20th Day of Spring, 511AV
The Training Yards
9th Bell
He lost himself in the dance, its endless variety. Every swing and swipe led to another, and had significance of its own. It could end your enemy's life or your own, if mistimed. The wielder knew for bitter, painful experience that in the whirl of mortal combat, time both sped up and slowed down. It was bizarre and addictive, that strange juxtaposition. You saw every feature and detail of your enemy. Every twitch and tensing of his muscles, before and after his weapon started moving. Your mind raced to match him, exceed him, end him.
And before you knew, it was over. For you or for him. And what set apart the living from the dead? Luck, sometimes, but mostly it was skill.
That came from two things alone: training and experience.
Razkar had much of both, but the former he could always improve by himself.
Thus you could have seen him there, alone in the Training Yards, still cool and shadowy with rising Syna still unable to peek over the high stone walls. It was not the usual humid nightmare that Falyndar by day was, but already he had a sheen of sweat glistening across his body. When he swung his arms a patter of salty beads would fly onto the sand, then the darkened smudges would vanish as he feet glided over them.
Clad only in a loincloth, gladius and ax filling his hands, Razkar practiced.
He imagined an enemy, a human, charging at him with the long sword his kind seemed to favor. He met it with his gladius, jerking his left hand up, blade perpendicular, knocking the opposing blade up and away-
-sidestepping to his right and chopping diagonally with his hand ax, burying it in-
No. They have shields, don't they? You have not faced them, but their warriors to have them.
-the iron-rimmed wood of a shield, throwing the human off balance-
-lashing out with his foot into the open air where a nice, tempting crotch would be, staggering the human further-
-then sliding backwards, leaning back as well, reacting as if the human had slashing wildly with his blade, keeping him back-
-slicing vertically upwards with his gladius as the human finished his swing, slashing through an imaginary arm, perhaps severing it, but either way sending that blade to the ground from useless fingers-
-sidestepping again, this time to his left, ax slashing sideways, lower, at the human's left leg-
-shattering a shin bone, bringing the screaming human down-
-backhanding the shield away from the cowering enemy with the backswing of his ax, leaving him open-
-cocking back his gladius and exploding it forwards, a lethal, final thrust with his gladius, jamming two feet of sharpened steel through the ribs, lungs, heart-
-twisting it, just as he was taught, opening the wound up further, tearing organs in two, releasing a fountain of blood-
-withdrawing and stepping away, leaving his enemy to topple and bleed out...
Razkar paced in a steady circle, breathing slightly heavier. Black eyes blinked and he half-expected (hoped?) to see an eviscerated human lying on the sands, further evidence of his skill. But his warrior... no, his soldier mentality took over, running through the drill... and it was satisfied.
Good. But it went your way too much. Swinging one is good enough, but you need coordination to wield two, and-
"It works better with an actual opponent, male."
His head snapped around and beheld a laconic, staring figure leaning against the archway from the Barracks. As it straightened and stepped forward, he could see it was female... a familiar female.
A pair of training swords in one hand, a training sword and an ax in the other. Intricate tattoo work covered much of her face, red and black, bringing out her fierce and ever-glowering eyes even better.
Razkar cocked his head to one side and sheathed his true weapons, hands flying up to snatch the wooden ax and gladius out of the air when she threw them without preamble.
"And a good morning to you, Erama..."
The Training Yards
9th Bell
He lost himself in the dance, its endless variety. Every swing and swipe led to another, and had significance of its own. It could end your enemy's life or your own, if mistimed. The wielder knew for bitter, painful experience that in the whirl of mortal combat, time both sped up and slowed down. It was bizarre and addictive, that strange juxtaposition. You saw every feature and detail of your enemy. Every twitch and tensing of his muscles, before and after his weapon started moving. Your mind raced to match him, exceed him, end him.
And before you knew, it was over. For you or for him. And what set apart the living from the dead? Luck, sometimes, but mostly it was skill.
That came from two things alone: training and experience.
Razkar had much of both, but the former he could always improve by himself.
Thus you could have seen him there, alone in the Training Yards, still cool and shadowy with rising Syna still unable to peek over the high stone walls. It was not the usual humid nightmare that Falyndar by day was, but already he had a sheen of sweat glistening across his body. When he swung his arms a patter of salty beads would fly onto the sand, then the darkened smudges would vanish as he feet glided over them.
Clad only in a loincloth, gladius and ax filling his hands, Razkar practiced.
He imagined an enemy, a human, charging at him with the long sword his kind seemed to favor. He met it with his gladius, jerking his left hand up, blade perpendicular, knocking the opposing blade up and away-
-sidestepping to his right and chopping diagonally with his hand ax, burying it in-
No. They have shields, don't they? You have not faced them, but their warriors to have them.
-the iron-rimmed wood of a shield, throwing the human off balance-
-lashing out with his foot into the open air where a nice, tempting crotch would be, staggering the human further-
-then sliding backwards, leaning back as well, reacting as if the human had slashing wildly with his blade, keeping him back-
-slicing vertically upwards with his gladius as the human finished his swing, slashing through an imaginary arm, perhaps severing it, but either way sending that blade to the ground from useless fingers-
-sidestepping again, this time to his left, ax slashing sideways, lower, at the human's left leg-
-shattering a shin bone, bringing the screaming human down-
-backhanding the shield away from the cowering enemy with the backswing of his ax, leaving him open-
-cocking back his gladius and exploding it forwards, a lethal, final thrust with his gladius, jamming two feet of sharpened steel through the ribs, lungs, heart-
-twisting it, just as he was taught, opening the wound up further, tearing organs in two, releasing a fountain of blood-
-withdrawing and stepping away, leaving his enemy to topple and bleed out...
Razkar paced in a steady circle, breathing slightly heavier. Black eyes blinked and he half-expected (hoped?) to see an eviscerated human lying on the sands, further evidence of his skill. But his warrior... no, his soldier mentality took over, running through the drill... and it was satisfied.
Good. But it went your way too much. Swinging one is good enough, but you need coordination to wield two, and-
"It works better with an actual opponent, male."
His head snapped around and beheld a laconic, staring figure leaning against the archway from the Barracks. As it straightened and stepped forward, he could see it was female... a familiar female.
A pair of training swords in one hand, a training sword and an ax in the other. Intricate tattoo work covered much of her face, red and black, bringing out her fierce and ever-glowering eyes even better.
Razkar cocked his head to one side and sheathed his true weapons, hands flying up to snatch the wooden ax and gladius out of the air when she threw them without preamble.
"And a good morning to you, Erama..."
