72 Winter 515AV
Baelin shifted in his place uncomfortably, eyeing the various Sylirans who were practicing on the frozen dirt. The owner of the Pit, Gerard Athonius, was already in the middle of a lesson with a woman. She was hunched over a dulled blade and had her eyebrows scrunched in concentration as Athonius gestured and spoke. Baelin had spent the last chime trying to gauge how far along in the lesson they were and it wasn’t looking good. If the lack of motion and plethora of speaking and gesturing was any sort of gauge, then they most likely had just started.
Athonius looked up from his lesson momentarily to meet Baelin’s scrutiny, shook his head with an apologetic frown, and then returned his attention to the woman.
Baelin had figured as much.
The large man exhaled a large puff of air and stared unenthusiastically at the weapons. He wasn’t sure how much he was going to get out of coming to the Pit without a lesson. But coming here was pretty high up on the list of chores Baelin didn’t want to do and he didn’t trust himself to come back anytime soon. He should at least try to get something out of this visit.
The armorer took a step closer to one of the racks and reluctantly inspected them. The smith in him couldn’t stand looking at them. Not a single one of them was without some sort of defect, dent, or ding and they all were woefully dull. He ached to nab one, bury it in charcoal, and then fix it.
But the completely inexperienced fighter in him was quite happy with the nearly demolished weapons. Baelin was no stranger to injuring himself in stupid ways, but a training accident would add insult to injury.
Huffing in annoyance, Baelin snatched a war hammer out of the mix. It at least looked like a distant cousin to his smithing hammers, and the familiarity was something Baelin could certainly do with.
The half-Dhani stepped away from the rack and ambled over a distance far enough away that he didn’t think he’d accidently hit someone. Baelin slowly swung his arm down, getting a feel for the weight of the weapon.
It wasn’t the first time Baelin had held a war hammer with the intent of understanding its mechanics. But experimentally rolling it around in his hand was a far cry from being able to use the thing and, after a few test swings, Baelin stared up to the gray sky and asked himself for the umpteenth time what good he was hoping to accomplish here.
Maybe he could turn it into an exercise. Baelin lifted the war hammer up high, then swung it down quickly and, when the metal head was about at the level of his waist, he put the brakes on it as hard as he could. The momentum of the weapon carried his arm a bit farther, and then he ended up overcompensating and snapping the weapon’s head up higher than he had wanted, but he did feel a nice burn in his arm.
Baelin switched hands and tried it again. His left was always worse than his right and the hammer’s head made it mid-thigh before he stopped it, but that nice ache in his arm was already building. His body’s way of telling him that he was indeed pushing himself.
Now we’re talking, Baelin thought, a bit of a smile starting to creep in. Experience or no, Baelin was going to make this day petching productive, so help him Dira.
Baelin shifted in his place uncomfortably, eyeing the various Sylirans who were practicing on the frozen dirt. The owner of the Pit, Gerard Athonius, was already in the middle of a lesson with a woman. She was hunched over a dulled blade and had her eyebrows scrunched in concentration as Athonius gestured and spoke. Baelin had spent the last chime trying to gauge how far along in the lesson they were and it wasn’t looking good. If the lack of motion and plethora of speaking and gesturing was any sort of gauge, then they most likely had just started.
Athonius looked up from his lesson momentarily to meet Baelin’s scrutiny, shook his head with an apologetic frown, and then returned his attention to the woman.
Baelin had figured as much.
The large man exhaled a large puff of air and stared unenthusiastically at the weapons. He wasn’t sure how much he was going to get out of coming to the Pit without a lesson. But coming here was pretty high up on the list of chores Baelin didn’t want to do and he didn’t trust himself to come back anytime soon. He should at least try to get something out of this visit.
The armorer took a step closer to one of the racks and reluctantly inspected them. The smith in him couldn’t stand looking at them. Not a single one of them was without some sort of defect, dent, or ding and they all were woefully dull. He ached to nab one, bury it in charcoal, and then fix it.
But the completely inexperienced fighter in him was quite happy with the nearly demolished weapons. Baelin was no stranger to injuring himself in stupid ways, but a training accident would add insult to injury.
Huffing in annoyance, Baelin snatched a war hammer out of the mix. It at least looked like a distant cousin to his smithing hammers, and the familiarity was something Baelin could certainly do with.
The half-Dhani stepped away from the rack and ambled over a distance far enough away that he didn’t think he’d accidently hit someone. Baelin slowly swung his arm down, getting a feel for the weight of the weapon.
It wasn’t the first time Baelin had held a war hammer with the intent of understanding its mechanics. But experimentally rolling it around in his hand was a far cry from being able to use the thing and, after a few test swings, Baelin stared up to the gray sky and asked himself for the umpteenth time what good he was hoping to accomplish here.
Maybe he could turn it into an exercise. Baelin lifted the war hammer up high, then swung it down quickly and, when the metal head was about at the level of his waist, he put the brakes on it as hard as he could. The momentum of the weapon carried his arm a bit farther, and then he ended up overcompensating and snapping the weapon’s head up higher than he had wanted, but he did feel a nice burn in his arm.
Baelin switched hands and tried it again. His left was always worse than his right and the hammer’s head made it mid-thigh before he stopped it, but that nice ache in his arm was already building. His body’s way of telling him that he was indeed pushing himself.
Now we’re talking, Baelin thought, a bit of a smile starting to creep in. Experience or no, Baelin was going to make this day petching productive, so help him Dira.