|.21st Autumn, 514
Solo's shod hooves clipped and clopped against the paved surface of the Sanikas Road. Behind and above, Mount Skyinarta loomed, while ahead the terrain widened out into the hills and forests and plains of the Unforgiving. Zhol wasn't sure which of the two vitas was the more menacing.
His hips rocked in rhythm with Solo's strides, partly by deliberate choice, and partly because the Syliran style saddle gave him little other choice. Having ridden so much as a necessary part of training horses for the stables he had grown accustomed to the odd pressure of the treated leather in places he didn't particularly want to be feeling odd pressure at all; but he was counting the days until the custom order he'd placed with Lexi at the markets would be ready, and his buttocks were as well.
Zhol leaned back in the saddle as he tugged on the reins to steer Solo off the main road and down a slightly steeper incline onto the somewhat less beaten path towards his destination: a cabin in the woods, where Zhol had been told that Archeron, the master swordsman, dwelt. His attention turned to his father's sword, bundled in a rag and tucked beneath one of the saddle straps. It was the only heirloom he had of home; not only that, but also the only gift his father had ever given him. The man had been so proud when Zhol's mother had bore him another son; but that pride had quickly turned to disappointment, in a slow downward spiral that led to here.
A sigh escaped Zhol as he scanned his surroundings, looking for a suitable place to secure Solo and stop him wandering off into the Unforgiving. He vaulted from the horse, feet slipping from the stirrups and a leg swinging over Solo's body and down towards the ground in one fluid motion. Solo sputtered out a grunt at the shift in weight, but otherwise remained obediently still.
Seeing no explicit place to hitch a horse - no surprise, given the Inarta's lack of cultural respect for them - he instead teased out the lead attached to Solo's bridle, and led him towards one of the trees that enclosed the Greco Hut. The leather lead was looped and twisted around a sturdy looking branch, the closest semblance of a decent hitch that Zhol could muster given the thickness of wood he was dealing with. A few quick tugs assured him that it was relatively secure; with a quick pat against the side of Solo's neck, he stepped back towards the saddle, unbuckling the straps to retrieve his sword. After a few moments of hesitation, and the thought that perhaps this had all been a foolish endeavour, he turned away from his companion, and towards the hut's door.
It creaked as he opened it; something that made Zhol wince. It wasn't that he intended to arrive by stealth; but there was a difference between arriving normally, and drawing unwanted attention to oneself. Discretion lost, he entered with as much confidence as he could muster, making a greater effort to close the door more quietly behind him.
Instantly, he was struck by the unexpected sight of what lay inside. What from the outside seemed like little more than an unassuming shack was filled to bursting point. Racks of weapons, many of which Zhol couldn't even name lined every available stretch of wall; every spare inch of floor was covered with some obstacle, marking, or unexpected material, no doubt an essential part of the training that Master Archeron could offer.
The thought of the man seemed to summon him. He stood as tall as Zhol, perhaps a hair taller; but it was his bulk and broad shoulders that were most imposing, and made Zhol feel like he could easily be snapped like a twig. The slight permanent scowl that seemed to perpetuate his face did little to assure Zhol of his safety; nor did the wooden staff that Archeron carried, with it's dents and divots from what he guessed was frequent, violent use.
A questioning look cast at him by a pair of piercing eyes, Zhol blurted out an introduction. "Zhol, of Endrykas," he said almost by reflex, before adding a slight correction. "And the stables."
A flash of recognition seemed to sweep across Archeron's face. "Ah," he mused, a little of the harshness fading from his expression, though not quite enough for Zhol to rebrand it as anything positive. "Hansi's horse boy, from Cyphrus." A nod of Archeron's head indicated towards one of the windows. "That would explain your somewhat rare means of arrival."
Zhol wasn't sure how to respond; whether to smile, remain courteous, or answer in jest. "I suppose it does," he agreed, shuffling a little, uncomfortably. He looked about himself, as if searching for some scribbled prompt on what to say, somewhere on the hut's wooden shell. "I've come hoping you can teach me," he added, by way of an explanation of his presence.
"Most do," Archeron agreed. A slight frown twitched at his brow. "You've brought something with you?"
Zhol's eyebrows climbed in embarrassed realisation. He'd been told that Archeron would charge for his services, and here he was showing up at the door like some kind of mumbling freeloader. "Of course," he muttered half to himself, fumbling with his belt as he struggled to detach his coin purse.
Archeron sighed. "Show me your steel before you show me your coin," he instructed; less annoyed, more tired.
"Oh," Zhol replied sheepishly, abandoning his efforts, and instead retrieving the sword from the crook of his arm. Carefully, he unwound the chords that kept the blade safely bound, and slowly presented it towards Archeron. The swordmaster studied it with interest, eyeing the straightness of the blade, the thickness and sharpness of the steel, the strength of the construction around the basket hilt. His gaze peeled away from the blade as it reached the Pavi symbols engraved upon it. "Emberwing," he explained, with the faintest whiff of both pride and sorrow in his voice as he spoke that name. "It was my pavilion, back in Endrykas."
Greco's scrutiny transferred to Zhol's face, as if examining his features for added answers. "Past tense," he mused. "And you did not introduce yourself by that name. Interesting."
The swordmaster turned away, clearly not interested in interrogating the issue any further; something that flooded Zhol with a sense of relief. "Will you teach me?" Zhol asked tentatively, still at a loss to fully understand what was transpiring.
"That remains to be seen," Archeron replied; this time, the shift in his expression almost looked like a smile. "But I will certainly try." There was a brief pause of hesitation, as Greco strode back into the main body of the room. "You are not my only student today, however."
His gesture indicated an equally imposing figure, and Archeron's attention seemed to shift to him. "Turrin of the Twisted Vine," he introduced. "Have you had the dubious pleasure of meeting this young man before?"
His hips rocked in rhythm with Solo's strides, partly by deliberate choice, and partly because the Syliran style saddle gave him little other choice. Having ridden so much as a necessary part of training horses for the stables he had grown accustomed to the odd pressure of the treated leather in places he didn't particularly want to be feeling odd pressure at all; but he was counting the days until the custom order he'd placed with Lexi at the markets would be ready, and his buttocks were as well.
Zhol leaned back in the saddle as he tugged on the reins to steer Solo off the main road and down a slightly steeper incline onto the somewhat less beaten path towards his destination: a cabin in the woods, where Zhol had been told that Archeron, the master swordsman, dwelt. His attention turned to his father's sword, bundled in a rag and tucked beneath one of the saddle straps. It was the only heirloom he had of home; not only that, but also the only gift his father had ever given him. The man had been so proud when Zhol's mother had bore him another son; but that pride had quickly turned to disappointment, in a slow downward spiral that led to here.
A sigh escaped Zhol as he scanned his surroundings, looking for a suitable place to secure Solo and stop him wandering off into the Unforgiving. He vaulted from the horse, feet slipping from the stirrups and a leg swinging over Solo's body and down towards the ground in one fluid motion. Solo sputtered out a grunt at the shift in weight, but otherwise remained obediently still.
Seeing no explicit place to hitch a horse - no surprise, given the Inarta's lack of cultural respect for them - he instead teased out the lead attached to Solo's bridle, and led him towards one of the trees that enclosed the Greco Hut. The leather lead was looped and twisted around a sturdy looking branch, the closest semblance of a decent hitch that Zhol could muster given the thickness of wood he was dealing with. A few quick tugs assured him that it was relatively secure; with a quick pat against the side of Solo's neck, he stepped back towards the saddle, unbuckling the straps to retrieve his sword. After a few moments of hesitation, and the thought that perhaps this had all been a foolish endeavour, he turned away from his companion, and towards the hut's door.
It creaked as he opened it; something that made Zhol wince. It wasn't that he intended to arrive by stealth; but there was a difference between arriving normally, and drawing unwanted attention to oneself. Discretion lost, he entered with as much confidence as he could muster, making a greater effort to close the door more quietly behind him.
Instantly, he was struck by the unexpected sight of what lay inside. What from the outside seemed like little more than an unassuming shack was filled to bursting point. Racks of weapons, many of which Zhol couldn't even name lined every available stretch of wall; every spare inch of floor was covered with some obstacle, marking, or unexpected material, no doubt an essential part of the training that Master Archeron could offer.
The thought of the man seemed to summon him. He stood as tall as Zhol, perhaps a hair taller; but it was his bulk and broad shoulders that were most imposing, and made Zhol feel like he could easily be snapped like a twig. The slight permanent scowl that seemed to perpetuate his face did little to assure Zhol of his safety; nor did the wooden staff that Archeron carried, with it's dents and divots from what he guessed was frequent, violent use.
A questioning look cast at him by a pair of piercing eyes, Zhol blurted out an introduction. "Zhol, of Endrykas," he said almost by reflex, before adding a slight correction. "And the stables."
A flash of recognition seemed to sweep across Archeron's face. "Ah," he mused, a little of the harshness fading from his expression, though not quite enough for Zhol to rebrand it as anything positive. "Hansi's horse boy, from Cyphrus." A nod of Archeron's head indicated towards one of the windows. "That would explain your somewhat rare means of arrival."
Zhol wasn't sure how to respond; whether to smile, remain courteous, or answer in jest. "I suppose it does," he agreed, shuffling a little, uncomfortably. He looked about himself, as if searching for some scribbled prompt on what to say, somewhere on the hut's wooden shell. "I've come hoping you can teach me," he added, by way of an explanation of his presence.
"Most do," Archeron agreed. A slight frown twitched at his brow. "You've brought something with you?"
Zhol's eyebrows climbed in embarrassed realisation. He'd been told that Archeron would charge for his services, and here he was showing up at the door like some kind of mumbling freeloader. "Of course," he muttered half to himself, fumbling with his belt as he struggled to detach his coin purse.
Archeron sighed. "Show me your steel before you show me your coin," he instructed; less annoyed, more tired.
"Oh," Zhol replied sheepishly, abandoning his efforts, and instead retrieving the sword from the crook of his arm. Carefully, he unwound the chords that kept the blade safely bound, and slowly presented it towards Archeron. The swordmaster studied it with interest, eyeing the straightness of the blade, the thickness and sharpness of the steel, the strength of the construction around the basket hilt. His gaze peeled away from the blade as it reached the Pavi symbols engraved upon it. "Emberwing," he explained, with the faintest whiff of both pride and sorrow in his voice as he spoke that name. "It was my pavilion, back in Endrykas."
Greco's scrutiny transferred to Zhol's face, as if examining his features for added answers. "Past tense," he mused. "And you did not introduce yourself by that name. Interesting."
The swordmaster turned away, clearly not interested in interrogating the issue any further; something that flooded Zhol with a sense of relief. "Will you teach me?" Zhol asked tentatively, still at a loss to fully understand what was transpiring.
"That remains to be seen," Archeron replied; this time, the shift in his expression almost looked like a smile. "But I will certainly try." There was a brief pause of hesitation, as Greco strode back into the main body of the room. "You are not my only student today, however."
His gesture indicated an equally imposing figure, and Archeron's attention seemed to shift to him. "Turrin of the Twisted Vine," he introduced. "Have you had the dubious pleasure of meeting this young man before?"
"Pavi" | "Common" | "Nari"
This template was made by Khara. She was bribed with coffee and jammy dodgers.
This template was made by Khara. She was bribed with coffee and jammy dodgers.
