PM to join [Fighter's Pit] Getting the Point?

[Isana Lin]

2nd of Summer, 514 AV

Isana Lin had risen with the first light. She found the early morning, when the birds were still too sleep-addled to begin their songs, before the air was clouded with the cries of hundreds of travellers, to be a good time to think. Sylir knew that she had reason enough to do that lately. Despite Matar's beating of a training session, her skill with the sword was still an embarrassment, and she knew it. Perhaps she shouldn't have been surprised. No-one could have learned the blade that quickly - a single training session? Barely better than nothing at all.

Yet, she could not quite hide her disappointment. Instead, she had gritted her teeth through a handful of patrols at Varner's side, desperately hoping that she would not have to use the steel at her hip. So far she had been fortunate, but good fortune rarely lasted forever. She needed to be ready when it ran out. The bruises on her face may have faded to a dull brown, but she would not forgot how close she had come to something far worse. Isana shuddered as she remembered the kelvic crouched atop her, fists falling like a thunderstorm, helpless to so much as raise an arm in her defence. The helplessness was more terrifying than the pain, but worse than that was the sense of failure. She was a knight, beaten near-senseless by a drunkard. She would not face that again. Could not. She dragged her attention back to the flickering torches that lined the corridor.

A handful of knights mumbled greetings as she weaved her way between the early morning traffic trudging through Dyres district. A smattering of more observant knights frowned at her as she passed, noting the mail she wore over her tunic - devoid of the usual leather and tabard of the Green Company, the sword at her hip, the shield on her arm. Those particularly astute members may have even noticed the lack of a sword pin on her collar, or that she was walking in the opposite direction to the training grounds. If they did, they said nothing.

After all, who questions a madwoman? A flame of grim satisfaction settled in her chest. The rumours were faint now, whispers rather than a gale, but they persisted nonetheless. Mercifully, she had managed to avoid a repeat of last season's incident, where she had tossed a blanket into the hearth in the grip of a nightmare. Isana kept the scorched fringe tucked against the wall, well out of sight; more for her own peace of mind than that of her non-existent visitors. She could only hope that time would ease the wrinkles from her reputation and if it did not, so be it. She could stand in the shield wall as well as any of them, reputation or no.

It would have been an exaggeration to call the streets deserted. They never were, not here, nor anywhere else in the city. Even when she thought she had beaten the morning's traffic, there were always a dozen or so already awake, dressed and moving before she dragged herself from the warm embrace of the covers. Solitude was nothing more than a pleasant idea in the corridors of the citadel. Nonetheless, it was quiet, and she was grateful for that much.

The odour of fish hit her like a punch to the gut as she exited the stone tomb of the citadel and turned toward the docks. Isana curled her nose and picked up her feet. Clear air was always welcome, but there were limits. The docks were not her destination today, thankfully. No, instead she followed a steady trickle of similarly armed and armoured men and women that swaggered through the morning streets. Dented plate mingled with mail similar to her own, but steel armour was in the minority. Most wore simple leathers or padded vests that she doubted would guard their owners against anything more aggressive than a stern glare.

Eventually the trickle emptied out to a dirt-lined courtyard. Sweat hung heavy in the air, low stone walls marking the edges of the pit where two men swung spears at one another. Blunted spears, if they had any sense, but somehow she doubted restraint was a common virtue among the Fighter's Pit's intended clientèle. It was hardly surprising. The place had been founded by a failed knight, after all. So what does that say about me, than? She raised a hand to her eyes and raked the sparse morning crowd for an instructor - not Gerard himself, no, she had heard enough stories of the man to know that she had no desire to put herself before his blade.

Eventually, she caught sight of a flash of pale skin amid the sea of tanned mercenaries and wanderers. The woman connected to it bore a longsword - an instructor, than? It was precious little to go on, but she was beginning to doubt that wandering the sparse crowd would garner her anything more than another elbow in the ribs. Besides, she was scheduled to patrol this afternoon. Waiting around was hardly an option, she was not some idle traveller looking to kill a few hours. She pushed her way to her.

"You are an instructor, I trust?" Or an exceptionally well-paid mercenary. After Matar, she was finding the two were more or less interchangeable. "Would you care to provide instruction?" She tapped the pollel of the arming sword at her waist impatiently and sincerely hoped that another knight had not chosen today to visit the pits. Let us get this over and done.

[Rachel Messer]

Rachel was just finished preparing her usual teaching spot, polishing her advanced training dummy and sturdy training post, checking for any damages, and placing a rack, filled with blunted weapons near her 'claimed' location. She wiped her forehead as the blond woman huffed and looked at her belongings, her pack resting neatly on one short wall. She was not wearing her half-plate armor today, opting for a light blue tunic matched with matching pants, since the heat was rising in Summer, Rachel didn't want to cook in her armor. In her right hand, she held a blunted longsword, useless as a weapon, very useful for sparring. She was ready for the day.

"Oh?" The blond instructor noticed a woman was approaching her, a woman with gray eyes and dark hair, she was wearing a chain mail over a tunic, carried weapons, and through Rachel's trained swordswoman eyes, could see the faint trace of bruises upon her face. Ah, she must be a combatant of some sort, a mercenary or just someone who liked combats, perhaps. Rachel didn't think this woman was a Knight, since she didn't wear the usual plate armor nor wearing the silver sword pin on her collar that all knight seemed to have. "Yes, I am, my name is Rachel Messer, combat instructor," Rachel answered the dark-haired woman politely, "And you are?"

After the woman gave her name, the blond woman would nod as she idly gestured to her training equipment, "Yes, I specialize in the arts of longsword combat, I'd be honored to provide you instructions, just for the price of five gold mizas per session." She smiled, a competent-looking new student, this day was going to be a good day, hopefully.

[Isana Lin]

"Simone Cawdor." Of the Fourth Regiment, Green Company. She bit back the second half of the introduction, cursing her instincts. She'd already removed the pin. What point was there in using a knight's name? No, it was far better this way. No-one need ever know the woman stalking the fighter's pit was the very same as the one who patrolled the walls. No need to undermine their confidence in her further. She only hoped that Simon would not mind her theft of his name. She half-inclined her head in acknowledgement of the woman's introduction, offering no further information. Yes, very good. May we move on?

Isana's eyes trailed the instructor's hand as it twitched in the direction of her equipment. A dummy, a post, and a smattering of weapons. Hardly impressive, for someone used to the luxuries of the Order's training grounds, but serviceable enough, she supposed. If you didn't mind a little dirt. Dirt was one thing the pit had in excess. It flew in tiny clouds beneath the fighter's feet, drifted along the grounds on the back of the sea breeze that wound its way through the press of buildings, coated the hands and feet and throats of the men and women pressing into the space. Isana frowned. The training grounds were better equipped, no doubt, and comparatively pleasant to boot, elevated above the stench of the city. Then again, she had not come here expecting pleasant. Isana wanted nothing more than to learn what she might and be done with the place before she ran into someone that might recognise her. Unlikely, perhaps, but the cooing of probability did little to calm her nerves.

"An art, is it?" Isana gave a half-smile at the term. "I know several individuals who would have ample reason to disagree with that label." Were they still among us. She pushed the thought away and continued. "Art is a thing of creation, is it not? Shaping and carving to create something worthy of wonder. Where is the creation in a blade, I wonder?" She swept an eye over the weapon racks dotting the pit. Swords and spears and axes stood in stark relief against timber. All instruments of death, each and every one. Perhaps they were necessary. Perhaps they were justified. But they could never be beautiful.

"No. Swordplay may be a useful skill, but forgive me if I fail to see the art in it." A fighter stumbled to the dirt floor of the ring, his opponent swinging the wooden shaft of the spear at his side. It impacted with a sharp crack. Isana turned her eyes back to the instructor. "Five mizas will do nicely."

Not that it appears I have a tremendous degree of choice. Inwardly, Isana winced at the price. It was more than a day's wages for her. Still, if that was the cost... Regardless, the woman was the only instructor she could see not otherwise engaged. "Payment at the session's conclusion will be adequate, I trust?"

Isana shifted in place, eager to begin. There were few enough hours in the day. Her eye drifted to the blade in the woman's hand, slightly longer than her own. "Blunted weapons, I presume? I do hope that you are not one of those fools that insists on swinging sharpened steel about until someone loses an ear." Isana had already had enough training with edged weapons to last her the season. It was a foolish, dangerous, and, ultimately, useless practice that served to do little beyond prop up the egos of swordsmen more fixated on the sight of blood than actual improvement. She eyed the blue-clad instructor and hoped she was not one such swordsman.

[Rachel Messer]

"...Well met." Rachel didn't mean to pause at the beginning of her reply, but the woman had a very masculine name for her appearance. Perhaps this was one of those odd cases where a father wanted a son so much, he couldn't take his child being a girl so he deluded himself by naming his daughter with a boy's name. Of course, it could be an alias, or whatever really, Rachel didn't feel appropriate to prod around so she simply nodded, "Miss Simone." By Priskil, it felt odd.

If there was one thing she noted about this woman, it was grumpiness, by the Divines, she was grumpy. Rachel didn't even try to argue her case, the instructor merely listened with a small polite smile, she waved off those sarcastic remarks like rocks splitting waves. Her views were her views, Rachel didn't even shrug or twitch or speak, she didn't give any other reaction except for her perpetual business-like smile, Even a Priskilite sometimes must know if someone was hopeless, in this case, this person was so closed in her views that she immediately tried to spark a debate just chimes after meeting. Simone was the one who approached her in the first place to boot, was she looking for a lesson or a fight? This was not Sunberth and Rachel was a patient person, she would be disappointed if it was the latter.

"Of course." The instructor dropped all plans of friendly idle chit-chat, Priskil would understand. If this woman wanted this session to be all strict, then of course, she could do that.

The instructor ignored the inquiry about blunted weapons, Simone looked smart enough, she could figure it out on her own, Rachel didn't want to risk another pointless jab at someone who was completely innocent in this case, it wasn't worth it, bad for the health and mind. She better get this one done quick.

"Let us begin," Rachel then gestured to the sturdy training dummy to her left, "Try some practice swings on that dummy, let me assess your form and skill first so I can figure out which starting point is best for you." There, all polite, serious, and no-nonsense. "Once you are done, tell me, and we will proceed with the first lesson."

[Isana Lin]

Rachel's would-be student was already moving.

Quite the conversationalist, aren't you? Isana knew a handful of pages that would stand eye to eye with the instructor, and provide more conversation to boot. She ignored Isana's questions, continuing on exactly as though she had never spoken, a horse running a well-known course, not a hoof out of place. Isana's brow creased in a frown. She had seen that tone before, Vathan had employed it more often than a blade. Strangely formal, like a choreographed dance – put a foot out of line and you would find yourself standing by the sidelines. Isana had expected formality in the training grounds, not here, amid the blood, sweat and dirt of the fighter's pit. Perhaps there, had the woman been a squire and Isana her mentor, she would have pushed her for an answer, a rebuff, an opinion. Anything. Surely something you cared about was worth defending. But this was the fighter's pit, and Messer was her instructor, not the other way around.

So she obeyed.

"Of course." Isana tugged at the straps securing the shield to her arm, confirmed her scabbard was slung correctly – ring hanging from the iron hook on her sword belt – and stepped up to the dummy. It was a battered affair at its core, wooden limbs still bearing the odd cut but the body of the dummy was carefully maintained, stuffed, and – despite the steady haze of dirt drifting around her ankles – relatively clean. Messer evidently cared for her equipment. Sera Taylor would have been impressed, insofar as her mood ever improved beyond mild disappointment.

Steel hissed as Isana tugged the sword from its scabbard. There, that was a familiar sound, part of an age-old exchange. An invitation to a dance of blades. This time though, there was no reply, no answering ring, the dummy staring at her with unblinking eyes as the sound drifted away, swallowed by the rumble of the fighter's pits. So be it, then. She settled the sword before her, shield at her side to defend against an imagined aggressor.

Mail shifted on her shoulders as she stepped forward, but Isana paid it no heed, extending the sword before her, point towards the dummy, staring down the blade, arm stretched before her. Balance was a simple thing with a spear, a matter of holding it in the middle – more or less – and letting the length of the the weapon work to her advantage. Nice and easy, straightforward. The sword just stopped in her hand, no shaft behind to brace it, no butt plate to pommel a foe with. It was like holding half a weapon.

She stepped forward, straightened her elbow, aiming a thrust at the dummy's torso – just as she would with a spear. Heart, lungs. A quick end to a fight, if the blow connected.

It didn't.

The sword dropped a few inches as she lunged, skittering into the dummy's stomach instead. It was that damned weight, shifting and twisting as she moved. If anything, the sword got heavier as she extended it. Never heavy enough to make her drop it, but certainly unpredictable enough to throw her accuracy off. Stomach wounds were nasty – likely fatal in the long run. But not immediately debilitating, not damaging enough to stop a blade crashing into her exposed side.

"Storms!" She cursed and tugged the blade back into position, dummy on point. She was better than this, she knew it. Isana gritted her teeth and set at the dummy with a purpose.

Another lunge. Her arm flicked forward, foot pacing with it. Steel thumped into the dummy's neck. Good, a killing blow, but she was aiming for the chest. She returned to the same position, tried again. She stepped forward with the thrusts, leaned, put her weight behind them, felt a spark of exertion burning in the back of her shoulder. What good was a strike that didn't have the force behind it to an end the fight? A thrust into the stomach, the post that would have been the dummy's legs, another into an arm, severing imagined tendons, muscles – and one, embarrassingly, into empty air.

She staggered forward a pace, momentum of the strike carrying her, shield drooping. Dirt slid beneath her feet, and for a long moment she thought she would fall, crash face-first into the stinking ground, embarrass herself in front of the fighters and her terse instructor. More so. She slung her right foot forward, landed on it, shield out to her side, guard forgotten in favour of keeping herself upright. Pathetic. A knight of Sylir, falling over her own feet fighting a dummy. Finally, she regained her feet, greedily inhaling the filthy air, quite happy to ignore the twang of fish and offal carried from the docks. She resettled the shield on her arm, slid the sword back into its scabbard and turned to face her waiting instructor. "I think -" She swallowed another lungful of air. "That we may have some work to do."

OOCFeel free to correct whatever errors you like in Isana's technique. By and large, she's trying to use the sword like a spear – relying on a reach advantage that she's not likely to have fighting anyone armed in a similar manner. Consequently, she's being rather static with her stance, putting too much force behind the blows, opening herself up for counter attack. You're welcome to mention other errors as Rachel sees them, though.