56th Day of Fall, 516 AV
It was a strange relationship they had, this chunk of wood and he.
The post was his partner and his confidant, such as it was. It sufficed as his target too, when he practiced with his bow. Elias knew it was silly, seeking out the same damn length of wood whenever the call to reassert his ability with the blade took him, but it was familiar. Durable. Proven. You couldn't ask for much more than that.
Besides, it wasn’t likely to complain when he accidentally nicked it with his sword like so many other training partners were liable to do.
Eleventh bell into the day and the Ravokian stalked underneath a sky as calm as the rhythm of his heartbeat. A norm that had returned to Ravok as of late with the new Voice’s claim of the crystal throne. The mere thought of the woman alone stirred to frenzy an endless tirade of thoughts and concerns within him. Sasha Valeer, the Voice of Rhysol reborn. Trapped by Ivak and hidden away from even her lord in the depths of some dormant vulcano, she was the third to ever hold her title, and now she was to replace Myleena after the lady’s great ascendance into divinity. Elias knew all this because he’d heard the woman say it herself with her grand speech, but his mind was not concerned with it. Just the post, and the blade in his hand.
He tossed the shimmering weapon from hand to hand, seeking communion with it. This was not the longsword he'd carried for years this fire infused slice of steel This was Cinder, an arcane weapon he’d had no hand in magecrafting or forging, but instead had been gifted to him by his master Malachai Quinn.
He whipped and slashed the sword through the air, unencumbered by all save his belt and breeches. He wanted movement for what he planned to do -the training he needed.
What I need is a partner[i], he thought sourly, shooting daggers at the inoffensive and mute post. [i]But this is what I have.
His mind was enough. What he could see, imagine, and react to would suite his needs. For the moment that was a phantom with a short sword, swinging it diagonally down to cleave through his shoulder. Elias reacted; his arm shot up, sword flat to ward off the blow. Then he pushed up and to the side, opening up the phantom's guard.
Thunk
His slashing riposte bit down into the post at neck level. He'd sharpened the weapon, of course. Every day, like all his blades. It was ritual and upkeep both, the routine of any man that lived by the tools of death. He noted with satisfaction that it bit more than an inch into the wood. Had it been an actual neck, it would have cleaved straight down to bone, severing veins and muscle on the way.
Elias ripped it free and paced around the post. Hacking. Slashing. Cutting. That's what the heavy blade was made for.
In mid-step he swayed away, as if the phantom had swung at him and he jerked his body back, sword cutting nothing but air in front of his face. In retaliation for the blunder, he burst forward, sword tight at his side, arm suddenly straightening as he thrust forward with it.
Thunk
Not intended, but definitely useful. The tip of the sword stabbed into the pole, almost an inch. Elias had to wiggle and jiggle to pull it free. A man? He'd have had blood smeared all over his hand, blade buried to the hilt in his guts.
Again, his unseen enemy attacked, a stab at his own belly this time, and Elias stepped to the side, slashing out with his sword to knock the blade away, following up with a viscous backhand.
Thunk
More power there. Especially when he threw his hips into the motion and summoned forth from the depths of his core the power of the flux. The phantom's throat would have been crushed, all thoughts of retaliation forgotten in place of keeping heart from pouring out of the ragged remains under his chin. He had to grip it two-handed to pull it free that time, and then he was back to pacing, tossing, thinking, imagining.
Elias really needed a partner. But this was what he had.
The post was his partner and his confidant, such as it was. It sufficed as his target too, when he practiced with his bow. Elias knew it was silly, seeking out the same damn length of wood whenever the call to reassert his ability with the blade took him, but it was familiar. Durable. Proven. You couldn't ask for much more than that.
Besides, it wasn’t likely to complain when he accidentally nicked it with his sword like so many other training partners were liable to do.
Eleventh bell into the day and the Ravokian stalked underneath a sky as calm as the rhythm of his heartbeat. A norm that had returned to Ravok as of late with the new Voice’s claim of the crystal throne. The mere thought of the woman alone stirred to frenzy an endless tirade of thoughts and concerns within him. Sasha Valeer, the Voice of Rhysol reborn. Trapped by Ivak and hidden away from even her lord in the depths of some dormant vulcano, she was the third to ever hold her title, and now she was to replace Myleena after the lady’s great ascendance into divinity. Elias knew all this because he’d heard the woman say it herself with her grand speech, but his mind was not concerned with it. Just the post, and the blade in his hand.
He tossed the shimmering weapon from hand to hand, seeking communion with it. This was not the longsword he'd carried for years this fire infused slice of steel This was Cinder, an arcane weapon he’d had no hand in magecrafting or forging, but instead had been gifted to him by his master Malachai Quinn.
He whipped and slashed the sword through the air, unencumbered by all save his belt and breeches. He wanted movement for what he planned to do -the training he needed.
What I need is a partner[i], he thought sourly, shooting daggers at the inoffensive and mute post. [i]But this is what I have.
His mind was enough. What he could see, imagine, and react to would suite his needs. For the moment that was a phantom with a short sword, swinging it diagonally down to cleave through his shoulder. Elias reacted; his arm shot up, sword flat to ward off the blow. Then he pushed up and to the side, opening up the phantom's guard.
Thunk
His slashing riposte bit down into the post at neck level. He'd sharpened the weapon, of course. Every day, like all his blades. It was ritual and upkeep both, the routine of any man that lived by the tools of death. He noted with satisfaction that it bit more than an inch into the wood. Had it been an actual neck, it would have cleaved straight down to bone, severing veins and muscle on the way.
Elias ripped it free and paced around the post. Hacking. Slashing. Cutting. That's what the heavy blade was made for.
In mid-step he swayed away, as if the phantom had swung at him and he jerked his body back, sword cutting nothing but air in front of his face. In retaliation for the blunder, he burst forward, sword tight at his side, arm suddenly straightening as he thrust forward with it.
Thunk
Not intended, but definitely useful. The tip of the sword stabbed into the pole, almost an inch. Elias had to wiggle and jiggle to pull it free. A man? He'd have had blood smeared all over his hand, blade buried to the hilt in his guts.
Again, his unseen enemy attacked, a stab at his own belly this time, and Elias stepped to the side, slashing out with his sword to knock the blade away, following up with a viscous backhand.
Thunk
More power there. Especially when he threw his hips into the motion and summoned forth from the depths of his core the power of the flux. The phantom's throat would have been crushed, all thoughts of retaliation forgotten in place of keeping heart from pouring out of the ragged remains under his chin. He had to grip it two-handed to pull it free that time, and then he was back to pacing, tossing, thinking, imagining.
Elias really needed a partner. But this was what he had.
WC - 710
