|
|
Post by Markas Virnala on Apr 9, 2020 11:31:31 GMT
2nd Hammer 1497
The small field outside Port Ffirst was quickly looking more and more like the scene of a battle. Much of the grass had been trodden into or carved from the dirt, creating a ragged circle in the frosted grass, spattered with dried blood here and there from the previous days sparring. In the centre, the tall Half-Elf raises a hand, palm upwards and catches the falling sword. As his hand closes over the hilt, a flick of his wrist and a flash of the Steel sees the sword soaring back into the air again, the rhythmic sound of the blade cutting the air as it spins before he catches it once again in his left hand. Using the momentum of the blades descent, sending it back skywards for what feels like the thousandth time.
After the beating Baine had given him out here over the last few days, sparring was no longer an option, at least until his ribs healed. The sparring had been good for him, Baineās instructions being enough to get him started. Once he began practising alone though, he quickly found they clashed with his own style, too rigid, too uniform. He was used to moving, flowing through a conflict, not using his strength. Standing still and slugging it out was just not something he was good at. The persistence Markas was showing was beginning to turn to frustration. His ribs ached and made moving difficult. Most of all though, he just couldnāt concentrate. Between trying to think on his Kata, balancing the weight of the blade and the ever intrusive questions following his time on the wharf with Sunday, he couldn't focus properly. This was a lot of new things to process at once and had now begun affecting his ability to train.
After swinging the Steel around for a few hours, Markas finally decided to go back to basics and adapt his previous training to the larger weapon. He needed to learn the weight, the feel of it, make it part of himself, an extension rather than a tool.
In any case, Sliām was right, it really was a beautiful sword, just longer and heavier than any he had trained with before. He just wished he could get to grips using it already. Shortswords, Scimitars, Falchionsā¦ Lighter blades with a shorter reach were what he had trained with his whole life, but the Longsword was heavy, like swinging a branch by comparison. The extra length meant he needed to allow more space to move too, much like with his staff, only if this hit his leg as he spun it round it would likely cut it off. At least this exercise was coming to him easily. Catching the twirling blade again, Markas turns on the spot, trading hands behind his back seamlessly, sending the newest addition to his arsenal soaring into the air again.
He just needed to be able to hit something with it...
|
|
|
|
Post by Markas Virnala on Apr 9, 2020 13:31:46 GMT
14th Hammer 1947
Markas had been training with the Long sword for just over a month now, but still wasn't quite confident in trying out his skills in a live combat situation. He still felt sluggish, the weapon not really fitting his normal Kata routine. He was having to adjust and rethink his approach with this weapon. Every step, every stance, the position of his hands, the speed, balance, posture... Every movement, long memorised, was now being scrutinised, broken down, altered and tested, again and again. It was slow going and he wished he could lean on his old masters for some guidance but that wasnāt an option now, he realised.
The last week in particular, his training with the long sword had come to a complete stop. Augustine had finally fixed up his broken rib but the harpy that had attacked them in Kāul Goran had made a mess of his back. More so, though, it was the tangled mess his mind had become though that had slowed him down. With the recent deaths, reminders of his past and new developments, everything had become hazy. Things just hadn't been sitting right.
Since lifting the haze, things were getting easier for once. Besides finally finding his balance over water, Markas was finally feeling like his hard work was paying off. The individual motions and steps of his new kata were finally starting to make sense. Bolder than his Scimitar training, the movement stemming from his core. Wider swings, a firmer grasp on the blade, using the weight of the blade to position it where he needs it rather than the subtle nudge needed to guide his lighter blades.
His meditation had changed too, much more vivid, tangible. What started as a haze had opened up and slowly taken form in his mind, a large circular room of stone, simple and empty. It was quiet there and devoid of detail, except for one thing. A single archway at the edge of the room with a simple corridor leading to a small crackling storm. The longer his mind stayed here, the more details slowly creep in forming as he explores and delves deeper into his meditation. Other archways begin to dot the walls, the space inside them still solid but almost wanting to be opened up like the other one. An ethereal light begins to wash over everything from an unknown source that almost follows him around, shining a light on his focus as he moves. It's a simple start but one he can build on...
|
|
|
|
Post by Markas Virnala on Apr 12, 2020 19:01:22 GMT
9th Ches 1497
The sun feels warm on his skin, as over him washes a gentle breeze carrying the fragrant scent of flowers: daisies, jasmines, honeysuckles, and - always - sunflowers. The sound of the gentle trickle of the stream rushing over the smooth stones of the river bed rings out across the space, interspersed occasionally by a sweet humming. Her humming.
This was quickly becoming the place Markas spent most of his time in here now. Of all places, all the rooms, this one was where he could relax. Sundayās Glade, or at least his approximation of it. Even with his eyes closed, he can make out every detail around him; the various flowers and herbs, the smooth stones placed in a circle, the small hill, topped by the enormous Willow tree providing a vibrant canopy over the space, the leaves allowing a dappling of sunlight to shift and dance over the peaceful scene.
He takes a deep breath, drinking it all in and - sssshink - Everything stops suddenly, eyes snap open, the inner-world around him falling still, silent. His eyes dart across the glade looking for the source but he sees nothing. The wind has stopped, the water frozen in placeā¦ It was faint but there was no mistaking it. The sound of metal, sharp, dragging against something. His eyes search around for the intrusion in futility as the moments pass and silence roars back at him. After a tense minute the muscles in his back relax as he breathes again, life returning to the glade, the water flowing, the wind in the leaves.
The peace he felt returns and - sshink - his eyes snap open again, turning to the source of the sound. The initial Frustration at the intrusion is quickly replaced by curiosity as Markas stands with a stretch and steps off stone he had set himself up on, walking up the hill towards the base of the great Willow tree where a stone arch stands, carved with images of delicate flowers. The sounds of the glade fade behind him as he walks through the arch and along the stone corridor and is replaced by the background rumble of the storm outside. The short corridor opens up into the large circular room again. It was definitely this way, something different, something that he hasn't heard here before. Standing in the arch, he scans the room. To his left, the paintings stretch off down a long corridor, vanishing into darkness in the distance. Leading round the room, next, the room with the storm. Opposite were three archways with blank walls in them then to his right was the light r- waitā¦.
His gaze drifts back to the opposite side again. The wall wasnāt blank anymore. Between the centre arch, was now a roughly made wooden door with brass handle.
|
|
|
|
Post by Markas Virnala on Apr 25, 2020 16:59:25 GMT
22 Ches 1497
A quick succession of metal clashing rings out around the room as the imposing figure of Baine Cinderwood brings the maul round again in three quick swings, driving the monk backwards. He barely manages to deflect the blows with his long sword before diving off to one side and turning on the spot just in time to see the maul coming at him again. Markas drops low, underneath the swing from the larger man, stepping forward and bringing the long sword up to slice at Baineās arm before stepping past the man, turning as he does to slash a deep cut across his back.
The real Baine Cinderwood, of course, would not have been so forgiving as to allow him the chance to do that but the phantom Baine in the dojo was a good approximation at least. Enough to practice and perfect his new skills at any rate. The one good thing about all the beatings his friend had given him was being able to study his technique so much, it made the simulated version here so much more realistic. Markas takes a breath and the phantom vanishes, the spilled blood is instantly cleaned and various gouges and splintered boards from their fight are suddenly back in one piece.
He had recognised the door to this place as soon as he saw it. It was his door. The door to his old bedroom back home. The fact that it led to here was a little confusing at first but he supposed it must make sense somehow. He felt like a student again so it was only natural there would be something familiar there from his youth. (Thatās what he told himself anyway.)
This newest room was something he hadnāt realised he needed. He had already been visualising his training but this was somewhere he could experience it again, to fine tune every move and stance when actual physical training wasnāt possible. It was fairly large, completely square with a high pointed ceiling. The bare Mahogany wood floors looked like they had been worn smooth over decades of use and the panelled walls had been slid aside to allow a soft light to creep in. The back wall is completely made of wooden boards, stained a deep and dark brown to match the supports around the room, in the centre of which hangs a large unfurled scroll that is completely blank. To either side stand a series of weapon racks holding enough arms to supply a small army. The most valuable aspect he had found here though was just how responsive the place had become. He had started off practicing alone but a passing thought of his sparring with Hugo growing up prompted the first Phantom to appear, a vaguely Hugo-esque shade that stood in his awkward stance, waiting to spar. A few days of experimenting and Markas found he was able to even replicate something as chaotic as the scuffle in the burning Wizards Library back in Sigul, though that quickly fell apart as there was too much to follow all at once. Sometimes he conjured other phantoms to practice with, his friends, monsters. Even just reliving previous battles, all the while, the space around him instinctively adjusts to accommodate what he needs at barely a thought.
Straightening himself up, Markas walks back to the only space on the wall and hangs the long sword back in its place, almost ceremonial in his gentle handling as he does so. It had taken less time than he had anticipated to reach this point, where using the long blade had become so natural, an extension rather than a tool. It took years to reach this point with the scimitar and he still felt like his spear work was lacking but things seemed to be falling into place since he began practicing here.
āSoonā
|
|
|
|
Post by Ser Baine Cinderwood š„š¼ on Apr 26, 2020 18:25:17 GMT
You been fantasising about me, mate?
|
|
|
|
Post by Markas Virnala on Apr 26, 2020 18:31:40 GMT
You been fantasising about me, mate? always  |
|
|
|
Post by Markas Virnala on Apr 27, 2020 19:39:28 GMT
3 Tarsahk 1497
As he makes his way to the gate, the Half-Elf catches a glimpse of himself in a window and begins rubbing at his face again. The drawings had come off now but he was sure he could still see it. He should have expected it really, asking Sunday to look sit and watch over them like that but she still managed to surprise him. He couldnāt help but wonder if Baine had gotten it off yet.
Having started his training in the use of Lock-picks the previous week, the practice with the longsword had now come to a stop. He felt at least as confident using it as he did the spear at this point so he wasnāt too worried about losing progress, and with Sunday still busy trying to learn that weird language from Oriloki, he decided to use today to try out something a little different again. He rounds the corner and heads out of the city, heading south off the road.
It wasnāt often he used his bow these days, but he did in the makeshift ritual room when they went into the Underdark a few days ago. He could have closed the gap to the priestess and used his sword of course but he felt inclined to try shooting for some reason. Maybe it was seeing Igrainne again? At any rate, watching the arrow fly from his bow, feeling the faint trickle of his Ki he felt leave with it got him thinking; āwhat would happen if this was the other way round?ā. Trying to stop a summoning while a priestess transformed into a giant spider was, however, not the time to entertain that particular idea.
A short while after leaving the city, the monk reaches the tree line of the Feythorn Forest, away from the passing merchants and farmers who might distract him. He sets up his makeshift target against a particularly large tree and rolls his shoulder as he walks back to his pack and takes up his bow, aiming for the target like he had a thousand times before. He nocks the arrow and pulls back the string then stops. He had learnt a while back that if he focused his energy into the arrow it seemed to smoother somehow, but what if he focused on the bow?
Markas focuses his eyes on the target and concentrates, feeding his ki outward from the hand in a constant, steady stream. He can feel the wood begin to strain in his hand and for the first time since getting it all those years ago, starts to wonder if it might snap. He holds on, arms straining with the pressure until, a split-second before he releases the arrow, he feels it. A connection he hadnāt felt before, like a well he can feed his energy into. The bow seems to flex the slightest bit more just as the arrow is set loose, flying quicker than ever, slamming into the center of the target.
With a satisfied smirk, Markas pulls another arrow.
|
|
|
|
Post by Markas Virnala on Jun 14, 2020 15:53:08 GMT
14 Tarsahk 1497
There is an uncharacteristic roar of effort from Markas as he brings the sword around in a two-handed slash. The blade of his newest sword easily cleaves its way through the wooden Pell he has been training on, sending the top half clattering to the floor. Exhausted and dripping in sweat, he watches it tumble and falls back onto the floor and finally concedes that this just isnāt going to work, no matter how much he tried.
Yesterday, on their trip to the Feywild for the second seal, he had finally felt confident enough to try out using a Longsword in a practical environment, even managing to channel his Ki through the blade, sharpening it more than any whetstone would be able to. Better still, he even managed to acquire the Gold Handled Katana of the Vanguard āEnforcerā that had attacked them in the tower of the correalescen Conclave. From the moment he picked it up, felt the balance of the blade, listened to the way it sang through the air, he knew he was going to treasure this particular weapon.
The current frustration, however, came not from the sword but his own inability to augment it as he could the other Silvered sword he took from the Githyanki. He had spent hours going through his entire arsenal of weapons now, channeling Ki with varying degrees of success and finally managed to pick out which types he could attune his energy to, even familiarizing himself with the process to the point of managing it in the space of a few seconds. But three of the swords he carried just would not be possible it seemed; The Dragon Scimitar, the Drow Longsword and this Katana. Each just seemed to have their own energy that pushed back at his own.
With a sigh, Markas climbs back onto his feet and crosses the Phantom Dojo to place it back on itās mount with the others. He may not be able to channel his Ki into it, but it really was a beautiful weapon.
|
|
