[Training] Heart and Soul (Solo)

[John Griffin]

28th of Summer, 510 AV

Sunset Falls

Sunset Falls :

Famous for its almost two thousand foot drop off the highest of the Cobalt Moutains - Avitar - the Sunset Falls seems to catch Siona's light as she drops from the daytime sky and flames with a beauty that is unparalleled. Considered a simple sight-seeing destination, to most falls hold no religious or spiritual meaning - but their sheer beauty does drive people to often picnic at its base or hold special ceremonies such as weddings. However for some, the falls whisper in a voice that is almost sentient. Winds play at its base, caressing the water, and sometimes jewel-like creatures are reported being seen in its plunge pool which is the lowland origin of the river Avitar - named for the mountain its headwaters come from. The Sunset Falls are approximately a single days ride from Syliras to the northeast.

John loved the falls. He always had. It reminded him of better times. One of his first memories was coming here with his parents. It was his only vivid memory of his mother, for she had passed shortly afterwards. His father had brought him to the falls several times in the following years, though never again after Robert had been injured. The journey was too much for the old man, as he had a hard enough time making it around the city. The last time John had been here he was fifteen. His patron, Syliran Knight William Erindale had let his father take him for a few days, and the father-son duo had walked to the falls, a two day journey, speaking of all manner of things; swordsmanship, chivalry, horsemanship, politics, language, culture, and a dozen other subjects. That trip was the fondest of John's memories. He and his father had spent three days at the falls, swimming, running and talking. But mostly Robert tutored John in the use of a longsword.

It was the longsword that brought him back to the falls. About ten days back he had thought of that trip four years ago, and dwelt on the memories of it for several days before deciding to make the trek again. So here he was, at the falls once more. He had walked for two days by himself, passing and chatting with the occasional traveler. At times he would pick up the pace and run for a mile or two before slowing back to his normal gait. It helped pass the time, and running was a great way to build his fitness level.

John had left his shield and armor back in Syliras. Today was for the sword, and the sword only. His backpack carried only food, and he brought only the clothes he wore on the first day.

Now John stood on a rock near the plunge pool, stripped to the waist. He wore a belt, pants and boots, and held the naked blade of his longsword in both hands.

The longsword. The heart and soul of a knight. Often wielded with a single hand, though designed to be held in both. Trying to keep his feet anchored, he slashed the sword this way and that, trying to put as much speed, strength and precision into each strike as he could possibly muster. Today he would become one with his blade, if naught but for a few short moments of clarity. John picked up speed, thrusting and slashing, chopping and slicing, twisting this way and that, pushing his balance to the limit. Thrice he almost fell from his precarious perch, but thrice he managed to stay atop the damp rock.

He brought the sword up into the high guard and held it there, the muscles in his arms like a coiled snake, ready to strike. John took a deep breath in, counted to five, then exhaled as he struck, a vicious downward slice from the right. The kind of attack that, if unaffected, would likely shear from shoulder to sternum on an unarmored man's body. He took a step on the rock and brought the sword back up to the high guard. Another breath. Another exhale and strike, this time from the left. A breath. The young knight thrust without stepping, using his core muscles to transfer speed and power to the blow. Stepping takes the power from you strike. Use your center to feed strength into the blow. All swordsmanship, all combat comes from the center, he thought, the lessons of his father and mentor practically echoing in his head. A faint smile played on his face. He was a student then, and he was a student now. Ever a student of the sword.

The smile was gone, replaced with the cold focus of a professional soldier, the hardy dedication of a determined knight.

[John Griffin]

Several beads of sweat dripped into his eyes, and he blinked them away. Once he would have released one hand from his sword and wiped them off. No longer would he let go of the blade for sweat. He had practiced with sweat in his eyes before, and would continue to do so. It could mean life or death in actual combat. John stood on the rock, his blade extended forward at the end of the thrust. He stood there like the rock he was on, his muscles tense. For a whole minute he did not move, his arms struggling to keep their position, the fiery burning of strenuous activity steadily building in them. They began to shake.

With a yell he brought the sword back in, crouched down on the rock, and leaped off, bringing the sword high. He brought it down it a chop just before his feet hit the ground. A good thing, too, because the wet dirt gave way to his weight, and he lost his balance. Go with the flow, you won't alway be able to keep your feet in a fight, John thought. He used one hand to catch himself from falling forward, and used it to help him launch forward, his blade trailing behind. Bringing the free hand back to the hilt, he swung the sword in a downward arc, bringing it up where the knee of an opponent would be. The knight followed through with his swing, lifting the sword high over his left shoulder.

John twisted his head back the other direction, imagining another opponent approaching. He brought his back leg around to the front and proceeded to engage the imaginary enemy. Chop, parry, thrust, dodge, thrust, dodge, slice, parry, riposte. He continued on against his equally skilled enemy. Finally there was an opening. He parried the imaginary blade high and dropped low, taking off the leg of the opponent. With little more thought of his pretend vanquished foe, he moved over to his pack and snatched up his scabbard.

John sheathed his sword and held it in his left hand, just above the crosspiece. Time for a jog. He was no great runner, so he set off at a light pace, consciously keeping his breath steady and even.

[John Griffin]

In. Out. In. Out. Keep the breathing steady, inhale on the left foot, exhale on the left foot, inhale on the left foot, exhale on the left foot. Its just a pattern, keep it going. In. Out. In. Out.

John jogged along, keeping his pace slow but continuous, matching his breathing with his steps. His left arm had grown tired from carrying the sword, and he had switched it to his right, which had in turn gotten tired, and now he again carried the sheathed blade in his left. The young knight trudged along, sweat beading down his face, a solid layer of it coating the rest of his body.

John was going slow, but neither was he running on a beaten path. His jog took him over rocks, climbing some and leaping over others, through bushes, and around trees. He changed directions frequently, twisting this way and that, working on his footing. Several times he did so and fell to the ground, mud giving way under his boots. With only the sounds of his breath being knocked from his body he pushed himself back up and continued to run, not bothering to wipe the mud from his body. The cool damp earth was pleasant. It actually feels kind of nice, he thought.

Mud slagged off his body as he continued to jog. It had been about ten minutes, so John made his way back to the falls, his pace slowing somewhat. He jumped back onto the original rock and discarded the scabbard to the ground, bringing the blade up in front of him. It made a whistling sound as it cut the air on its way up.

John held the sword there, vertical, its blade a few inches from his face. He gazed at his reflection in the metal, and listened to the sound of nature. He could feel his heart beating fast.

[John Griffin]

John just stood there, staring at his sword. He could see the remnants of various nicks that had been smoothed out by a whetstone. Common as it was, this blade had seen a lot of action, and had served his family for generations. His great grandfather James had the blade commissioned when his son, John's grandfather, Thomas was knighted. Thomas' brother Simon had borrowed the blade when his own had been lost at sea, and had used the sword during the fight in which he lost his life. After Simon's death Thomas had little desire to use the sword, but neither did he wish to be rid of it. He kept the blade around, taking care of it, but never wielding it. When his own eldest son, Robert, became a squire it was given to him. John's father used the blade for thirty four years, until he received a crippling wound in battle. Now the sword served John, given to him by his father at his knighting ceremony. He reflected on the history of the blade, listening to the roar of the falls.

The falls. Water. His father had taught him to be like water. Fluid and flowing, able to give way in one instance, and rush on with overwhelming power the next. That was how he was supposed to fight. Take the path of least resistance. Instead of trying to batter his way through an opponent's shield, he preferred to avoid it, angling his attacks to come over or under. At least, that was the theory. In reality he wasn't quite the swordsman yet. Sure, John could fight, but only just barely. That was why he was here.

His purpose for being at the falls fresh in his mind, John sprang back into action. His sword sang as it came low and high. He imagined his opponent, blade and shield in hand. The young knight imagined that his enemy's shield was a rock, jutting from the torrent that was his own offensive. The rock repelled all water, and all attacks. For victory he had to brush past the rock. Make contact sometimes, but never head on.

His blade chopped high and cut low. From time to time he would duck down and sweep at imaginary legs, or hop up and thrust down over the top of an imaginary shield, into a face that did not exist.

His feet slipped and he fell into the water.

John cursed in an unknightly manner, holding the blade out of the water as best he could. Pushing off from the surface, he made his way out of the pool and picked up his discarded scabbard, thrusting his blade into it. The water had felt quite nice, and a change of pace would be welcomed. Besides, I can barely swim. Might as well paddle around a bit.

John set his blade propped up on the rock, ready to be grabbed in an emergency, and plunged back into the pool, floundering around like a cat in water. He did a lot of splashing, but not very much swimming. Mostly John just kicked off the bottom, getting used to the idea of being in a body of water that wasn't the baths back in Syliras.

[John Griffin]

The water was cool and refreshing, even better than the mud which it cleaned off his body. He pulled his head under and tried to hold his breath as long as he could...which wasn't very long. Thrusting off the bottom of the pool he gasped for air when he broke the surface. That was enough of the water for him. It was a nice chance of pace, but he had come here because of the sword, not to swim.

John made his way out of the pool, wringing out his hair as he did so. His clothes now wet, and his boots soaked, he took several minutes to gather some wood and try to start a fire with a rock and his sword. He failed horribly. Unable to make a flame, he made due with stripping down naked and laying his pants and boots out on the large rock, to dry of in the sun.

The nudity felt quite refreshing, and John picked up his sword again, clearing it from the scabbard. Wearing nothing more than a determined look, he set upon imaginary enemies once more. This time he put more detail to them in his mind. They were the soldiers of Ravok, in a campaign against Syliras. They came at him in vast numbers, hooting and hollering, brandishing crude weapons. With a certain amount of grace and agility he dispatched each one in turn, slicing low and high, around their defenses. His arms burned for more oxygen, his lungs inhaled and exhaled laboriously, but John continued on. For an hour he pushed himself to the limit before collapsing in the mud. He weakly made his way back to the rock, and set his sword upon it. Then he just laid there, soaking in the rays of the sun, and enjoying the respite and the gentle coolness of mud.

Today had been a good day.

[Leviathan]

Thread Award! John Griffin Exp +3 Weapon (Longsword), +1 Running, +1 Observation, +1 Swimming Lore Maintaining Balance, Training Cycle: Swordplay, Running, Swimming Additional Comments Enjoyable read, as always from you. If you have any questions or comments about the grading or anything, feel free to PM me and we can discuss and find a suitable solution if there is a problem. Keep up the good work!