A Broader Understanding

by **Zhol** on March 26th, 2015, 7:47 am

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..61st Spring, 515

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"I miss her already."

There was something weak and dejected in Zhol's voice as he admitted that; and yet it was undeniably true. It had been less than half a bell since he had walked Khara to the Sanikas Gates, wished her well on her day's scouting, and kissed her goodbye; and yet it already felt as if she had been gone for a thousand years. He always missed her, but lately it had grown worse: he missed her like an absent limb; he missed her like a gaping hole in his chest where his heart was meant to be. When he was with her, he felt whole; but every time she left it felt as if part of him went with her, and as if some thread of connection and union between them was being stretched to the absolute limit.

A sputter of noise escaped from Solo. "Yeah, yeah," he muttered, fumbling with the buckle that would adjust the bridle's throat latch to fit Solo more comfortably. "I know, friend. You don't really give a shyke."

An indignant whinny and a stamp of Solo's foot came in reply, as if the horse was somehow outraged by Zhol's assertion. The horse boy chuckled to himself, rubbing a soothing hand up and down the side of Solo's neck. "Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot that the prospect of becoming a big brother had made you sappy and sensitive."

Solo seemed to agree with that, at least, more snorted breaths blown between his lips as he stood still enough for Zhol to continue with his work. Zhol's attention shifted to the saddle, heaving it up from the edge of the stall and carefully positioning it on top of the saddle blanket that he had already put in place. A few wriggles of the reinforced leather construct and it settled into place; he ducked, reaching through Solo's stride for the girth straps, carefully securing the saddle in place.

"She's fine, by the way," he added, referring to Solo's pregnant mother. "She won't start to show for a while longer yet; her appetite is a little bigger than usual, but that's to be expected. She's in good health, and that means your little brother or sister probably will be too."

To an outsider, it probably seemed odd that Zhol was talking to a horse; possibly borderline insane. Zhol didn't care. Back in Endrykas, horses had been afforded a certain level of respect and kinship. Striders were part of the family; and you didn't ignore family, didn't treat it like some lowly farm animal. True, the horses in Wind Reach weren't quite as intelligent and special as Striders; but Zhol treated them as if they were. The Inarta treated anything without feathers with more or less the same disdain; Zhol refused to endorse any kind of mentality that insisted he think of horses as being equal to a goat or a llama. The Inarta might have thought of wind eagles as Endals, and other birds as Avora; but Zhol was determined to see his horses - his friends - treated as Chiet rather than Dek. A futile ambition perhaps; but in all other ways his life in Wind Reach was pretty much perfect, and right now that ambition was one of the only things that stopped him from remaining in bed each morning, and refusing to let Khara leave either.

Zhol unbuckled the stirrup strap, and used his fingers to measure out how long to let them extend before he secured them back in place. It wasn't a precise system, but it was precise enough; Zhol had grown comfortable enough with riding using a saddle that he knew more or less exactly what lengths of rein and height of stirrup was most comfortable for him. Satisfied with his efforts on both sides of Solo, he set about tugging gently but insistently on each strap and fitting, making sure the tack was firm and secure. His thoughts strayed to the riding mishap of the summer before, when his over-eager efforts had dislodged him from the saddle completely; his shoulder let out a twinge of pain to remind him that it had no desire to incur such injuries again.

"Come on, friend," he muttered, swinging open the gate of Solo's stall, and leading the colt - no, stallion; this was Solo's fourth year now, which warranted the more adult affectation - out into the stables. A practised nudge, and the gate swung closed with a satisfying clunk. Zhol glanced in the direction of the entrance, and the sunlight beyond; it was hardly far, he could easily walk that distance with Solo in tow, and yet his body protested - too many aches from his encounters with Endals and beasts and all manner of things these past days. With a glance around to be sure that no one was watching, he slid a foot into the stirrup and vaulted, swinging his leg over Solo's body with so much ease that it seemed effortless. It took a moment for his other foot to find it's place in the other stirrup, and with a gentle kick he spurred Solo into motion, a casual strolling pace towards the looming day.

As Zhol and Solo reached the open doors that led from the stables to the outside, Zhol leaned over just enough to retrieve his hat, hung from a convenient protrusion on the sturdy doors. While Zhol had bought it with the intent of shielding himself from the rain and the wind - hats were far less inclined to billow and blow backwards than cloak hoods were - he'd learned that the wide brim could prove quite useful in defending his eyes against Syna's piercing early morning rays. His hand tugged at the chord that slung a strangely bundled rolled-up blanket across his back, checking that the weight was still there and, with a reflexive touch of his hip that confirmed his sword was still hung at his waist as well, he tugged gently on Solo's reins, steered him in the right direction, and with a kick of his heels and a jeer of encouragement, spurred Solo into swift motion down the Sanikas Road.

by **Zhol** on April 11th, 2015, 10:48 pm

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Solo rocking slowly beneath him, Zhol's eyes swept across the horizon, paying little attention to the Sanikas Road; Solo knew the way, and was smart enough not to leap off any cliffs or scamper down pitfalls just because his rider was distracted.

It wasn't the scenery that caught his attention though, not the edges of the valley, or the mountainous terrain that loomed above; it was the sky, and the clouds that loitered there. Zhol didn't know all that much about the different kinds of cloud, but he knew that storm clouds were dark and angry; his suspicious gaze scanned the sky for any remnants of those that had plagued the city in previous days, not entirely convinced that Zulrav was done assaulting Kalea just yet.

It was his gut rather than his moderate wisdom that suggested as much. There had been many storms in Wind Reach - and in Zhol's life in particular - thus far this season: roads beset by beasts; Yasi vanishing without a trace; being stranded in the wilderness; the clash with the Endal that still ached every time Zhol did anything foolish, like moving. There had been so much joy as well, so much transformation in his life now that Khara was an inseparable part of it; he wondered if perhaps this was some divine compensation, either from jealous gods seeking to diminish his happiness, or from pragmatic ones trying to ensure that such incredible highs were balanced with equivalent lows. Either way, Zhol refused to let it drag him down; that didn't mean he planned to stop being vigilant, though.

He frowned a little at that notion. He had always thought of himself as too insignificant, too far beneath the attention of the gods to earn either their blessings or their wrath, and yet that had slowly begun to change this past season. He knew for a fact that it was possible for him to earn the attention of at least one god, and he had been told that attracting the attention of another was in his blood, terrifying a realisation as that might be. It made his stomach twist to think of it; true, he was still one of a multitude, and still unworthy of divine scrutiny, but life had felt so much simpler when he was absolutely sure that he was beyond their notice entirely.

It shouldn't have made him feel different, but it did. His clash with the Endal shouldn't have affected things either, but it did. Everything felt different now, as if the world were a river that he lacked the strength to swim against. There was so little control left; so little agency. That was why he was here today, riding down the Sanikas Road instead of shooting targets in the supposed safety of Wind Reach. His quest to become anything but terrible with a bow was all well and good; but that was part of the river too, a current pulling him towards becoming more like an Inarta. A short ride down the Sanikas Road was something else though; improving is sword skills at the Greco Hut was his choice, and if the river didn't like it, he had some choice words about fornicating with itself.

He kicked his heels into Solo's sides, spurring the horse to move a little faster. "Come on, friend," he urged. "We haven't got all day."

by **Zhol** on April 12th, 2015, 3:56 pm

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Zhol pulled back on the reins as the Greco Hut came into view; Solo didn't seem to need the signal though, slowing from his canter into a trot and then a walk almost on instinct. Zhol steered the way off the paved road, leaning back as they descended the short slope onto the stretch of grass that lay before the swordmaster's house. He could feel the change in surface through the saddle, the way that Solo's hooves sank into the sodden ground, leaving a trail of prints as Zhol steered towards the tree he always used as a hitching post. Just because the storm had disappeared from the sky didn't mean that the ramifications hadn't left their residue on the landscape; that seemed true of the figurative storms that Zhol had contended with lately as well.

There was something a little off about Solo's posture and movements as he trudged across the damp ground though, almost a slump in his shoulders as he drew to a halt. Zhol leaned forward, patting a hand against Solo's neck before slipping himself out of the stirrups and sliding to the ground, his boots squelching unpleasantly against the wet grass. "You know how this works, friend," Zhol said, as he hitched Solo's tack to the tree. Carefully he rummaged through the saddlebags, tugging out a thick warm blanket to drape over the horse and help stave off the spring chill. "Exercise for you, and then training for me. Fair is fair. You think the ride down here is entirely comfortable for me?"

He patted his buttocks for emphasis; Solo let out an indignant stutter in reply, turning his head away from Zhol in protest. The horse boy threw up his hands in protest and sighed, liberating his training sword from where it had been stored and tucking it under his arm, his fingers subconsciously brushing across the real sword that also hung from his belt. It saddened him slightly that he wore the weapon so often, but the last few seasons had proven that Wind Reach presented far too many opportunities for him to need to defend himself. Being armed wasn't quite the deterrent he hoped it would be; but at least it left him better prepared to deal with the undeterred when they tried to cause trouble.

He let out another sigh, a parting pat deposited against Solo's neck. "Won't be long," he muttered, before turning away, and trudging the last few yards towards Archeron Greco's door.

by **Zhol** on April 12th, 2015, 7:33 pm

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"Defend yourself!"

By the time Zhol's mind processed what the Nari shout had meant, it was too late for the warning to do him any good. It was the sight of the broad-shouldered man charging towards him that spurred him into action. Perhaps it was lucky that the training sword was tucked under his arm, and his reflexes chose to draw that weapon instead of his broadsword; perhaps it made little difference either way, bearing in mind who his attacker was.

Zhol's sword clattered against the wooden staff that swung towards his head, barely catching it before it cracked across his cheek. The force of the impact was more than his muscles could handle; even as he pushed forward the attack pushed him back, throwing his shoulder into the wooden door that he wasn't even finished closing behind him. The latch clicked, and Zhol finally found himself with something to gain purchase again; he planted his foot at the base of the door, and with his right hand braced behind his left wrist to bolster his arm's strength, he pushed back with everything he could muster, levering himself and his attacker away from the door and back into the room.

Archeron allowed Zhol's retaliation to nudge him backwards, adding a few voluntary paces of his own to widen the gap between him, before swinging the staff around in a wide arc to attack Zhol once more. Better prepared this time, Zhol countered with a quick parry across his body, abating the staff's swing just enough to let him hop backwards and clear it's striking arc. Archeron converted the staff's motion into a jab, but Zhol added another step of retreat, before painting a broad circle with his sword as it swept up and over, crashing against the staff to encourage it to continue it's original arc. It wasn't flashy, it wasn't precise, but it did lurch the staff in a direction that Archeron was not braced against. It did nothing to his balance, but it did force a small chuckle from the Syliran's lungs.

"A little sluggish," Archeron commented, a ponderous, musing drawl in his words, "But ultimately effective, I suppose."

The swordmaster retreated from his combat stance, planting the foot of the staff against the ground beside him, and Zhol allowed himself to relax, taking a moment to catch his breath. "Sluggish?" he asked, not familiar with that expression. He knew of the creature, and he knew that some fighting styles were often likened to particular animals, but couldn't quite fathom what a slug's fighting style might be.

"Your reactions," Archeron explained, nodding his head towards the door. "Your reflexes. You responded slowly - sluggishly - but your mind did arrive at where it needed to eventually; and that, I suppose, is a start."

Zhol felt his eyebrow arch, the indignant scepticism finding it's way into his voice. "I wasn't expecting to be attacked the moment I walked through the door," he muttered.

"Precisely," Archeron agreed, with a knowing look.

Zhol almost protested, but he knew better than that. He almost uttered something about Archeron lying in wait to ambush all of his visitors, but he knew better than that as well; a quick glance confirmed that there was no one here, and the Greco Hut was not so fortified that he would not have heard the hoofsteps as Zhol made his way down the road.

"My first lesson of the day, then?" Zhol grunted. "That I should fear for my life every time I enter a room?"

"You have done more foolish things," Archeron countered, with an edge in his voice that wasn't harsh, and yet insisted that Zhol bring an end to his protests and excuses. "From what I here, you have made something of a habit of walking blindly into danger of late, with little in the way of forethought." Zhol's mouth opened as if he was about to protest again, but Archeron raised a hand to preemptively silence him. "After stepping through that door, you were more focused on shutting out the cold than you were in taking notice of what lay before you. Had you looked as you entered, you would have seen me immediately, and there would have been no element of surprise for me to exploit. You need to be mindful of your surroundings, and of the consequences for what you do. Think ahead, not just in the moment. How can you expect to protect your game scout friend if you cannot protect yourself?"

Zhol tugged a little at the scarf wrapped around his neck, fidgeting mostly to disguise the fact that he was bristling at Archeron's comments, both in protest and at the realisation that they were probably a lot more true than Zhol was willing to admit. "And so you thought you'd teach me a lesson as soon as I walked through the door?" Zhol shot back, though most of the petulance had faded, leaving his voice sounding mostly hollow.

"That is why you are here, is it not?" Archeron countered, with a knowing smile.

by **Zhol** on April 12th, 2015, 8:46 pm

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"This is ridiculous," Zhol muttered, the ending of the word turning into a grunt as he swung his training sword through the air. It was a pattern that Archeron had instructed him to repeat: a blow to the shoulder, a blow to the side, pull back, and a thrust to the heart. Each movement was paired with a foot forward, and then back. The sequence repeated over and over, training sword slashing through nothing but thin air. Zhol's muscles and tendons ached, still not quite recovered from his run-in with the Endal; and the repetitive monotony was beginning to grate against his nerves as well.

"Is it now?" Archeron countered, pacing infuriatingly back and forth, showing up in Zhol's peripheral vision every now and again to add distraction to irritation. "I will be sure to pass that along. Generations of swordsmen will be relieved to have had their practices corrected by a know-it-all horse boy."

Zhol seethed quietly, wondering if Archeron would notice if he began to imagine the swordsman as his target instead of the blacksmith that Zhol usually drew upon as the focus for his ire. A barked order of "Change!" ripped through Zhol's thoughts, and he complied. Instead of strikes to the shoulder and side, he stepped forward and slashed across his body, stepped forward again as he slashed back, then a step backwards to pull back, and forwards into a thrust. Again it cycled, Zhol slowly advancing his way across the Greco Hut a few steps at a time.

"I'm supposed to be learning how to fight people," Zhol griped through clenched teeth, "Not my imagination and thin air."

Archeron sighed, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as he turned away from his unsatisfied student for a moment. A breath was taken to marshal his patience, and then he turned back, posing a tirade of questions all at once. "When you place a saddle on your horse, do you think about where to put it, or do your hands just know? When you climb onto it's back, are you careful as you place your foot into the stirrups, or is it instinct? When you take your game scout's hand in yours, do you fumble for it, or do your fingers find hers without the slightest hesitation?"

There wasn't a pause for Zhol to respond; he scowled a little at the wall that was steadily looming closer, not willing to admit that there was even a shadow of truth in Archeron's words. The swordmaster didn't need Zhol to concede that point though, launching back into speech after the briefest of pauses. "Your body remembers. More importantly, your body remembers faster than your mind is able. When you strike with a sword, or when you parry, the few moments it takes your sluggish mind to respond can be fatal. We must teach your muscles to remember how to react without your input. There is no point learning how to win a fight until you are capable of surviving one."

More anger, more irritation, more frustration at not being able to hit anything physical; it only became worse when Archeron commanded him to stop. Zhol's arms fell instantly to his sides, shoulders rising and falling with each enthusiastic breath that was dragged into his lungs. "I survive just fine," Zhol muttered under his breath, not intending for the instructor to hear. Archeron's spear jabbed into his ribs, aggravating one of Zhol's many scruffs and bruises; a few choice Pavi curse words tumbled out of his lips.

"Do you, now?" Archeron muttered, scathingly. "Strange. What I heard was that if you were to take off that shirt of yours, I would find more bruise than man lurking underneath."

Zhol glowered at him darkly. "It was an Endal," he pointed out. What difference would it make how well he could fight, how instinctive his reactions were? It hadn't been a fight, hadn't been a duel; it was a beating, a matter of discipline and not combat. Archeron himself would have fared no better than he.

"An Endal you provoked," Archeron countered, "Because you leapt before you looked." He held up a hand to forestall any protest, disagreement, or excuses, a little of the gruffness fading from his expression. "In your place I might have done the same," he conceded; "The women whom we love do not always allow us the clearest of thought; but no matter how justified and righteous the battles you choose to fight, it is a foolish waste of blood and suffering if you do not fight them well."

Archeron let those words linger, watching as Zhol's shoulders sagged, the weight of what he had said settling onto the horse boy. He waited a few moments more, letting Zhol's anger fade just a little, before his tone snapped back to what it had been before. "Now, turn yourself around, and begin again."

by **Zhol** on April 12th, 2015, 10:30 pm

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At least Zhol had something to hit now; that was an improvement, he supposed. He even had the opportunity to hit Archeron, which should have been a prospect that left him overjoyed - a chance to strike at the source of today's infuriation - but even that had resulted only in disappointment. No matter what he tried, the swordsmaster was utterly untouchable, and he parried and evaded Zhol's efforts with such ease that Zhol might as well have been a fly attacking a bear.

It didn't help that Archeron's sword was all wrong, either. It was a perfectly good longsword, granted, and Zhol had seen plenty of those before in Endrykas. He hadn't seen a single person using one in Wind Reach though, and that was the problem. Swords weren't all the same. Swords weren't interchangeable. Talon swords were single edged and curved; the Inarta attacked you with them in a particular way, and there was a particular way to defend against them. Know your enemy - wasn't that the sort of wisdom that Archeron was always waxing on about? He needed to learn to defend himself, to defend Khara, against the kinds of threats that lurked in Wind Reach. Archeron batting his attempted strikes aside as if they were nothing was the complete opposite of helping.

Zhol commenced another assault, aggressively hacking at Archeron's blade, trying to fling it this way and that. The more Zhol's blade clashed against the swordmaster's, the fewer opportunities Archeron would have to strike on his own; that was Zhol's logic, at least. He took advantage of his backwards-handed nature as best he could, keeping himself inside the reach of Archeron's sword, keeping the blade occupied and limiting it's range of movement while leaving the swordmaster's entire body exposed. If only he had another sword; if only there was another blade he could drive into Archeron's gut -

A low parry, blocking an attempt by Archeron to slash at Zhol's legs, yielded an unexpected reaction; Archeron's arm swung wide, the slenderest window of opportunity opened for Zhol to act. He lunged forward, driving the point of his sword towards Archeron's shoulder; a moment later he realised his mistake, as Archeron's arm lifted over Zhol's blade, and clubbed the horse boy across the side of the head.

Zhol hissed in pain, recoiling and retreating away, the back of his wrist pressed against his cheek and ear, searching for anything that felt as if it was bleeding. The skin hadn't been broken though; just another bruise to add to his collection. "Petch," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head slightly to try and dislodge a little of the dazed confusion.

"You did it again," Archeron announced, voice laced with all the disappointment he could muster. "You acted without thinking, and left yourself exposed."

"I guess I lost my head," Zhol quipped, a tight smile tugging at his lips.

"You lost your cool," Archeron shot back, clearly in no mood for humour.

A brief silence melted into a sigh, the point of his longsword resting upon the ground, both palms balanced upon the pommel. There was something in Archeron's eyes that Zhol couldn't quite recognise; a sort of insistence, a faint hint of desperation at the apparent futility, clawed at the edges by Archeron's own waning patience. "You are a fire reimancer, are you not?" The question was rhetorical, though Zhol inclined his head in agreement none the less. "Yet you do not set fire to everything you touch. Why is that?"

The instant, obvious answer was that reimancy took effort. Res didn't just appear out of thin air; it had to be willed into existence, squeezed from one's soul a drop at the time. Yet, Zhol had known his anger and frustration to summon res subconsciously, as if the tightness constricting his chest were wringing it out of him like a damp cloth. Those were the times it became hard to control; those were the times when palms burned and pavilions went up in flames. Yet, aside from a few exceptional rages, he always pulled himself back, always found a way to contain his anger once again.

"I meditate," Zhol replied; the answer Archeron no doubt knew already. "I focus, and I try to keep my emotions under control right from the start, so nothing happens without me willing it to."

Archeron stared at him as if Zhol was missing the sheer obvious. "Why do you treat your sword any differently?"

Zhol's mouth opened to protest, but his mind strangled the words before they were spoken. Why didn't he? Fighting was all about pain, and frustration, and anger; and he let them run wild, let the emotions guide his actions rather than his head. The why seemed simple enough: his sole motivation for practising meditation was to control his reimancy, to keep others safe from what he might do if he found himself carried away again. It had never really occurred to him to apply those techniques to anything else. True, there were times when he attempted to focus to soothe the emotions that were getting in his way; but Archeron was right. Meditation was his first step in reimancy; why not take that first step with everything else?

Zhol closed his eyes, and drew in a deep breath through his nose, letting the air slowly trickle out through his mouth. As always, he pictured a candle burning in the darkness, the flame flickering and dancing amid all of the emotions swirling inside his mind. As always, he focused on his breathing, willing the candle flame to flicker only in time with the ebb and flow from his lungs. Strong breaths became more gentle; slowly, the candle became more still. Normally, this would have been the moment where he willed molten candle wax to flow into his arms and seep from his pores as res, or when he blew out the candle and painted imaginary glyphs in the air to will magical shields into existence. Instead he reached out in his thoughts, wrapping his hand around the candle, feeling it beneath the same fingers that held the hilt of his sword. He lifted the candle free and lowered it to his side, imagining the weight gradually increasing, growing to echo the weight of his sword.

His eyes flickered open, and focused themselves on Archeron. A smile crept onto the swordmaster's face. "Much better," Archeron enthused. "Let's try this again."

by **Zhol** on April 13th, 2015, 1:18 am

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"One."

Zhol clung onto his meditative patience as best as he could, as once again Archeron demonstrated his sequence of strikes. The Syliran had abandoned his wooden sword, and was now attacking Zhol with his oversized stick again. Setting aside the extra unfair advantage that Archeron had given himself with a weapon with so much more reach than Zhol's, and the fact that attacking him with a wooden stick would be pretty pointless if Zhol was using his actual sword, the most frustrating part was that Archeron wasn't just attacking: he was insisting on another one of his movement patterns.

Archeron continued counting through the numbers, each one corresponding to a specific strike with his staff against Zhol, that the horse boy as required to block. One was a strike to the left of Zhol's head, and Two was to the right; Three and Four were his left and right ankles; Five and Six swung out wide, aiming for his ribs on the left and right. Seven came down from above, aimed squarely at Zhol's head; and Eight swung upwards, aiming between his legs for parts he most definitely didn't want getting smacked around. The final move Archeron never announced; the sequence always ended with another swing towards the side of Zhol's head, perhaps just added in to make the horse boy flinch.

"Do you need me to run through that again?" Archeron asked, his tone making it clear that he had little confidence in Zhol's capacity to pay attention.

Zhol closed his eyes for a moment, imagining the flickering candle in his grip instead of his sword. "I think I've got it," he assured, as civil as he could muster.

"One!" Archeron shouted without further warning, the staff instantly snapping up to strike towards Zhol's shoulder. Instantly Zhol reacted, a swift and decisive parry hurled into the path of Archeron's strike before it even came close.

"Good," Archeron enthused, with a flicker of a smile. "Three!" The non-sequential number caught Zhol off guard for half a heartbeat, but his muscles acted on their own, the sword swinging quickly down in an arc, catching the staff before it could reach his ankle. Zhol wasn't sure if he should find the continued smile of the swordmaster's features encouraging or worrying. "Two! Six!" Those numbers came in rapid fire succession: Zhol's counter to the first was more of a punch than a parry, sword catching the staff a few inches from the basket hilt; a quick twist and the sword dropped straight down, catching the staff and shoving it away from his ribs.

More numbers followed, more frantic swings and parries, Archeron's relentless assaults forcing Zhol to retreat around the Hut. He tried his best to be mindful of his surroundings as Archeron insisted, trying to avoid the precarious terrain, trying to prevent Archeron from forcing him off the flat and comfortable areas of the floor. Zhol could feel his muscles straining and protesting, but he forced himself to ignore them; there was a hint of panic in his mind, one that made his heart beat quicker, his thoughts rush faster, worried that Archeron would not relent until Zhol fumbled or faltered, and suffered a blow.

Determination sharpened Zhol's mind into focus; he refused to give Archeron the satisfaction. He mustered all the strength he could, blocking upwards as the swordmaster cried Seven. The instant he felt the pressure of Archeron's strike shift, Zhol countered with one of his own, advancing a step and letting his sword fall, pressing it against the Syliran's throat.

Archeron let out a chuckle, his body relaxing from combat stance. His hand gently brushed the sword away; Zhol couldn't really muster the energy to stop him. "I was wondering how long it would take for you to fight back."

"You didn't -" A panted breath cut off Zhol's exasperated reply; he swallowed against the dryness in his throat before he tried again. "Even your lessons are lessons?"

Archeron shrugged. "You have a lot to learn; it seems more efficient that way."

Zhol heaved out a sigh, shaking his head; his body demanded that he hunch over a little, staying upright proving a little more than his muscles could manage. "And what was the lesson this time?" he muttered.

"Don't let grizzled old bastards push you around?" Archeron suggested. His expression and his voice softened; not enough to seem friendly, or amiable, but certainly enough to shrug off at least some of the imposing threat. "I know what you're thinking," he mused. He beckoned with his fingers. "Go on. Say it."

"This is -" Zhol began.

"- pointless," Archeron finished for him, interrupting. "No one in Wind Reach uses longswords or staves. No one is going to shout out numbers before they attack you. This is all a waste of time! You want your three pinions back! Something along those lines?"

Zhol let out a grunt. "More or less," he muttered.

Archeron sighed, but instead of some retort, his brow furrowed in thought, obvious care taken with his choice of answer. "What would be pointless is to train you to fight only one thing. I hear things, stories about what the outsider from the stables gets up to. I hear about you fighting beasts and monsters; none of them use talon swords. Knowing how to fight against a talon sword would have done little to help you in your scuffle with the blacksmith, or with the Endal who gave you all those bruises."

Zhol's jaw clenched, stifling a knee-jerk retort. While he couldn't contest the point that Archeron was making, he still failed to see how any of this would actually be of any real benefit to him. "So instead, you are training me to fight opponents who tell me what they are doing before they do it?"

Archeron countered Zhol's disgruntled protest with a level stare. "Do they not do that already? The way they move, the shift of their clothes as their muscles move beneath, a glance here, a twitch there - your opponents are already shouting the numbers at you, if you pay enough attention; and your body is learning how to react on instinct to each one."

Zhol let out a quiet sigh. "Let me guess, all I need to do is be mindful of my surroundings?"

A smile tugged at Archeron's features. "There is still hope for you yet, it seems."

by **Zhol** on April 26th, 2015, 12:07 am

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Zhol couldn't see a thing. Night had not fallen, and he had not been stricken blind; a rough scrap of fabric had been tied across his eyes, completely shutting out any glimpses of light and movement around him. He stood, in a balanced ready stance - or at least, what felt like a balanced ready stance; he couldn't be sure if his feet were aligned correctly, and so had just placed them wherever felt comfortable - braced and ready for the next onslaught to come.

The onslaught came; Zhol wasn't ready. The staff jabbed ruthlessly into the fleshy part of his side just below his ribs, a hiss of pain escaping as his features winced. He managed to keep his tongue still this time; he didn't voice his frustration at the stupidity of this exercise. He knew the kind of annoying wisdom that Archeron would offer in reply. Being mindful of his surroundings, that was the lesson of the day. Don't walk into a room blindly. Pay attention to the unspoken cues of your opponent. Watch your footing. Move where you want to move, not where your opponent wants you to move. Make use of space, and deny your opponent the opportunity to do the same. So many concepts, all bundled together under one infuriating phrase. Be mindful of your surroundings.

That was what this process was about; this exercise that forced Zhol to fight as if he were a blind man. There was more to seeing than seeing, or some faux wisdom like that. You could hear the creak of the floor, the rustle of grass underfoot, or boot steps on stone or in sand; in close quarters you could feel the breeze as people moved and pushed the air aside; you could track them by scent; all manner of preposterous things that Acheron claimed were possible, and that Zhol had met with healthy scepticism.

Another strike, a crack at his shin that time, forced a curse out of his lungs. "Are you sure this isn't just an excuse to hit me more?" he grumbled, intended as a mutter under his breath more than anything else.

"Good!" Archeron enthused; Zhol could hear from his voice that he was moving, circling around, but couldn't quite place the direction. "Goad me into conversation. Force me to provide you with an -"

Zhol caught the subtle hesitation in Archeron's voice as he moved to strike, and flailed in roughly that direction with his sword. The blade swung fast, and determined; had he seen where it was aiming, it would have been a beautiful parry; but as it was it missed completely, the pat of the staff against his shoulder almost mocking.

"- advantage," Archeron finished, adding to the perceived taunt.

"This is all new to me," Zhol protested, turning slowly in place, trying to track where he imagined the swordmaster to be moving. "Isn't there a simpler exercise we could begin with? Something less pain -"

"Three!" Archeron suddenly shouted.

Zhol barely had time to react, and certainly didn't make the most of it. The staff whipped against his ankle before he had the opportunity to work out which body part that number was meant to refer to. The strike swept his legs from underneath him, and for a moment Zhol felt the terrible nightmarish sensation of falling blindly, before the ground slammed reassuringly into his back.

"-ful," he finished, wheezing as the air struggled to refill his lungs.

A frustrated growl escaping him, Zhol ripped the blindfold from his eyes, and clambered stiffly back to his feet. "Why?" he uttered in protest, tossing the fabric scrap aside. "To humiliate me? To tear down any belief I might have that I know what you're doing? To prove you're better than me, to make sure I'll listen?" He grunted out a breath. "I'm here to learn this -" He brandished his sword for emphasis. "- not all of... this."

He began to wave his arm around him, but his protest dissolved into a sigh. Was this how the Sylirian Knights were taught? Zhol had heard that Archeron was from their city - or their region, at least - but had no idea if the man had ever been affiliated with their order. He wondered if there were clues; markings, brands, symbols, anything; perhaps he'd ask, one day. Not today, though. Not today.

"I am trying to teach you a simple truth, Zhol Emberwing," Archeron replied, with a tiredness in his voice.

Zhol offered an exasperated shrug. "What? That I am the failure my father always told me I was? That I don't deserve to wield this sword? That I am as unworthy of using a weapon that carries my family's name as I am to carry it myself?"

"That you are the weapon!" Archeron snapped back, grabbing hold of Zhol's sword by the hilt and wrenching it from his tired fingers. He shoved hard against Zhol's shoulders, enough to force him into a staggering backwards step. "These lengths of steel and wood are but arrows; you are the bow. The strength, the power, the aim; that is you. A good bow can inflict more harm firing a candle than a shoddy bow could launching the most finely crafted arrow. Whether you use a sword, your bare hands, or this:" He pressed the wooden staff into Zhol's hands. A sigh escaped, the intensity of his voice lessening slightly. "Yes, there is skill involved; yes, there are techniques to be learned for each weapon; but the basic skills, your tactics, your instincts; how good a bow you are? That is far more fundamental."

Zhol's shoulders slumped at the outpouring of words; he knew all of his frustration was because of his temper, the short wick on his anger that seemed ever shorter of late. He knew his encounters with the Endals, with monsters, with passers by had left him feeling as if Wind Reach was becoming increasingly unsafe; he knew that he was feeling increasingly incapable of protecting himself, and the woman he loved. Archeron's actions weren't annoying; they were patient, meticulous, and calculated. His reaction was disproportional. Yet, he had not asked for this. He had not asked for an education on the philosophy of the martial arts; his pinions had been spent to sharpen his wits with his sword. He was failing at a task he had never intended to embark upon.

"All I want is to be able to defend myself, and those I care about," Zhol protested, meekly.

Archeron offered a a subtle smile. "A noble intent," he agreed. "And what better way than to strike your foe so swiftly and so decisively that, assuming they survive, they will think you too dangerous a victim to trouble you again. They will tell others that you are too dangerous a victim to trouble you again. Lo, a reputation is born." He chuckled. "How often do you think the people of Wind Reach trouble me about being an outsider? How many people do you think I had to defeat before they realised I was not a worthwhile victim? I assure you, it was not many."

The swordmaster left Zhol to contemplate that truth for a moment, retreating to the wall of the Greco Hut. He balanced Zhol's broadsword against the wall, and then retrieved another staff from the weapon rack for himself. "You are frustrated," he surmised, correctly, returning to face the horse boy. "There is even less danger of you causing me harm with that staff than with a sword. Vent a little of your anger. Hit me with it, if you can."

Zhol's brow furrowed into a frown. He looked down at the staff in confusion. What was this? What was he supposed to do? Was this a test - not only mindful of his surroundings, but mindful enough of his opponent's techniques to suddenly pick up their weapon and be able to expertly use it against him? If there was some lesson here, Archeron didn't make it obvious, and so Zhol did what he could, gripping the staff in both hands, and tentatively swinging it towards the side of Archeron's head. The swordmaster pushed it aside easily - lazily, even, merely rocking his staff to one side, the base not even leaving contact with the ground. Zhol tried again, a little harder this time, a strike towards one side of Archeron's head, quickly followed by another - one, two; like Archeron had done earlier.

Again, the swordmaster nudged the blows easily aside. Everything felt stiff and uncomfortable, the staff too short to feel like it was doing any satisfying amount of damage. Yet, surely that could not be possible. Zhol looked down at the way he was holding the staff, hands roughly a shoulder width apart, knuckles all pointing upwards, his hands dividing the staff roughly into thirds. He considered himself, and Archeron; there was no way a third of the staff could have reached all the way to his ankle, and yet Zhol knew for a fact that it had. His bruised behind knew it, too. How had Archeron done it? Clearly the staff was long enough, roughly Zhol's height all in all, but the two feet beyond his hand was not enough to reach so low. He had made the staff longer, somehow; or at least, he had made the section beyond his hand longer.

Experimentally, Zhol swung for Archeron's right ankle, letting the wood of the staff slip through his left hand as he swung, his hands slowly converging. The lower strike forced Archeron to be slightly more proactive in his defense, finally lifting the staff and parrying properly. A flicker of a smile crossed the instructor's features. "You were paying more attention than you realised, eh?"

Archeron took a step back, adopting a more conventional ready stance. "Do the same for all your strikes. For every small movement your hand makes, the end of your sword or staff has further to travel, and so it moves faster. The faster it moves, the more momentum it has, and the harder it hits; the further away from your hand the end becomes, the more it will hurt when your strike lands. Don't just strike with one hand, either; as you push forward with one, pull back with the other. More strength means more hurt."

A brief moment passed, Archeron allowing that information to sink into the horse boy's head. "Now, lets try this again. And this time, don't just put your weapon where you expect me to parry it. Don't hold back; strike through. Stop attempting to hit me, and actually hit me."

Zhol's knuckles flexed, adjusting their grip on the wooden staff. Actually hit you? he mused, gathering up the last vestiges of his anger, squeezing it down into his shoulders to bolster his muscles. You asked for it, old man.

by **Zhol** on April 26th, 2015, 1:19 am

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The numbers cycled through Zhol's head. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, strike, rest. Right ear, left ear; right ankle, left ankle; right side, left side; head, groin; strike to the side of the head; rest. A step was taken between each, the duo slowly progressing their way across the floor of the Greco Hut. Sometimes, Zhol would be on the attack, sometimes on the defensive. Each time it was his turn to block, Archeron attempted to herd him, steering him towards where the floor surface changed, hoping he would stumble as wooden floor became grass, or would trip as his feet sunk into the sand. Zhol focused, concentrating on how far each sequence of eight migrated them across the room, gauging his position based on the distance to the door, the distance from the corners, the angle at which the wood planks passed beneath his feet. He painted a mental map of the surroundings, a floor plan measured in paces and strikes; he concentrated on the next pattern, extra careful as he stepped back between the fourth and fifth strikes. His boot settled into the soft embrace of grass. He fought a smile. That mindful enough for you, old man?

If Archeron was aware of what Zhol was doing, he didn't let on. His assaults were respectfully slow, conscientious of Zhol's fledgeling abilities with the weapon he held, but his blows weren't softened. When Zhol fumbled, or when he remembered the sequence wrong, Archeron's staff cracked hard against his flesh. When Zhol's parries were not decisive enough, Archeron's strikes pushed through, bringing Zhol's staff with it so they both struck him. When Zhol wasn't mindful enough to keep his hands in motion on the length of the staff, Archeron deflected his blows to rap across Zhol's knuckles, and had already drawn blood. Zhol ignored the stinging; it was strange how sometimes, having something to deliberately ignore made it easier to focus than when your mind was clear.

Zhol waited for the next instruction to switch direction, and didn't hesitate before pressing his attack. He knew how simplistic this was: this wasn't combat, Archeron had taught him how to dance, essentially; a set sequence of steps with a partner, repeated over and over. Even so, there was something deeply satisfying about it, about the clack of the staffs striking each other, the fact that each new iteration was ever so slightly faster and more confident than the previous. Perhaps that was all this was, a simple routine to buoy his confidence after the deconstruction that had ensued for the rest of the session; but Zhol was glad of it. True, he was nowhere near ready to hold his own against an armed opponent; but the routine was impressive. Zhol looked more competent than he was, all because of confidence and repetitive practice. He couldn't help but think of the possibilities, too; couldn't help thinking back to Brandon's unceremonious entrance into the stables. Suddenly, the broom he'd used to ward him off - or it's handle, at least - had become a weapon he was not unfamiliar with. He began to wonder what other potential weapons might simply be lying around, if only he knew to look for them.

So distracted was he by that line of thought, so focused and in the groove with the sequence of motions, that he almost didn't notice Archeron's deliberate lack of block; certainly not quickly enough to stop his staff from slamming into the swordmaster's side. First horror, then suspicion swept through Zhol's mind. "You did that on purpose," Zhol accused.

"Perhaps," Archeron conceded, "But you did at last succeed in hitting me. That seems as good a place to end our session as any."

Zhol wasn't sure which he felt, relief or disappointment; perhaps both. Archeron was right, of course; a glance out the window revealed just how dark the world outside had become. Another part of his surroundings to be mindful of, Zhol supposed; the passage of time. He took a step forward offering the staff back towards Archeron, but the swordmaster shook his head. "For an extra pinion, it's yours," he offered, with the faintest of shrugs. "You fixate too much on your sword. Practice your staff sequences. Practice variety. I will teach you more next time you return." A small smile of encouragement was offered. "We may still make a passable warrior out of you yet."

Zhol wasn't sure if a warrior was something he wanted to be, but better? If this was the path to that, to keeping Khara safer; what difference was an extra pinion to him? "Thank you," Zhol responded, not entirely sure if Archeron noticed.

"It's made of ash," Archeron added, either oblivious to or ignoring Zhol's offer of gratitude. "Seems like an appropriate material for you, all things considered."

A bittersweet chuckle escaped from Zhol as he regarded the staff with new interest. "Yeah," he mused. "I suppose it is."

* * *

If looks could kill, the glare that Solo unleashed upon Zhol would surely have caused a massacre. Zhol winced; while the Spring air was a long way from cold enough to cause Solo any harm, it surely couldn't have been comfortable, especially not loitering around tied to a tree for as long as Solo had. "Sorry, friend," Zhol uttered, not even bothering with an excuse. The horse didn't seem impressed, sputtering in protest.

Zhol sighed, and stood for a silent moment, waiting for Solo to calm before he attempted to unhitch him from the tree he'd been tied to. A thought danced across his mind however, converting his expression into a frown. His gaze turned to the staff, held idly in one hand, and then to Solo and his saddle. His mouth drew into a thin line.

"How the blazes am I supposed to get this home?"

OOCQuarterstaff should be 2 SM 5 CM because it's wooden, but I rounded back to a full pinion (same price as steel) because of wood being rare / used sparingly in Wind Reach. If it should be more, let me know!

by **Dravite** on June 18th, 2015, 4:16 am

Zhol

XP Award:

Horsemanship: 2
Riding, Horse: 2
Mathematics: 1
Observation: 4
Organisation: 1
Tactics: 1
Weapon, Broadsword: 3
Socialisation: 4
Rhetoric: 2
Meditation: 1
Glyphing: 1
Endurance: 2
Weapon, Quarterstaff: 2

Lore:

Solo: Is now a stallion
Solo: Knows the rocky slopes and pitfalls of the Sanikas Road
Hats: Better than cloak hoods in wet and windy conditions
Wind Reach: Dark storm clouds mean rain
Khara: Has changed Zhol's life
Zulrav: A jealous god
Wind Reach: The ride down to the Greco Hut is an uncomfortable one
Wind Reach: A dangerous place to live
Wearing a sword is a great deterrent
Archeron: A Sylirian Knight
Archeron: Expect the unexpected
Archeron: Is a patient man
Broadsword: Mastering sword fighting patterns help
Blind combat will sharpen your senses
Bow: A good bow is better than shoddy one
Weapon: Holding the staff correctly makes all the difference
Distractions aren't always bad

Injuries:
Zhol's shoulder, cheek, and side will bruise and feel a little tender for the next three days.
Zhol will have a headache for the rest of the day.

Loot:
Quarterstaff -1 pinion

Notes: This was a beautifully edited story and a pleasure to read. I especially enjoyed how witty you made Archeron and the lessons he imparted to Zhol. I'm having trouble finding your seasonal expenses, though everything else checks out on your ledger for this thread. Let me know if you think I have missed anything here and be sure to edit your grading request! As this is the first thread I have ever graded, any feedback via PM would be greatly appreciated.

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Solo A Broader Understanding