81st of Winter, 514 AV
Lorden forced out a calm breath, before he shoved his left hand forward, and drove the metal buckler held within it, to clunk quickly through the open air of the Pit's courtyard. The knight only stopped shoving his shield forward, when his left arm was fully extended. Taking a breath, the swordsman allowed calm thoughts to bubble ip, into his mind.
Keep a good distance, Lorden reminded himself, as he continued his motion, and brought his sword arm to bend in against the side of his chest. The knight was now standing, in a relatively basic guard; his shield was extended defensively out in front of him. Meanwhile, the length of his arming sword was tucked, pointing forward, beside the round metal object, the tip held just behind the rim of his buckler.
Observe your enemy, Lorden thought, as he starred into the menacingly empty air, in front of him. Ticks passed, and Lorden searched his mind, for a way to continue his impromptu drill.
If no move is made, make the one they don't expect, Lorden mused happily, a smirk forming on his face, as the words bubbled to the forefront of his mind.
Following his own directive, the raven-haired swordsman, quickly drove his sword up and out of it's couched guard, and rushed the blade to hold above and behind his head. Meanwhile, the knight pulled his buckler in closer to the front of his body, and took a booted step forward, kicking up minuscule amounts of sand with the fast footfall, as he began driving forward. When his front foot reconnected with the ground a tick later, Lorden began arching the steel sword suspended over his head, into a downward drive.
"You wiry bastard, ye knocked me on my arse," as the loud, somewhat crude words, and the sound of a human form thudding against sand, assaulted Lorden's ears; the distracted knight almost found himself not stopping his downward sword swing in time, and the blade danced dangerously close to his unarmored legs.
Petch, the knight swore mentally, as he reversed his cut, with a quickly executed upward pull from his sword arm. With the steel now once more in his attentive control, Lorden let the sword continue up in it's reversed motion, before swinging it over his head, and bringing it to hang down to his right side. With a self-annoyed, but curious raise of his brow, the swordsman willed his azure eyes, to glance over to where the distracting voice in question, had come from.
"Eh, come e'n now Yargul. Ye know I did't mea' it," the knight's eyes took in the curly-haired brunet as he spoke. Bending over, the man Lorden was watching offered a hand to the corpulent human being, who was working himself from the ground in front of him.
"Ye better damn mean it, we were fighting ya shyke," the fat man knocked his friend's offered hand aside, as he shakily raised himself to his own feet. Dusting himself off, Lorden noted, that this 'Yargul' didn't even bother to look at his brown-haired sparring partner, as the man began to respond.
"We's just sparring, though," the brunet commented somewhat obviously. The lanky fighter was obviously trying to stay on the good side, of the dust-covered fat man in front of him. As the words spilled dumbly from the brunet's mouth, Yargul raised an eyebrow.
"Ceryl?" the pot-bellied swordsman prompted.
"Ye'?" the brunet asked dryly.
"You remember that bar fight, the one where I blackened your eye?" Yargul drilled his words into Ceryl; seemingly just trying to get a point across, there was no more malice in the mention of the past fight, than there had been in the rest of his words, that he had spoken throughout the two's whole conversation. Still, while the fat man didn't seem to be bothered by bringing up the aforementioned fight, the brunet he was talking to, averted his eyes before slowly opening his mouth.
"Ye'..." Ceryl admitted with the familiar syllable, his voice trailing off nervously, as he spoke.
"I'd never would have really hurt you Ceryl, but I still laid my fist against yer eye. Same thing with you knocking me down, when you do something, even if it ain't a real fight, don't go holding back everything, no real man will," the fat man spoke in thoughtful bursts. About halfway through his monologue, Yargul looked away from his brunet friend, and bent over to grab a long steel sword, that had presumably fallen with the fat man, before. Bending back up, the corpulent swordsman looked back to his companion.
"You got that, Ceryl?" he questioned.
"Ye' Yargul," Ceryl confirmed, allowing his eyes to drift back up to his friend.
Nice guys, Lorden mused to himself jokingly. The knight shrugged mentally, as he starred on at the two men.
Crude, but it might just be their cup of tea, the swordsman continued thinking on the swordsmen, who had distracted him. Lorden, in his thoughts, had allowed his eyes to stay on the two, and hadn't really thought much of it; but when the fat man named Yargul, caught Lorden's blue eyes with his own gaze, the knight almost jumped.
They best not come over here, the startled knight thought to himself, quickly averting his eyes. Lorden did his best to return to his drills inconspicuously, but the knight could almost feel the two men beginning to walk over to him, regardless.
Petch, Lorden thought, as he shakily executed a central thrust into the thin air.
Keep a good distance, Lorden reminded himself, as he continued his motion, and brought his sword arm to bend in against the side of his chest. The knight was now standing, in a relatively basic guard; his shield was extended defensively out in front of him. Meanwhile, the length of his arming sword was tucked, pointing forward, beside the round metal object, the tip held just behind the rim of his buckler.
Observe your enemy, Lorden thought, as he starred into the menacingly empty air, in front of him. Ticks passed, and Lorden searched his mind, for a way to continue his impromptu drill.
If no move is made, make the one they don't expect, Lorden mused happily, a smirk forming on his face, as the words bubbled to the forefront of his mind.
Following his own directive, the raven-haired swordsman, quickly drove his sword up and out of it's couched guard, and rushed the blade to hold above and behind his head. Meanwhile, the knight pulled his buckler in closer to the front of his body, and took a booted step forward, kicking up minuscule amounts of sand with the fast footfall, as he began driving forward. When his front foot reconnected with the ground a tick later, Lorden began arching the steel sword suspended over his head, into a downward drive.
"You wiry bastard, ye knocked me on my arse," as the loud, somewhat crude words, and the sound of a human form thudding against sand, assaulted Lorden's ears; the distracted knight almost found himself not stopping his downward sword swing in time, and the blade danced dangerously close to his unarmored legs.
Petch, the knight swore mentally, as he reversed his cut, with a quickly executed upward pull from his sword arm. With the steel now once more in his attentive control, Lorden let the sword continue up in it's reversed motion, before swinging it over his head, and bringing it to hang down to his right side. With a self-annoyed, but curious raise of his brow, the swordsman willed his azure eyes, to glance over to where the distracting voice in question, had come from.
"Eh, come e'n now Yargul. Ye know I did't mea' it," the knight's eyes took in the curly-haired brunet as he spoke. Bending over, the man Lorden was watching offered a hand to the corpulent human being, who was working himself from the ground in front of him.
"Ye better damn mean it, we were fighting ya shyke," the fat man knocked his friend's offered hand aside, as he shakily raised himself to his own feet. Dusting himself off, Lorden noted, that this 'Yargul' didn't even bother to look at his brown-haired sparring partner, as the man began to respond.
"We's just sparring, though," the brunet commented somewhat obviously. The lanky fighter was obviously trying to stay on the good side, of the dust-covered fat man in front of him. As the words spilled dumbly from the brunet's mouth, Yargul raised an eyebrow.
"Ceryl?" the pot-bellied swordsman prompted.
"Ye'?" the brunet asked dryly.
"You remember that bar fight, the one where I blackened your eye?" Yargul drilled his words into Ceryl; seemingly just trying to get a point across, there was no more malice in the mention of the past fight, than there had been in the rest of his words, that he had spoken throughout the two's whole conversation. Still, while the fat man didn't seem to be bothered by bringing up the aforementioned fight, the brunet he was talking to, averted his eyes before slowly opening his mouth.
"Ye'..." Ceryl admitted with the familiar syllable, his voice trailing off nervously, as he spoke.
"I'd never would have really hurt you Ceryl, but I still laid my fist against yer eye. Same thing with you knocking me down, when you do something, even if it ain't a real fight, don't go holding back everything, no real man will," the fat man spoke in thoughtful bursts. About halfway through his monologue, Yargul looked away from his brunet friend, and bent over to grab a long steel sword, that had presumably fallen with the fat man, before. Bending back up, the corpulent swordsman looked back to his companion.
"You got that, Ceryl?" he questioned.
"Ye' Yargul," Ceryl confirmed, allowing his eyes to drift back up to his friend.
Nice guys, Lorden mused to himself jokingly. The knight shrugged mentally, as he starred on at the two men.
Crude, but it might just be their cup of tea, the swordsman continued thinking on the swordsmen, who had distracted him. Lorden, in his thoughts, had allowed his eyes to stay on the two, and hadn't really thought much of it; but when the fat man named Yargul, caught Lorden's blue eyes with his own gaze, the knight almost jumped.
They best not come over here, the startled knight thought to himself, quickly averting his eyes. Lorden did his best to return to his drills inconspicuously, but the knight could almost feel the two men beginning to walk over to him, regardless.
Petch, Lorden thought, as he shakily executed a central thrust into the thin air.
