53rd Day of Spring, 514 AV
Tock.
Tock.
Tock.
"Alright lad, stop there. Time for a break." Crowe called out to his squire, who had been practicing a basic thrust with the quarterstaff. Bitt sighed in relief, exhaling slowly as he stepped out of his stance. He closed his eyes and took several long, deep breaths, still holding his weapon parallel to the ground. It was a warm day, a prelude of what was to come when Summer rolled around. He was sweating, but he didn't blame this on the heat; he'd have been sweating regardless, he knew. Bitt snapped open his eyes and started walking towards his patron, who had been monitoring his training from the side. He used the quarterstaff as a makeshift walking stick, holding it with his right hand. Crowe had instructed him to use his weapon as a tool, and a tool could be used for many useful things.
To use something for the sole purpose of causing harm would be rather depressing, lad, don't you think?
Bitt remembered his patron's words fondly. It was an odd sentiment, but one the young squire found himself completely agreeing with. A bead of sweat dripped from the tip of his nose, and Bitt pulled a tattered rag from his belt, wiping it across his face and through his-
... my hair.
Shortly after Crowe had started teaching Bitt the finer points of combat, the older knight insisted he get his hair cut. It would get in the way. It would block his vision. It could be grabbed onto in a fight. While initially reluctant, Bitt eventually bowed before the wisdom behind his patron's words. The cut itself is not what bothered him. What bothered him was that it was Crowe who had done the cutting. Using nothing but a long, sharp knife, the older knight had butchered Bitt's hair. He'd gotten the job done, and Bitt's hair was now only about two-inches-long on average, but it was a ragged mess. Bitt doubted anyone would need much convincing if he told them how it had been cut. A small frown crossed his lips at the memory.
"Alright lad, I think you've more or less gotten the hang of striking a stationary target, don't you think?" Bitt ignored the gibe behind his patron's words and simply nodded.
"Yes, Ser Crowe."
"Good to hear, lad. In that case, I think it's time we tried sparring again."
"Yes, Ser Crowe." Bitt had come to realise that the 'sparring' matches against his patron could hardly be described as such. It was just Crowe's way of teaching him a new technique: by using it against him. Bitt liked the method. It was very personal, and he decided that being at the mercy of a technique made you really appreciate its necessity.
All in all, a very motivational teacher, Crowe is. Even as the thought passed through his mind, it didn't sound quite right. Bitt smiled all the same.
"You've got five chimes to catch your breath, lad. It might not be enough to fully recover, but since I'm so old I'd say the entire thing balances out, wouldn't you say?"
"Yes, Ser Crowe." Bitt turned towards a nearby water barrel, and his smile had become a grin.
I might have been wrong in calling him motivational, but he's definitely something.
Bitt and Crowe stood several feet apart, both wielding a quarterstaff, and both in low-guard: a basic fighting stance.
"Alright lad, when you're ready." Crowe gave the signal to start, and Bitt pushed himself onto the balls of his feet. His breathing was coming slow and steady, a deep inhalation through the nose, followed by a deep exhalation through the mouth. A surge of anticipation flooded the young squire's system. He was excited.
Well, that's new.
In the few times Bitt had fought in the past, he had felt many things. Fear, usually. This was the first time he was actually excited to fight. The feeling, while unsettling, was filed away; he would reflect on it later. The young squire tightened the grip on his staff, sprung forward, and aimed a powerful thrust towards his patron's chest that had the power of his entire body behind it.
Tock.
Tock.
"Alright lad, stop there. Time for a break." Crowe called out to his squire, who had been practicing a basic thrust with the quarterstaff. Bitt sighed in relief, exhaling slowly as he stepped out of his stance. He closed his eyes and took several long, deep breaths, still holding his weapon parallel to the ground. It was a warm day, a prelude of what was to come when Summer rolled around. He was sweating, but he didn't blame this on the heat; he'd have been sweating regardless, he knew. Bitt snapped open his eyes and started walking towards his patron, who had been monitoring his training from the side. He used the quarterstaff as a makeshift walking stick, holding it with his right hand. Crowe had instructed him to use his weapon as a tool, and a tool could be used for many useful things.
To use something for the sole purpose of causing harm would be rather depressing, lad, don't you think?
Bitt remembered his patron's words fondly. It was an odd sentiment, but one the young squire found himself completely agreeing with. A bead of sweat dripped from the tip of his nose, and Bitt pulled a tattered rag from his belt, wiping it across his face and through his-
... my hair.
Shortly after Crowe had started teaching Bitt the finer points of combat, the older knight insisted he get his hair cut. It would get in the way. It would block his vision. It could be grabbed onto in a fight. While initially reluctant, Bitt eventually bowed before the wisdom behind his patron's words. The cut itself is not what bothered him. What bothered him was that it was Crowe who had done the cutting. Using nothing but a long, sharp knife, the older knight had butchered Bitt's hair. He'd gotten the job done, and Bitt's hair was now only about two-inches-long on average, but it was a ragged mess. Bitt doubted anyone would need much convincing if he told them how it had been cut. A small frown crossed his lips at the memory.
"Alright lad, I think you've more or less gotten the hang of striking a stationary target, don't you think?" Bitt ignored the gibe behind his patron's words and simply nodded.
"Yes, Ser Crowe."
"Good to hear, lad. In that case, I think it's time we tried sparring again."
"Yes, Ser Crowe." Bitt had come to realise that the 'sparring' matches against his patron could hardly be described as such. It was just Crowe's way of teaching him a new technique: by using it against him. Bitt liked the method. It was very personal, and he decided that being at the mercy of a technique made you really appreciate its necessity.
All in all, a very motivational teacher, Crowe is. Even as the thought passed through his mind, it didn't sound quite right. Bitt smiled all the same.
"You've got five chimes to catch your breath, lad. It might not be enough to fully recover, but since I'm so old I'd say the entire thing balances out, wouldn't you say?"
"Yes, Ser Crowe." Bitt turned towards a nearby water barrel, and his smile had become a grin.
I might have been wrong in calling him motivational, but he's definitely something.
Bitt and Crowe stood several feet apart, both wielding a quarterstaff, and both in low-guard: a basic fighting stance.
"Alright lad, when you're ready." Crowe gave the signal to start, and Bitt pushed himself onto the balls of his feet. His breathing was coming slow and steady, a deep inhalation through the nose, followed by a deep exhalation through the mouth. A surge of anticipation flooded the young squire's system. He was excited.
Well, that's new.
In the few times Bitt had fought in the past, he had felt many things. Fear, usually. This was the first time he was actually excited to fight. The feeling, while unsettling, was filed away; he would reflect on it later. The young squire tightened the grip on his staff, sprung forward, and aimed a powerful thrust towards his patron's chest that had the power of his entire body behind it.
