40th Day of Fall
The Wildlands
17th Bell
The Wildlands
17th Bell
"Somethin' not quite right with that..."
Cheeks stuffed with soup-dipped bread, Clarkie followed his older comrade's frown and decided the man had a point. Their Myrian commander was standing apart from from the rest of the sellswords, battering some enemy into submission in front of him... if "enemy" was the same as "fallen tree trunk", anyway. A few other mercenaries were watching the sight, wondering why the Myrian was smacking his knuckleduster-clad hands over over again into the tree trunk. Didn't he have a punch bag?
Razkar snarled to himself for the hundredth time that bell: "Fine idea, boy, giving away your punching bag..."
"Oi, Clarkie?" Ed said in that slow, sliding tone of one who needs to be convinced of what he's looking at. "You're seeing... that, as well, aren't you?"
"Y'mean the, ah... little difference at the end?"
"Yeah, I mean-"
CRACK!
"... that."
That, by the by, was the sound of a leather-wrapped fist hitting old, rotting wood... but to Clarkie's ears it sounded like an ax biting into a young, proud oak. One would think that the sight of seeing Razkar hammer his right fist into the trunk would reassure the young mercenary... but it did not.
Too fast. It's too fast, and that sound... the way it trembles...
The other sellswords of their company - those that weren't on the perimeter of the fresh camp, anyway - were watching now, exchanging low rumbles, even shaking their heads and wondering if it was their grog that was causing it.
Razkar knew better.
Every kata was the same. That was what "An Introduction To Flux" called the combination of blows he unleashed; or, more accurately, what the writers of the yellowed tome called it. The Myrian had finished his reading for one day, after making sure the caravan was set up... which didn't take long. Albrecht was a fine taskmaster, and once the pickets were set up, torches raised and rations prepared, his job was effectively done.
The Myrian had smiled as he'd opened the thick, heavy book. Not to mention the fact Edreina can handle most of the little details.
"Few amateur practitioners of The Flux will be lucky enough to direct the kind of power needed in that one, well-executed blow that will end a fight. The time needed to gesture or incant the djed into the right limb is simply too much to apply in the chaotic, fast-moving melee of a brawl. The speed needed to execute The Flux in a brawl is learned later in the training process.
However, it is possible to make a single djed-augmented blow the core or end of a kata. A "kata" is a series of blows, most often from either arms or legs, that have their own name or form. This allows them to be memorized and practiced easier, but of course, the practical application of them is what matters. Therefore, students are encouraged to develop their own katas, using what skills they have already learned.
Take heed: as has been said time and time before, this book is an introduction to The Flux. Not for master wielders nor lifelong users. The best advice I can give at this stage would be to look to your past and make your katas in the present. Striking past your abilities, and into the future, will bring unexpected and dire pain..."
However, it is possible to make a single djed-augmented blow the core or end of a kata. A "kata" is a series of blows, most often from either arms or legs, that have their own name or form. This allows them to be memorized and practiced easier, but of course, the practical application of them is what matters. Therefore, students are encouraged to develop their own katas, using what skills they have already learned.
Take heed: as has been said time and time before, this book is an introduction to The Flux. Not for master wielders nor lifelong users. The best advice I can give at this stage would be to look to your past and make your katas in the present. Striking past your abilities, and into the future, will bring unexpected and dire pain..."
Razkar had marked the page and found... something. Anything. That was when he first cursed himself for giving away his punching bag to that damned Akalak scholar! Just when he really needed one! A few chimes perusing, though, had turned up a gnarled and mossy tree trunk, long-fallen and forgotten, which he'd heaved up into a standing position.
It must have weighed twice what he did, and every punch he laid on it sent more ripples of impact through him than the tree.
The first two, anyway.
The Myrian developed it fairly quickly. He'd been brawling and scrapping since he could walk; he knew plenty, it was just... applying it correctly. So he'd taken a stance before the trunk, feet planted, knees bent, arms up-
-lashed out with his left hand, knuckles slamming into-
"Fuck!"
Knuckledusters. Definitely wearing the dusters...
Once that painful problem went away, Razkar could get into a rhythem. Two short jabs with his left arm; stinging, snapping blows that disoriented and rattled his "enemy's" skull, kept his guard up, his vision dancing, making way for-
-a bursting right cross, empowered by his right foot sliding forward, his upper body twisting, the real cap to the trio of punches. Over and over that crack-crack-CRACK! split out across the camp, until he'd got his rhythm, his timing... his wording...
Razkar paced... stared at the trunk with its missing patches of bark and crawling things fast-vacating their uprooted home, sweat dripping down his bare torso... still himself... closed his eyes for a moment and let himself feel that familiar tingle...
Yes. Easier every time.
Then Razkar tried again... but with words between his punches. At first it was harder; slowing his fists, or speeding his words, so everything flowed. His arm tingled and pulsed dully under his muscles.
Or, more accurately, what gave his muscles true life...
Razkar latched onto that thought as he launched into the final exercise. He put up his arms again, lips moving softly as he whispered, left fist lashing out-
"From my Body, Power-"
-and it smacked into the tree trunk, a dull whack! that shook him as much as it did the man-tall hunk of rotting wood-
-and as it snapped out again to hammer his protected knuckles into the impromptu target, roughly where the jaw would be, Razkar pulled back his right arm, inhaled deeply as he welled the his body's djed into his shoulder and bicep, feeling it swell without swelling, bulge without anything changing on his flesh-
"To my Fist, Strength-"
Then it exploded outward, a split-tick after his left fist jerked back, fierce and straight punch rippling with djed, almost pulling him forward as much as Razkar was throwing it out-
-muscles suddenly tight and straining, making the Myrian wince-
CRACK!
The tree trunk wobbled like an earthquake had broke out under it. Razkar felt the impact of his fist, the power of his djed, spread through the rotten heap in an instant-
-and his covered fist gouged out a like-sized chunk of it away. Before his jabs could do little more than dent it, gouge marks in it from the metal studs on his leather 'dusters. But now... now a chunk half the size of his head had been ripped out, knocked away...
"Bloody Nora..."
Razkar's black eyes snapped over to the mumbling, just in time to see Mann studiously observe the contents of his soup bowl. Seb just shook his head, hardly worried about the Myrian's wrath just because he was watching. If Razkar didn't intend for that, he would have done his training elsewhere.
Whatever the petch he's training in, anyway...
Then it hit him, a tick later, a dull ache that numbed first, making his right arm feel heavy and leaden... then the feeling of a hundred needles pricking him as he tried to move it, nerve endings sending blossoms of fire up and down his muscles...
"Always... a price..."
He muttered to himself and walked it off, flexing and stretching his arm as much as he dared. A few chimes... yes, that was all it took now... for his arm to return to normal; part of him again, not feeling separate and amputated.
Anyway, he thought as he took up his stance again, much easier to deal with than-
You put nice descriptions on both Flux and Shielding.
