opponent stepped upon the haft, trapping the weapon, Ulric would have to rush forward and knock the man off balance with his shield. Such a trap might neutralize the axe, but it also ceded mobility. Ulric repeated the hook several times, feeling his weapon respond to adjustments in angle and height. In an effective hook, the key was to aim the axe head slightly behind an opponent and quickly shift your weight back when the haft made contact by sliding on your rear foot. A crouch was hardly optimal for hooks, but the horizontal angle of the attack increased the axe’s range of effectiveness. Raising the shield slightly higher, Ulric tried a few backhand hooks, but they still felt slow and awkward, negating much of the crouch’s reach advantage. Scowling, he leapt forward with a shield bash and followed it with a feint, pivot, and backhand hack meant to slice into an exposed neck, ending with a retreat of two steps. As ever, distance was his friend and best defense. Slipping to the side and swiping with his shield, Ulric began an overhand cleave that veered to the side. Instead of the head or neck, such a blow might beat side a sword tip or shield rim and crush the shoulder or upper arm. Ulric remained in striking distance, raising the shield as he pivoted to the left and swept a backhanded hack beneath the shield. His axe danced in the air, reversing to slice upward at the head as Ulric leapt to the side and flung his full weight behind his shield. He was tired of thinking. The axe descended, the shield returned to its tuck, and Ulric launched a new series of attacks. Hack hack, Ulric, hack hack, he scowled as the axe sang through the humid air. It swept to and fro, upward and down in a deadly tracery of iron, complemented by the thrusts and swipes of Ulric’s shield – a truly fearsome sight for the unlearned. Slowly, the movements began to slow as Ulric tapped into his final reserves of strength. He staggered to his knees, allowing the shield to drop from his arm. But he wasn’t done yet. Grasping the axe’s haft with both hands, Ulric assumed a left-handed stance that allowed him to strike opposite an opponent’s shield. He sprang forward, now relying totally on aggression for defense, and swept the axe in a series of hourglass patterns, advancing on weary legs. So much for tactics. At heart, the axeman was a ferocious, brutal, bestial fighter; a master of havoc and death. He was the epitome of combat – awkward and ugly, but ruthlessly efficient. Finally, the axe slipped from Ulric’s grasp and he sank to the ground, completely spent. He remained there for several moments, listening to the rustling leaves. It was peaceful on the outskirts of the wood, near enough to the city for slavers to keep their distance, yet distant enough for solitude. Rising, Ulric collected his axe and shield and returned to his campsite, whose fire had long ago been reduced to ashes, where he reclaimed his pack and empty waterskin. It was dark now, the forest illuminated by a sliver of moon and the sun’s afterglow over the horizon. Ulric kept his heavy crossbow close to hand. Better safe than sorry, he’d heard for as long as he could remember. Pausing to refill his waterskin at a half-dried brook, Ulric laved the cool water over his head and chest. It was free of taint; a distinct improbability in both Syliras and Ravok, where supplies were sullied with the effluence of humanity. If not for the perilous wildlands, Ulric doubted the cities would retain even half of their current populace. Striding to the gates, he spoke to the guards for several moments – naturally, these were different from the previous night – before he was permitted to reenter the walls. Half-walking, half-staggering the short distance to Traveler’s Row and his small, dingy apartment, Ulric fumbled for his key and opened the lock, then shut the door behind him. Sleep was fitful, and when he awoke some hours later, his muscles were stiff and wracked by a sharp, coruscating agony. Such were the consequences of overtraining.

[Ulric]

Ulric returned to his training area shortly after midday. He’d slept past dawn (a rare occurrence), ate a heaping meal, and stopped at the hot springs to loosen his stiff muscles. [i]Not quite as rejuvenating as promised, but at least I don’t smell as badly,[i] Ulric limped the final steps to his destination. Setting down his crossbow, he repeated the calisthenics of the previous day – grunting and grimacing his pain – and then took up his shield and bearded axe. If he was going to ache tomorrow and the next day regardless, he would at least make use of the time. Shield tucked, Ulric warmed up by swinging his axe in an hourglass pattern, hearing his shoulder click every time he shifted directions and angles. It wasn’t a pleasant sound, even though he knew it was harmless. Abruptly, Ulric moved the shield so it covered his left side and stepped in with a shoulder-height hook. He drove the shield forward as he retreated, and then pivoted and swiped with the metal rim, mixing in a hack to the knees. Stepping to the left – taking care not to cross his legs, which could leave him off balance – he sliced the axe upward and then down, advancing in anticipation of a retreat. Luck and guesswork were always integral to victory. His shield thrust forward again, accompanied by a downward hack and a poke as he retreated. Ulric paced in a semicircle, shield lowered, as he contemplated that last move. While the poke allowed him to open up space, an opponent might counter with a hook that swept the axe from his grasp. Since Ulric was retreating, he would have to change directions to land a shield bash or retrieve his weapon – time enough to come under assault. Being caught on the outside with only a shield was practically a death sentence. Returning to his stance, Ulric repeated the up-down, bash, hack combination, this time mixing a wide, scything hack on the end. It didn’t have as much range as the poke, but it was nearly as effective and didn’t require Ulric to overextend or reduce the impetus of his strike. Immediately, he returned to the attack, slipping to the side and headhunting with a backhand. Even if he connected with a metal helmet, the impact would scramble an opponent’s brains, no matter if the helmet was forged of plain iron or the finest Isurian steel. Ulric reset his feet and peered over the rim of his shield – keeping the axe hidden behind his leg – and wove to and fro, focusing on his footwork and upper body movement. He began to mix in the occasional hack, poke, or hook, striving to keep the movements quick and compact. Finally, satisfied with his progress, Ulric paused to catch his breath. At this point, he suspected that further efforts would only hinder his training with the axe and shield – leaving the remainder of the afternoon for target practice.

[Ulric]

Leaving the practice area, Ulric strode deeper into the woods in search of a pond or a brook; anywhere he could put his fishing skills to use. By his reckoning, it was a bell and a half before he followed a dried-up rivulet to a small, lily-pad covered pond in the shape of a horseshoe. Ulric set his crossbow, shield, and axe to one side and fumbled in his pack for the bundle that contained his fishing supplies. Removing several lengths of line, he selected one that was slightly over five yards in length and tied three hooks at regular intervals, baiting them with squirming, pallid worms he dug from the earth. He then affixed a sinker to the end and cast the line into the water, winding the end around his gloved hand. If a fish latched onto one of the hooks he would know immediately. Sitting down, his back propped against a tree, Ulric peered at the dappled sunlight upon the pond’s surface, watching the insects skitter to and fro. Every now and then a fish surfaced to feed with an abrupt splash, sending ripples across the water. Ulric dozed, soaking the sun’s warmth into his weary bones as he waited for a bite. It came perhaps a bell’s time later, nearly wrenching the line from his slackened grip. Leaping to his feet, Ulric held firm as the fish struggled with the hook. When the thrashing lessened, he hauled the line in hand by hand, until the fish flopped upon the shore. It was a speckled perch, no more than a pound and a half, but good eating nonetheless. Ulric dashed its head against a rock and set about preparing his meal; removing the guts and scales before he roasted the perch over a small fire. After he was finished eating, Ulric gathered a bundle of long, supple twigs from the undergrowth that surrounded the pond and trimmed them with his axe. He didn’t have the funds to purchase a proper archer’s target, but he could always improvise. Ulric spent the next bell weaving the twigs into a makeshift screen – a task not dissimilar from mending nets – and propped it against a tree. Although unlikely to stop his bolts outright, it would reduce their impetus and hopefully prevent the iron-tipped quarrels from embedding too far into the tree or thrumming into the forest beyond. Retreating to a range of twenty-five yards, Ulric grounded his crossbow and began the loading process. He placed a foot in the stirrup, hauled the whipcord over the lock, and slid a bolt into the groove, then peered down the stock at his target. As ever, accuracy was a ridiculous hope. Exhaling, Ulric squeezed the trigger and the bolt whistled out and tore the screen’s upper-left corner to shreds. Well, that was a waste, he scowled. He repeated the process, and this time the bolt struck nearer to the center, albeit low. Ulric’s third bolt thunked into the trunk above the screen. Loping to the target, Ulric yanked his bolts from the tree – noting they hadn’t penetrated so far this time – and even managed to retrieve the first bolt from the dense underbrush. A lucky find. Ulric returned to his crossbow and reloaded, then squeezed off another shot. It was low and to the left, a miss that correlated with the breeze. Lacking any formal training, he wasn’t certain how greatly the wind affected his aim – especially at such a short distance. Surely, only skilled arbalests knew to make such adjustments. Loosing another bolt, Ulric grinned as it struck slightly off-center. His aim was improving. “Say what you will about squinting,” Ulric grunted as he drew the whipcord over the lock, “But its gotten me this far.” His next shot contradicted those words, plowing a furrow through the loam a half-dozen paces from the target. Well, bollocks, Ulric scowled. He fired thrice more before he moved to collect his bolts, connecting to the far right, the low center, and missing entirely. So far, less than a third of his shots would have struck a man-sized target. Ulric performed much better at fifteen yards, and at five seldom missed a shot. Someday he hoped to have some chance of striking above fifty, although at the moment it was a distant possibility. Still, there was always room for improvement. Again raising the crossbow to his shoulder, Ulric peered down the stock… and released.

[Tabarnac]

XP Award! Ulric XP Award: Bodybuilding +4; Bearded Axe +5; Shield +5; Heavy Crossbow +5; Fishing +1; Cooking +1 Lore Award: Melee Tactics Additional Note Excellent training post! I like how Ulric is actually thinking about what he’s doing, and noting strengths and weaknesses and strategies. I wouldn’t want to meet Ulric in a blind alley or on any sort of battlefield. On a purely technical note, you could have earned more XP for axe and shield if you had cut it off earlier and started a new training thread. In future, you can tap the ST for your area and ask them if you have hit 5 XP in a thread yet and if they aren't too busy, they might let you know when you've topped out. Just sayin'! Feel free to PM me if you have any questions or concerns. Keep writing!