The morning was scarcely into the moments of illumination as the drilling square become host to one squire Dal, who had within the crook of his arm two wooden longswords as he made approach to the centre. Those that had a mind to practice in the early hours often saw Dal perform his dedications at the crack of first light, nods of quiet affirmation passing between those that honed the art of combat. There was but only one other squire in the square, who with spear in hand did set about their practice, making wide arcs and graceful movements afforded to them for their light elven frame. And sure enough, a nod passed between the two of them, before each continued their business of being the best they could offer. The elf, spear point striking at target after imagined foes were deftly dodged with pivot of foot and redirection of spiralling body. Dal looked at the fellow squire, by one name of Halin, and admired the grace that his own half orc frame would never muster.
His was a different breed of combat. Where Halin had grace and all mustered dexterity in the agile movements, weapon a rush of wood and wicked steel point that whirled and gleamed, Dal had years of plying the longsword against the foes that once coin and now duty demanded of him. He released the wasters from his crook and regarded them each in turn, old friends that bore the same weight as their more lethal brothers as to lend training between comrades a safe endeavour. Not a splinter upon them, freshly carved and treated for the training before him and his expected company.
The morning yielded sounds of birdsong, the rustling of fresh winds from the east that brought with it the distant scent of morning breakfasts being served, rousing beverages to those who attended the duties before the knights.
As Dal waited for his company to arrive, he went about stretching his tendons within his frame as to prevent injury from exertion. From wrist to arm, from leg to foot, each warmed up as the daylight broke the gloom. The squire Dal was a tall man of strength, who wore a cream gambeson with a simple breastplate affixed to his centre, a thing that had seen much testing, yet even more diligent attendance to maintaining it. It was a far cry from the plate mail he had once been adorned with, but all such things would be corrected once knighthood was achieved. One key to open that lock of title, station and responsibility was to tend to his comrades, to train with them and eagerly welcome the sword arts to their command.
Dal looked to the wooden implements and spinning it in the air but an inch from his grasp, feeling the weight of it so akin to the longswords he had used in his career. He thought of the primitive weapons he had first grasped in this moment with the orcish tribes so long ago, and then quickly shunted the thought in favour of thinking of the first proper forged and balanced longsword his first sword instructor had seen fit to place in his hand. He thought on those lessons, and did his best to temper himself to his new charge to offer his own tribute to the sword arts that had been imparted to him.
He had made arrangements with one Leofsige-Burtone, that this morning an exchange of blows and techniques would be shared. Done do willingly and with good spirit of co-operation, for what was better than to have good well trained folk beside you when it came to a moment of combat, Dal thought.
The spearpoint from Halin pierced target three times, before a deft jump brought the elven squire elegantly away. A small cheer came from Halin at the successful method, to be practiced over and over until thought yielded to muscle memory. Dal stood in the rising light of morning patiently as he considered how to impart what wisdom he had paid for with coin, nodding sagely as he approved of the fellow squire's practice.
Dal simply hoped he was as half a good teacher as his own was, all those years ago. All one could do, he thought, was one's best to prepare oneself and others for the moments where it would matter the placement of a foot, the knowledge of one's measure, the sword arts manifest in mettle tested against those they were charged with quashing.
Leofsige Burtone
His was a different breed of combat. Where Halin had grace and all mustered dexterity in the agile movements, weapon a rush of wood and wicked steel point that whirled and gleamed, Dal had years of plying the longsword against the foes that once coin and now duty demanded of him. He released the wasters from his crook and regarded them each in turn, old friends that bore the same weight as their more lethal brothers as to lend training between comrades a safe endeavour. Not a splinter upon them, freshly carved and treated for the training before him and his expected company.
The morning yielded sounds of birdsong, the rustling of fresh winds from the east that brought with it the distant scent of morning breakfasts being served, rousing beverages to those who attended the duties before the knights.
As Dal waited for his company to arrive, he went about stretching his tendons within his frame as to prevent injury from exertion. From wrist to arm, from leg to foot, each warmed up as the daylight broke the gloom. The squire Dal was a tall man of strength, who wore a cream gambeson with a simple breastplate affixed to his centre, a thing that had seen much testing, yet even more diligent attendance to maintaining it. It was a far cry from the plate mail he had once been adorned with, but all such things would be corrected once knighthood was achieved. One key to open that lock of title, station and responsibility was to tend to his comrades, to train with them and eagerly welcome the sword arts to their command.
Dal looked to the wooden implements and spinning it in the air but an inch from his grasp, feeling the weight of it so akin to the longswords he had used in his career. He thought of the primitive weapons he had first grasped in this moment with the orcish tribes so long ago, and then quickly shunted the thought in favour of thinking of the first proper forged and balanced longsword his first sword instructor had seen fit to place in his hand. He thought on those lessons, and did his best to temper himself to his new charge to offer his own tribute to the sword arts that had been imparted to him.
He had made arrangements with one Leofsige-Burtone, that this morning an exchange of blows and techniques would be shared. Done do willingly and with good spirit of co-operation, for what was better than to have good well trained folk beside you when it came to a moment of combat, Dal thought.
The spearpoint from Halin pierced target three times, before a deft jump brought the elven squire elegantly away. A small cheer came from Halin at the successful method, to be practiced over and over until thought yielded to muscle memory. Dal stood in the rising light of morning patiently as he considered how to impart what wisdom he had paid for with coin, nodding sagely as he approved of the fellow squire's practice.
Dal simply hoped he was as half a good teacher as his own was, all those years ago. All one could do, he thought, was one's best to prepare oneself and others for the moments where it would matter the placement of a foot, the knowledge of one's measure, the sword arts manifest in mettle tested against those they were charged with quashing.
Leofsige Burtone
