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"Again."
The man spoke to his fellow and after a collective catching of breath, they met back in the square's center. And without ceremony they went back into the drills. Downward strikes, forward thrusts or jabs, side-swings, and more rang out in the stone temple. Aside from the grunts of exertion and labored breathing there were no words or threats exchanged between the two. There were sharp clacks and knocks as wood landed upon wood, or occasionally the softer sound of an opening exploited and flesh was struck. But this carried on for till the two had to break and move to their corners, drowning their thirst and then their sweat covered heads with available water.
The older of the pair took the reprieve to look across the room where his armor lay neatly stacked, and next to that, was where she leaned and watched. He stared at her as he caught his breath and found no words to share with her, an almost guilty expression crossing over his features broken only when the squire at his back called for another round. He gazed upon her and gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile, before turning back to the ring.
“Heavier than the lady I favor.” He remarks as the pair square off once again. “Yet lighter than the claymores or Zweihänder. I still find myself tiring much sooner when she’s held in one hand. I’ll want a weight commissioned for my strong hand when we’re done with this exercise.”
The two met again and the drill continued as it had for hours over the past few days, though, this time as they circled in their dance of combat he found himself watching the woman outside the ring in the corner of his eye, raven-black hair and blue eyes stared piercingly at him, and he would swear in later days that she spoke words of encouragement to him. But this moment of distraction cost him and he caught the squire’s wooden blade square across the side of his face, where he should have easily parried it aside.
The young squire stood wide-eyed and backed up offering apologies which were quickly waved off by the sore-jawed man, shaking his head.
“Perhaps enough for this day, pray go and see Ezekial of the Scales, and see about that training weight.”
The squire took the excuse to depart and did so quickly with a parting words of thanks and encouragement to the green Lord Blackwell.
“The Brave bless you for the efforts.” He breathes back to the younger man, and he moves outside the ring towards where the lady and his belongings lay in wait.
He held a hand out to her, and almost did embrace her. But his expression hardened, and he withdrew his hand from her, and instead reached to a new addition to his armaments. He retrieved the Watchers Talon and unsheathed it, laying the wooden blade aside. He inspected her edge and ran his hand down the length, letting out a quiet sigh which strained at the freshly bruised flesh of his cheek. Hefting her in one hand, he returned to the rink. He dared not look back at the spurned lady Magdalena, leaning still where he had placed his sword-belt. And there he moved through the drills against shadow-warriors long into the night, practicing with his new lady, till his arm ached and he could lift her no more.
Tomorrow the House of the Shield expected him, and he would not be found lacking.
The man spoke to his fellow and after a collective catching of breath, they met back in the square's center. And without ceremony they went back into the drills. Downward strikes, forward thrusts or jabs, side-swings, and more rang out in the stone temple. Aside from the grunts of exertion and labored breathing there were no words or threats exchanged between the two. There were sharp clacks and knocks as wood landed upon wood, or occasionally the softer sound of an opening exploited and flesh was struck. But this carried on for till the two had to break and move to their corners, drowning their thirst and then their sweat covered heads with available water.
The older of the pair took the reprieve to look across the room where his armor lay neatly stacked, and next to that, was where she leaned and watched. He stared at her as he caught his breath and found no words to share with her, an almost guilty expression crossing over his features broken only when the squire at his back called for another round. He gazed upon her and gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile, before turning back to the ring.
“Heavier than the lady I favor.” He remarks as the pair square off once again. “Yet lighter than the claymores or Zweihänder. I still find myself tiring much sooner when she’s held in one hand. I’ll want a weight commissioned for my strong hand when we’re done with this exercise.”
The two met again and the drill continued as it had for hours over the past few days, though, this time as they circled in their dance of combat he found himself watching the woman outside the ring in the corner of his eye, raven-black hair and blue eyes stared piercingly at him, and he would swear in later days that she spoke words of encouragement to him. But this moment of distraction cost him and he caught the squire’s wooden blade square across the side of his face, where he should have easily parried it aside.
The young squire stood wide-eyed and backed up offering apologies which were quickly waved off by the sore-jawed man, shaking his head.
“Perhaps enough for this day, pray go and see Ezekial of the Scales, and see about that training weight.”
The squire took the excuse to depart and did so quickly with a parting words of thanks and encouragement to the green Lord Blackwell.
“The Brave bless you for the efforts.” He breathes back to the younger man, and he moves outside the ring towards where the lady and his belongings lay in wait.
He held a hand out to her, and almost did embrace her. But his expression hardened, and he withdrew his hand from her, and instead reached to a new addition to his armaments. He retrieved the Watchers Talon and unsheathed it, laying the wooden blade aside. He inspected her edge and ran his hand down the length, letting out a quiet sigh which strained at the freshly bruised flesh of his cheek. Hefting her in one hand, he returned to the rink. He dared not look back at the spurned lady Magdalena, leaning still where he had placed his sword-belt. And there he moved through the drills against shadow-warriors long into the night, practicing with his new lady, till his arm ached and he could lift her no more.
Tomorrow the House of the Shield expected him, and he would not be found lacking.
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