30th Day of Spring, 511AV
The Training Yards
14th Bell
"Do you enjoy getting beaten up, is that it?" Oxil's words were muffled around the hunk of black bread but his rolling eyes and shaking head got the message across well enough. "I mean, gods, man, every time you step in there with her you end up with new lumps."
"I never hear you complaining."
Oxil's facade of disbelief fell for only a moment, then returned. Razkar suppressed a smile and took another bite of his lunch. Ah, the poor male. Pining after a female so bad that he let her pound him with sticks just to get close.
"That's different."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, 'oh'," the big man said with a grin, spreading thick arms and exposing a broad, bare barrel chest, "I can take 'em better than your scrawny arse..."
Razkar just grunted and finished his meal, flicking a glance at the massive weapon sitting next to his friend and fang-mate. Three feet of thick wood capped by a nail- and spike-studded metal head, even carrying it was a chore for Razkar. Not for Oxil, though; in fact, quite the opposite. The big male could wield it with something approaching precision... though when your weapon was quite capable of shattering shields and weapons alike, knock men off their feet and break bones through plate armor, who needed precision?
"Well, it stands," he said, standing to make his point and stepping away from the table. The mess hall was half-full of recruits, some from his fang, snatching away their half-bell for sustenance before returning to another day of trining. "I'm going. Wanna come watch?"
"Seen it before." Oxil said with a grunt, carefully masking his urge to see the fearsome warrior he longed for. "Maybe next time."
"Suit yourself..."
Razzakr made his way swiftly to the Training Yards, the orderly and comforting sounds of hundreds of Myrians training, sweating, learning and suffering surrounding him like a warm cloak. From the mess hall he could walk to the Yards blindfolded (and had, on a bet, once... well, almost all the way there. He still swore they put that wall in just the day before...).
That reassured him. The stones that built this place were centuries old, but they stood. Thousands upon thousands of Myrians had walked the flagstones his feet marched over, and countless more would in the future. As he passed under the main arch, he brushed his fingers over one of the many plaques commemorating great victories, valiant heroes, sterling examples of his race and profession.
Warriors. All of them. And this is where they were forged.
"Took yer time, didn't ya?"
Or, he thought wryly and he stepped blinking into the sun, made all the brighter by the sand it struck, where those who were born warriors just became more deadly. Like her.
Erama crammed the last of her sandwich into her mouth and stood, chewing inexorably through ham and bread and rose with her training gladii already in her hands. Next to her were his weapons: a wooden gladius and a matching hand ax, just like his own. He walked over and set down his real weapons, lifted the blunt ones... good... good balance.
"You always get the good stuff." He said with a smile, whipping the practice weapons through the air and delighting in the smooth rush of air that met his ears. "Never those rotting bloody things."
"Yeah, well, some things you should take time with."
Razkar rolled his eyes at her tone and shrugged. "Look, Oxil was with me, he'll tell you, I scarfed down my lunch and got moving."
"He's not coming? Thought he was permanently attached to your arse."
Razkar's smile flickered for a moment. "You're too hard on him, female."
Erama just snorted and Razkar felt a pang of sympathy for his lumbering friend. It just wasn't meant to be. Erama didn't like anyone too much, and Razkar suspected her tastes may have run to those sans penis, shall we say... but either way, Oxil was not in her equation.
"... shall we get to it?"
Erama's eyes lit up like they always did when tedious social matters and conversation were put aside, and she could focus on what she lived for: combat. She stepped away from him and raised both her weapons, swinging both in perfect concert and stopping them dead before her.
"Thought'd you'd never ask."
The Training Yards
14th Bell
"Do you enjoy getting beaten up, is that it?" Oxil's words were muffled around the hunk of black bread but his rolling eyes and shaking head got the message across well enough. "I mean, gods, man, every time you step in there with her you end up with new lumps."
"I never hear you complaining."
Oxil's facade of disbelief fell for only a moment, then returned. Razkar suppressed a smile and took another bite of his lunch. Ah, the poor male. Pining after a female so bad that he let her pound him with sticks just to get close.
"That's different."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, 'oh'," the big man said with a grin, spreading thick arms and exposing a broad, bare barrel chest, "I can take 'em better than your scrawny arse..."
Razkar just grunted and finished his meal, flicking a glance at the massive weapon sitting next to his friend and fang-mate. Three feet of thick wood capped by a nail- and spike-studded metal head, even carrying it was a chore for Razkar. Not for Oxil, though; in fact, quite the opposite. The big male could wield it with something approaching precision... though when your weapon was quite capable of shattering shields and weapons alike, knock men off their feet and break bones through plate armor, who needed precision?
"Well, it stands," he said, standing to make his point and stepping away from the table. The mess hall was half-full of recruits, some from his fang, snatching away their half-bell for sustenance before returning to another day of trining. "I'm going. Wanna come watch?"
"Seen it before." Oxil said with a grunt, carefully masking his urge to see the fearsome warrior he longed for. "Maybe next time."
"Suit yourself..."
Razzakr made his way swiftly to the Training Yards, the orderly and comforting sounds of hundreds of Myrians training, sweating, learning and suffering surrounding him like a warm cloak. From the mess hall he could walk to the Yards blindfolded (and had, on a bet, once... well, almost all the way there. He still swore they put that wall in just the day before...).
That reassured him. The stones that built this place were centuries old, but they stood. Thousands upon thousands of Myrians had walked the flagstones his feet marched over, and countless more would in the future. As he passed under the main arch, he brushed his fingers over one of the many plaques commemorating great victories, valiant heroes, sterling examples of his race and profession.
Warriors. All of them. And this is where they were forged.
"Took yer time, didn't ya?"
Or, he thought wryly and he stepped blinking into the sun, made all the brighter by the sand it struck, where those who were born warriors just became more deadly. Like her.
Erama crammed the last of her sandwich into her mouth and stood, chewing inexorably through ham and bread and rose with her training gladii already in her hands. Next to her were his weapons: a wooden gladius and a matching hand ax, just like his own. He walked over and set down his real weapons, lifted the blunt ones... good... good balance.
"You always get the good stuff." He said with a smile, whipping the practice weapons through the air and delighting in the smooth rush of air that met his ears. "Never those rotting bloody things."
"Yeah, well, some things you should take time with."
Razkar rolled his eyes at her tone and shrugged. "Look, Oxil was with me, he'll tell you, I scarfed down my lunch and got moving."
"He's not coming? Thought he was permanently attached to your arse."
Razkar's smile flickered for a moment. "You're too hard on him, female."
Erama just snorted and Razkar felt a pang of sympathy for his lumbering friend. It just wasn't meant to be. Erama didn't like anyone too much, and Razkar suspected her tastes may have run to those sans penis, shall we say... but either way, Oxil was not in her equation.
"... shall we get to it?"
Erama's eyes lit up like they always did when tedious social matters and conversation were put aside, and she could focus on what she lived for: combat. She stepped away from him and raised both her weapons, swinging both in perfect concert and stopping them dead before her.
"Thought'd you'd never ask."
