Fable - Ask Not too Hard

[Garrod Arlette]

by Jhon Avon​

What had he gotten himself into, Garrod could not help but wonder. Chasing a name with little more than the word of a new companion to really drive him forward.

A fool's errand, Oh Bearer Mine, the demon in the jewel of his gauntlet teased him. But, that was normal enough.

He stabbed down a rather simple looking blade into the soft earth of the plains they currently crossed over by wagon train, their caravan come to stop for the day, the drivers busy cookin stews and readying dinner, while the families that lived aboard the rolling merchant trains went about their business. A pleasant chatter in the air.

"So," Garrod said aloud as he paced away from the sword he had stuck into the earth. He had a second blade already in his hand. A little shorter than the previous one by a couple of inches, but of a thicker construction, he wielded it in one hand. "Seeing as trouble seems to follow you about, Raea, makes sense you want to learn a thing or two about swordplay," he nod his head toward the longsword stuck in the soil. "Go on then, pick up that blade and tell me what you already know," he held his own sword down, is posture lax. He had already removed his armor for the evening, and his great sword rest alongside his kit in the back of the nearest wagon.

A few kids hid behind the wagon wheels and watched, large eyed.

Empyrean

​

 

[Empyrean]

“I can practically taste your doubt.” Raea replied with some measure of bitterness. It was not she who sat at his table, inviting herself along to his troubles and woes. Her journey was her own–and she never wavered from that notion–no. She did not need her Empathy to understand that Garrod now had but a taste of who–or what–he was dealing with. Even that was, perhaps, too much!

Still, she couldn’t deny that the thrill of adventure and that she reclaimed the agency to find her own answers wasn’t pleasing in its own right. The only dreadful part was the coin to foot the journey–and so they traveled. They were among people who sojourned perhaps their whole lives–never settling, never truly at peace in just one place. They went where the money went–the trains on well known routes. Some of them had stories of her Nazrani ancestral home, and others were hard pressed to believe she was Nazrani at all.

They would see.

So when Garrod stuck a sword in the ground and pressed her for knowledge, she humored him. “My father said you should never stick any sword into the ground like that.” She stepped to the embedded blade with its plain hilt and studied it before committing to a grasp, “See how the hilt is bigger than my hand? I think,” Her brows furrowed as she thought about it, “I think even with a man’s hand this would be wielded with two hands. Or maybe if one had larger hands than I maybe one hand if they were brutish enough.”

She committed to the grasp and tugged, feeling the weight as she did. Raea tried again–and this time with two hands. “The–the blade’s tip,” She grunted as she yanked with effort–and winced at the idea she might hurt the blade, “Is guided by–by the,” She paused to get a better grip on the hilt, “By the power of the hand on the hilt. For thrusting!” Raea felt like she had no choice and abandoned all notion of being gentle with the blade as she jerked it out of the ground. She stumbled back when it gave, the sword dragging on the ground–clearly too heavy for her, “And that–that is why my father said it was never good to stick a sword in the ground.”

Heaving and feeling the muscles of her arms scream as the tip lifted and hovered an inch or two from the ground, “Can’t thrust with a dull tip.” She grimaced, feeling the burn of the sword’s weight in her hands. “I was young when I watched my father train his bannermen. I wanted to learn but girls didn’t learn those things. But I watched anyway, when he thought I wasn’t looking. It’s been a while, but. I will learn.”

If ever–and she knew ever in her life–she had to prove she had Nazrani blood in her veins, it would be now. As she thought this, the tip dipped to rest on the ground, giving her arms a moment of reprieve. Raea frowned at her own lack of strength. Her hands were strong–and Rysorian saw to that. The sword did not feel uncomfortable in her hands–no. They were now calloused and stronger than they had been before. Raea would argue she never had Noble’s hands. Not since the Red Night.

But she was made of grit and other difficult things, Nazrani least of all. She ground her teeth and lifted the sword again. Though it only hoverd three inches from the ground, she lifted it all the same and nodded to Garrod.

“Trouble finds me, but I handle it all the same. I’m alive, you’re alive. Rysorian is alive. Cassandra escaped. That’s more than I can say for others who get tangled up in my problems.” Raea thought of the dead and the icy breath of death that took them. But thinking of the dead would distract her from what she needed–which was to learn to defend herself.

 

[Garrod Arlette]

Doubt. He almost laughed at the idea of him doing things without a single doubt, but, he knew better, and watched Raea in amused silence instead.

Garrod scratched at the side of his jaw with his free hand, as she tried to heft the blade, and he listened to her words on proper blade maintenance and handle width as she struggled with the longsword, almost as if it were his slayer's blade. Curious. The longsword wasn't more than most full packs in weight, or a good staff.

"Let's do all we can to remain so fortunate, then," he smirked, and let down his sword so that its tip pressed into the dirt in front of him and stood on its own. "Every good stance starts at the feet," he began, and spread his own feet so that they stopped just outside his shoulders. "Wide, with bent knees over your toes." he adjusted his own lead knee to show a bad stance, knees too far in, his body loaded awkwardly, then he adjusted his posture, loaded his weight properly once more.

"With good footing, and proper holds, your whole body will help you carry most weapons," he picked up his sword again, brought it up and kept his elbows bent, the hilt close to his chest as he held it with both hands choked around the shorter handle. "Your arms and hands should never be doing all the work by themselves," he extended his arms out again into a full extension, the blade's weight caused his hold to dip down, as if it were straining his arms, until he brought it back, closer to his center. "Try to keep the weight at your center first, and keep your back straight," he turned his eye back onto her, holding his stance for her to mimic. "If the blade is too heavy, then we start with just building up your stance," really, she probably should start with a spear.

Empyrean

 

[Empyrean]

"I'm glad this is all very amusing to at least one of us!" Raea retorted sourly. Her arms were already aching fiercely. Still, she couldn't deny that it had been so long since her father even deigned to put a sword in her hands that she could scarely remember her own footing. Garrod instructed her and she tried to take it in stride--much as she had when Rysorian taught her to throw a knife.

She did well with that, surely she could catch on with this?

This time she felt the ground beneath her as she did her best to follow him--her stance was wide--perhaps too wide. Her golden gaze flickered to his feet to study, but quickly darted back to Garrod himself, not fully trusting him enough to take her eyes off of him. She smirked in return--not out of cockiness, but because the ground felt right beneath her. She did bend, and immediately felt protest from her hips. Surely she wasn't that much out of shape?!

Her smirk dissipated and tumbled into a twisted grimace as she sank--not so low that she would be stuck, but enough that she couldn't see her toes anymore if--and she quickly did--look down. her spine aligned almost instantly and--for a moment--Raea felt taller. The sword's tip rose higher off the ground. It was still heavy, but she felt the core of her being stalwart and holding her. For the first time in a while, Raea felt grounded.

"Do you read other people's movements more than your own?" She asked, more out of curiosity than concern. There were fleeting memories of watching foot soldiers train in the sword. They made it look so effortless and easy, but it felt like they seldom checked themselves and more or less focused on the steps of each other. She wanted to learn, and her father almost considered it but was ultimately against the idea. Too young, she was told--though a young Raea would have (and likely did) wrinkle her nose at that. "I can feel my center better this way, that's for certain--but. How do you keep your back straight in the heat of it all?"

She had always seen others seem to throw themselves into a fight. But, she admitted, she had also seen how Garrod fights and he was lithe and deadly in his style.

When he suggested just the stance, her pride sprung from her lips, "No! I need to learn this. The more useful I am, the less of a burden I am." She didn't want to admit that she might not yet be ready for something like a sword, but with the progress of knife-throwing, she hoped to show she could handle it.

"What else do I need to know?"

 

[Garrod Arlette]

"Amusing," he repeated as he began to stalk around her, his eye inspecting her posture. "Till you meet a blade with that stance under you," he pointed down at her feet with a quick gesture using his own sword's point. "Bring your feet a little closer together, you want to feel supported at your base, grounded, but in a way that lets you step back and forth with the balls of your feet," he stopped in front of her, out of sword's reach, and mirrored her stance, adjusted his toes just a bit, and pushed his weight around, the pads of his fee grounded firmly on the ground as he flexed left and right, right and left fluidly. He stopped, and nodded to Raea, signaling she try it.

"There are two primary types of guard," Garrod continued, and held his sword high, his whole body seemed to curl forward behind the weapon, its blade run long near his face, the cross guard there, a prong ready to catch whatever came at it. But the blade itself looked ready to fall, ready to cut, so loaded with potential power were the hunter's arms and his posture too. "High guard," he took a half step back, pushed with his lead left foot, his blade lowered down, its point aimed with threat at Raea's throat, his arms relaxed and low, but long as the metal road of the weapon ran between them. "Low guard," he stood there a moment to let her observe his posture, the set of his stance.

"Each guard has variations, but for today, we will just call them high and low," he slowly shift between the two. "High," he explained. "Is used to take the initiative, intimidate your foe and command the space between you," he showed a cut, quick, down and across his body as he stepped forward in unison with the blade's flash. "We will start with the high guard,"

Empyrean

 

[Empyrean]

When she had first met Garrod Arlette, Raea thought he was the strangest man to cross her path. It was perhaps the easy charm, but the way her skin crawled with her empathy with him around suggested something else she couldn’t yet put her finger on. In no realm could she fathom anyone just making themselves at home with the likes of her in a world where even the most graceful and powerful of species regard her so queerly and keep their distance.

Raea had always suspected that there was something more to Garrod but learned—with time and patience—that the truth would reveal itself if she went with it all. She couldn’t deny he was skill at what he did, and she learned in more ways than one. Rocking onto her balls of her feet, she felt that center of gravity correct itself. Her footwork wasn’t so terrible, and perhaps it was the natural lithe and stride of her Nazrani heritage, or Rysorian’s training with stance and knife-throwing had taken her further than she thought. She was secretly impressed and enthralled with swordsmanship, but when you were unapproachable and lacked the weapon in question—you jumped on the chance to learn.

When he moved with slow intent and purpose, Raea made paltry attempts to mirror him—she assumed it was paltry because the caravan’s children were still giggling and whispering at her behind her. They gave them wounded looks of pride and mouthed for them to be kinder to her before refocusing on Garrod. "High Guard protects from overhead attacks, Low Guard protects from head on attacks or low sweeps? Where did you learn?”

Every time he moved, she felt his intent to move—felt it in the palms of her hands as her empathy slithered along. She couldn’t identify direction or plan—only the intent, but she watched his feet as he shifted stances from High Guard to Low Guard and adjusted herself accordingly. “Do different swords and blades play into the different ways one guards? How do you know when to advance and when to back off? Like—if I had a shorter sword, I’d have to adapt to take advantage, no?” Questions, questions, questions. If Garrod was going to teach, Raea was going to learn.