Solo [Anthonius Fighters' Pits] Getting Serious. I

[Medhozic]

Time Stamp: 7th of Winter, 513AV. He'd thought about it for a while. A long while - after Cromley, and after everyone else that he'd been sent to, or had sent his way, he was ready to actually ask Natasha. And there she was, leaning against the outer walls of the city, close enough to the city gates to be able to have an idle chat with the other knights that guarded it so strictly. Some of the guards looked his way and then away again; there was nothing much to see, especially after a glance at the horns that hung from his temples. A status symbol, as if he might have just decided to wear a crown that day, it seemed like. Or maybe it was simple disdain, though either was fine as long as they didn't look at him. Sometimes, he really loved being an Ethaefal.. there really were few that gained such a privilege, of being ignored without open scorn, like the Symnestra or worse. Especially one that, today, was completely unarmed. Not even a Kopis. Natasha gave a half-smile in his direction, but didn't seem disappointed when he didn't return it. "Hey there." He nodded in return, causing some of his disheveled hair to fall down over his shoulders; as usual, he wore his simple shirt and trousers, no armor or anything even remotely warrior-like about him. Though, in the Winter, most were walking around in thick furs. He didn't have enough money to buy any - and besides, they looked hideous. He'd rather wear the thin garments regardless of the chill, which was barely felt on his skin as it was. "I want you to train me in using a dagger." He spoke crisp, short and to-the-point. She widened her eyes slightly; they'd only had a small sparring session last time, that he'd shown absolutely no ability in, and had resulted in numerous defeats at her hands, while she'd barely been trying. "Why not just join the Syliran Knights? Get a patron knight, whatnot.." She seemed somewhat reluctant. Even as she spoke, she was moving from her post and beginning to walk through the gates, though slowly. He moved beside her, and the knights gave some odd looks in his direction; they turned away when they realized that he wasn't paying any attention in turn. They had no reason to stop him, and less to interrupt in the conversation. "I'm not interested in becoming a knight." "I thought you were, why else would you--" "I want to avoid dying." He cut her off with a passed glance in her direction. They'd already talked about this, during their last session. There was a long pause where Natasha made one of those faces that she could always make for some bizarre reason - he still didn't know what they meant. "Syliran Knights don't die, you know." "I have no interest in helping those that should be feasted on by the strong. And I have no interest in remaining weak while strong still roam." Straight out of a book. "Well, you know I can't. Last time was a one-off, and the only thing I can recommend for you is making use of the Fighters Pits." "You must be joking." "I'm not. I self-trained for ages. Just going at the dummies." "I won't learn anything by hitting pieces of wood." "I was just like that." Her gaze drifted off, but he wasn't in the mood for it. A few moments and his hand was rapidly flapping back and forth in front of her face, waking her from the daydreams. "You can just practice your slashes, stabs.. whatnot. It's really not hard, and it's a good workout." He didn't want to be in there for ages, though. Regardless of the idea of getting a 'good workout' that might help in the near-future, he didn't like the idea of it all.. the squires and the knights roaming around, training with each-other and watching him pathetically fail to even use a dagger. The simple idea of going back into those pits sent cold through the places that the Winter air could not touch.

[Medhozic]

Later that day... He scowled at the squire who stared at him; a thin, lanky child holding a longsword like it was some pointy club who wouldn't stop passing glances behind him every now and then. The boys face went pale and he quickly turned back to the patron Knight who stood in front of the squire, a bulky sort with heavy armor and a face that looked like it'd seen more battles with ferocious monsters than it bothered to tell. It gave a glare in return, but didn't bother to approach or do anything more. Good. He had as much interest being in this horrid place as jumping off a cliff. All around the small circle of the courtyard, there were long clashes of metal, the occasional high-pitched squeal as steel ran down steel, or occasional wood splintering. And all around him, as far as he could see, were children. Barely past the age to take their oaths into squiring, with no visible upper body strength or understanding of which end to hold a sword with.. many of these would never know what lay beyond Syliras. Most of them would spend their entire lives utterly ignorant of it all.. what lay beyond a Knight. Locked away behind their shiny metal armors and their oaths of loyalty, like the children they would always be in mind and in soul. When the squire looked away again, hopefully for the last time, the Ethaefal focused elsewhere. He stood with his back pressed against the half-wall lining the outer quarters of the Fighters' Pits, and he could see Gerard a short distance away, overlooking all the fighters as they went about their work. There were even some commoners that had come out to fight with the squires, taking out rusty heirlooms of long-swords, from farmers to bakers and from all around Stormhold Castle. It was almost amusing, if not for the amount of skill that some of them showed in flourishes of action, ending in barely the blink of an eye. It was all well above his own - he would have to change that fairly quickly, although it was little chance of that happening in such a place as this, and with nothing else to fight against but a wooden frame with a few sacks tied around it. It was almost pathetic, how low he would stoop today - to take up a fight with an inanimate object in the pursuit of knowledge in combat. The rolling wooden frame, holding an assortment of different weapons, was only a hands reach away and soon he was pushing aside some of the other pieces of gear - short-swords and long-swords, a mace and a hand-axe, until he came to what he was looking for. A small dagger, with a dulled edge and a rather worn handle as well, looking as though it'd been in much more fighting than even he had, and now here like some age-old mentor. It was light, rather flimsy in his eyes, but it would do. The wooden dummy set up along the adjacent, directly next to the frame, stared at him blankly and he found himself immediately distrustful. Nevertheless, he took up a stance before the thing and began to practice his swinging attacks and his thrusting attacks, making small huffs of air each time. Each time he stabbed, he took a step forwards to try and stick it as deep as possible into the frame as he could. And each time he did it, he felt like an utter idiot, clumsily throwing the dagger at the air with little sense of how he was even supposed to injure anything with a minute weapon such as this. It was light, though.. that was what mattered. Something that he could carry with him when he ventured out into the Bronze Woods and beyond. Something for when a bow-and-arrow simply wouldn't do, and when he needed something to be useful as a tool for carving and cutting, that wasn't too large and bulky to make the job more awkward than it should have been. Where was a willing knight when you needed one.. or a commoner, for some little training sessions. It really sucked to have absolutely no money, otherwise he could have just thrown some at Gerard and asked him for some sessions of training. But, he'd make do with what little he had left. And so he practiced his swings again, making sharp jabs for where he assumed would be its chest, and then for its neck, and swinging around in slashes that would have gashed over the wooden dummy's chest and stomach. Eventually, he found himself practicing longer strides, and thinking absently to himself on the entire situation. What am I even doing here. This was such a stupid decision. At least he was one in a hundred of different squires, commoners and others performing the exact same rituals.

[Medhozic]

A few small drills on the dummy made him quickly realize how taxing it was to use a dagger the way that he was, regardless of how small and light the dagger felt. Hopping in with both feet leaving the ground, stabbing, hopping out again to the same distance; it soon had beads of sweat forming on his pristine brow. Not to mention, he still felt like a moron and wanted to give up for having to practice such idiotic moves on the remains of a tree that couldn't even fight back. But, as unfortunate as it may seem, he also knew that if he didn't do this then he would die very quickly at the hands of some bear or worse, an idiot mercenary that he might get on the wrong side of. He wasn't stupid, he knew the chances of that were very high. Without any understanding of close-hand combat, he'd be dead by the end of the season. So he kept going. But he tried to 'switch it up a little', in case his technique was wrong. He had no way of actually knowing if his technique was bad - he could only guess from how it felt, what made him comfortable yet still dealt enough damage to scar the wood of the dummy every time he drove it into the chest. Soon he tried stretching his arms further each time, and he held his free hand out for balance. It made it a little better for the first few attacks, though his back soon began to ache from the constant strain. So he tried switching it up again, and began to pivot around one foot constantly, using the other to kick up small volumes of dirt every time he pushed into a strike, and quickly retreating with the same foot. His free arm hung out to his side, but tucked in tighter than before to retain balance without swerving around all over the place. And this time, he actually felt as though he'd accomplished something this lesson, because he'd actually made a small improvement. It felt more comfortable and routine - it was uncomfortable after a short amount of time and he switched to the opposite foot to pivot around, breaths synchronized with every quick jab. Chimes passed and he continued until he was struggling to keep the air in his lungs, where he stopped for a break. Of course, his attacks were hardly what could be considered effective.. against a wooden dummy, maybe. Still wobbly, but at least he was getting an opportunity to experiment. Looking over and above the half-walls of the detached courtyard revealed many of the other squires, commoners and others training around the different dummies lined on the edges of the pits, or with each-other in sharp rings of steel. The one closest to him was using a similar method to his, but he kept his feet the same length apart with every step. It was a little odd, but it looked methodical, and it must have been working because he could repeat it over and over with little strain on his features, regardless of the boys much-heavier long-sword being used compared to a diminutive dagger. He took it as another sign - after all, not all of them could have the privilege of being trained by a knight. But, he reminded himself quickly, it all came at a price. He'd walk into Sunberth with nothing but the skin on his back long before he'd get on a horse like many of those other knights. Attempting to imitate him with several glances back and forth, he eventually found a stance at least similar to it, with his feet about the same length apart as his shoulders and with the left foot drawn forwards, toes pointing in the same direction - it all felt a little bit awkward, but he got used to it quickly during his small routine of stabbing and drawing back. There were other small differences that seemed to have an ultimate impact on the strike that he could see from the squires action - different movements of his hips, the arms, the legs, everything. He tried it too; turning his hips with every strike as well as moving one foot forwards, not only using the right arm that held the blade, but also jerking the left one back to put more power into the arm; it was all contributing, one way or another, to the power and the speed of the strikes. He couldn't use two hands like the other that stood next to him, so he had to improvise with his own techniques, but he was actually getting somewhere. There was, at least, that much that was beginning to go right for this training session. He repeated all of the different actions in a slower and more methodical manner, making minor adjustments around the different strikes, until he felt like he had accomplished the art of stabbing as much as he could for today. Of course there would be more, but he'd need to actually try fighting with a person in order to find out more about it. The different angles.. the different strengths that he could put into the blade. He could visualize them, even though he knew it would be impossible to bring these things into account, yet.. but they were there, in his head. He could ponder on them for bells, if he really wished.. but there was fighting to be done. Real fighting. With wooden men.

[Medhozic]

Somewhere between his small rests and his further practices around the little dummy under the fading sunlight he rationalized, in his mind, that he was done with all of the practices of footwork. It was time to actually try it out and make sure that he'd be able to turn it to profit when set in a fight. Which was about the same time as he turned to the squire that had been working consistently next to him, and stopped the squire with a cough, partially to take the boys attention and partially from the amount of dust being kicked up all over the arena. Some of the plants helped to mask most of it, but he could tell that this place would not have much growing in it for a while. Which meant that there was a constant murky quality to the air - dirt, dust and sweat. It disgusted him to no end. Another reason that he would not come here unless he had any reason why he shouldn't, other than to hunt. Which was considerably less important anyway. He could always hunt, but he couldn't always come back and have life-saving training in using a weapon. Because at any point, he could end up dead. "Yeh'?" He didn't have much of an accent, but he obviously wasn't a Syliran by birth. Little observations, mostly meaningless; he should have payed closer attention though. The dirty golden hair, the small callouses on his hands that were evidence of time spent in his weapon of choice and the thick layers of dust coating his tunic, the fact that he brought no other weapon other than the longsword.. which was considerably well-crafted compared to most of the others being used around the arena. "I want to have a sparring session with you." "A'ight, hol' up then." No messing around, no attempts at social conversation, straight to the point and no nonsense. He liked that, and soon he was following the smaller squire and his comparably comically-oversized long-sword towards an open portion of the Pits, where he could actually begin practicing out his footwork. The same footwork, unfortunately, he'd been learning by attempting to copy the same squire that he would now be going against. Maybe I should have picked out a different person to go against. There wasn't much time to reconsider - the other was already getting into the stance that he'd been watching, and he quickly matched it with the opposite foot forwards and the dagger held in one hand, while the other man held it in two and raised behind him. It was the one difference between them - the weapon. And he knew that his was smaller, and lighter. He could easily beat this person, at their own game, even. Well, he thought he could. And it didn't take long for him to realize just how wrong he was, when the first swing came and he barely managed to make a short step backwards with his front foot, pivoting on his back, and imitating over and over. The swing was powerful and methodical, drilled through countless more bells than he; not to mention the quick turn at the end that made another swing from the left, forcing him into a retreat and taking a longer step backwards with the front foot becoming the back. Damn. He couldn't even do anything to stop the next few swings that came from the larger weapon, horizontal and diagonal with little opportunity to move left or right to evade - he was constantly being drawn back into a full retreat and the footwork of his opponent seemed perfectly matched, if not much more practiced and smooth than his own. Small steps became longer, and long steps became a series of sweeping short steps that became difficult to keep up with. And in no time at all, the boy was pulling the blade back - because they'd reached the edge of the courtyard and some of the other squires had turned to snigger at the Ethaefal being beaten back by a lowly squire. He was actually very, very lucky that he hadn't been hit.. even though he'd only managed to make it by running in the opposite direction. I suppose that wasn't my best moment. They both moved back to the middle of the Pit for a second try. And this time, he felt that he knew something. Something, anyway. Possibly not the most important information, but his mind hardened over the little piece of knowledge like it was the single truth in a world of lies and slander.Don't let him take the advantage. Move fast, strike faster. "Re'dy?" "Yes. Get going." The first strike came again, and he lost it before it had even started. The attacks once again seemed to blend into one-another, and as he tried to move around them with a long step, coming up to the left to strike under the armpit of the boy, one swing landed on his arm and another on the opposite side of his ribcage with the blunt weapon before the squire pulled back, just about restraining the attacks so that they'd leave moderately large bruises, but nothing more. He'd barely managed to make two steps in total. Better than last time, but he wasn't going to focus on the positives of a loss, especially one as bad as this, and to a squire of all people that he could have chosen to spar with. Not just a loss; a crippling loss that would have killed him instantly, if they hadn't been using blunt and rusted weapons in a training pit with toddlers. Definitely not my proudest moments, he corrected himself. However, the squire seemed quite happy with himself, which definitely wasn't a good sign. His scowl soon made that smile disappear off the squires smug little face, and he turned back once it was obvious that there wasn't much else to do. When he turned back to the wooden dummies, they were staring at him blankly like a mocking audience. In retort, the blade of the dagger slammed into its face, and he could imagine the face of the boy-squire in the place of the blank expression painted on. Looked like he and the corpses of these trees were going to get very well acquainted indeed.

[Medhozic]

Even in his anger, he knew that he would need calm before he could continue with efficiency. That much he'd learned from his time with Natasha. And he would learn from his mistakes. So, he took time away to observe the others as they worked, occasionally taking steps towards the dummies before slashing at them and pulling back - others in training sessions with each-other were constantly battling at a pace that seemed baffling to first glance, though there was an obvious underlying structure. The same attacks were being repeated.. some of them he could relate back to the boy that had returned to attacking the wooden men in a sequence of slashes that repeated, over and over, in a cycle that even had rhythm to it. None of it was spontaneous, or actual knowledge.. it was just drilled into him, just like all of these people. They'd drilled, over and over, just to attack in the right way to stun the opponents and keep an offensive up when they had no shield. Or at least until they could swing a long-sword effectively with one hand, since many of them were young, mostly with few muscle on them. He should have easily been able to find a way around them, but he hadn't.. why? Tactics. It was a whisper in the back of his head, niggling at some hidden corner. They had tactics - they had a constant system, a rhythm that they could work in that was guaranteed to lead to victory because of their time spent in it. And he had none; he didn't even know how to hold a blade like them. Logic. If he could harness basic knowledge of the workings of a weapon, he'd be able to find a way around it all. An epiphany. But I don't know a thing about any of it. One small flaw in an otherwise brilliant plan. He'd work out something, through watching them, finding a solution to their system and exposing it in a flourish. Except, they were so methodical in their actions.. it was impossible to keep up, let alone to actually figure out a way during their drills to find a spot of weakness and exploit it before the next attack came. He could use it, nevertheless. It was a spot of improvement for them and for him - a weakness that he could exploit once he understood how to exploit it. For now, he knew what he needed. And he didn't hesitate to turn back to the little wooden mannequin and begin his assaults for something like the seventeenth time. One foot forwards, one behind; pivoting around the front-set foot each time, stepping in and assaulting before stepping out again. Over and over, he repeated it, glancing over at the other squires, making small adjustments as he saw them. Stabbing became difficult for his elbow, jarring it occasionally when he dug too deep into the wood with an exceptionally hard stab and making his shoulder sore with the constant exertion. The daggers were already blunt and there was little point trying to hit them like actual flesh, so he had to be somewhat delicate each time, only lightly tapping their surface before pulling away again. It was detrimental to the entire routine, though - he'd have to come up with adjustments along the way during a real sparring session, and he knew that. All he could do was glance back to the squire every time, knowing that once he had worked up a sufficient knowledge of the attack sequence, he would go back again and fight him. And with all those thoughts of revenge slipping through his mind, he nearly fell over when he realized that the boy-squire - who'd been practicing on the wooden dummy some distance over the courtyard a few bells ago - was now stood directly before him, with his long-sword sheathed. "Hey, th're. Hope yah didn't take thin's the wrong way af'er tha' spar - you di' really well." The boy was being sincere; at least, he thought. A bit of a smile over his youthful face, as if he wasn't quite sure if he should or shouldn't in order to avoid insult. "Just need tah work on y'ur swings a li'le more." It wasn't meant to be an actual piece of advice, just an offhand comment, but he took it to heart. The small compliments evaporated all of his malice - well, most of it. He felt a little better knowing that he wasn't being held in low regard, by at least one person out of the thousands that infested this place. In his thoughts, the squire had nodded and turned, meeting up with a man covered in metal plates that must have been his patron knight, and together the two left the Fighters Pits. Others were doing the same - Syna was descending over the horizon. already partially obscured by the treelines, which meant it was time for him to disappear as well before anyone saw the disappearance of his horns. The dagger was replaced in its wooden stall and he hurried out of the arena with a few minor glances in his direction, but nothing more. On his way out, he whispered a silent vow to himself. "I will come back here. And I will learn."

[Accolade]

Medhozic

Experience

Skill	XP Earned
Observation	+ 4 XP
Dagger	+ 4 XP
Endurance	+ 2 XP

Lores

•	Lore Earned
•	The Ethaefal life in Syliras: Common
•	Lesson 1: Knights don't train commoners
•	Using the motion of the body to collect speed
•	Learning to wield a dagger more effectively

Notes :

Good training thread, but I need to make something clear, but I saw this a lot in the thread. Knights and Squires don't train at the fighters pit. It's for commoners. I do realize that a few PC squires train there, but they are willfully misusing the location.

The Sylir has spoken

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