Sparring - a narrative write-up (Varis and Darius)
Apr 15, 2019 14:24:07 GMT
Grimes, Daisy, and 2 more like this
Post by Darius (retired) on Apr 15, 2019 14:24:07 GMT
The training yard is strangely peaceful as the morning sun begins to peek over the tiled roof of the Order’s barracks. Varis stands with his shoulders pressed to the smithy wall, the heat of the forge bleeding through to chase the late spring chill from his back and hands. Beyond the walls, Daring is already teeming with metropolitan activity, the clop of hooves and the curses of drovers floating over the red stone like wisps of smoke. But here, in the cool shadows of the yard, there is a rare serenity.
A few feet from where the Half-Elf stands, a tender green stalk pushes through the level earth. Varis frowns at it, walking distractedly to where the small plant breaks through the clay of the yard and stooping to pull it free. At the last moment he hesitates, instead dropping to squat on his heels and staring through the little flower, beyond it, into some moment long since passed.
It is deep in this reverie that Darius finds him, the young warrior looking up to see the veteran ride slowly through the archway into the yard.
Darius, clad in his nondescript armour, swings his right foot over the horse’s neck and slides down off the saddle. He doesn't tie his mount up, but takes a moment to lay a hand on her nose and whisper something into her ear before unhooking his shield and a long spear from the saddle. The horse nuzzles against him and moves away to drink from the water trough outside the Order’s stables.
"Not disturbing you, am I, lad? Just got my shield back from Milo and thought I'd take you up on that offer to spar."
Varis shakes his head as though to clear it, then looks up, smiling at the older man. “You’re not disturbing me at all, sir. Indeed, I could use a stretch. From what Conrad says, I might even learn a thing or two. Bear with me a moment.”
The young man walks inside the building, reappearing a few moments later with a slender black-and-red kite shield and a blunted training sword. Giving it a few careful swings to test the balance, he sets his feet and waits for the ex-soldier’s first pass.
Darius nods briefly at Varis before leaping forward, his speed surprising for a man of such size and age. Varis barely has time to brace himself before Darius' shield slams into his own, the bulk of the older man sending the Half-Elf crashing to the floor.
"'Ware your stance!" shouts Darius, lightly jabbing down with the spear point once, twice, thrice, four times in quick succession. As the first strike approaches the prone warrior’s chest, the bloody fist emblazoned there flashes with red light and the spear seems to slow as though moving through treacle. Varis catches the first strike on his shield, but the remaining three slip past his guard.
As the older man retreats, Varis regains his feet, stepping warily forward. His first probing attack is deftly parried, and when he repeats the move, the broad fighter turns the edge of the shield to catch Varis’ wrist, jarring the blade from his grip.
Darius steps back a pace or two into a defensive position, resetting the shield on his arm and resting the spear over the top with the point towards Varis, motioning towards the fallen sword with his head as he does so.
Varis keeps his eyes on his opponent as he crouches to pick up the blade, then makes two more swift strikes against the man, nodding to himself as they are both batted away. A wry smile stretches his lips as he mutters something under his breath, the air around him starting to shimmer slightly.
In response, Darius moves in quick and low, almost squatting under the second swing from Varis, before rotating the spear in his grip to sweep the reinforced wooden haft at the warrior’s legs. It connects with a sharp crack, and Varis staggers, dropping to one knee. Darius springs up and, spinning the spear back round to hold the weapon point down, goes to rap Varis’ helmet twice. The first strike again seems to be moving through water as there is a flash of red light, and though the blow connects, its passage is slowed.
Seeming to fall back into old ways, Darius starts to bark, “Always…” before grunting in surprise – in grudging admiration – as a red-gauntleted fist snaps up to catch the spear's second descent and tear it from his grasp. He doesn't see the blade in Varis' other hand come around in a blur, the pommel catching him on the side of his unhelmeted head and sending him stumbling back.
Darius shakes his vision clear, ears ringing, and wipes the blood away from the edge of his mouth. "Ha, always protect your head. Maybe I should heed my own advice." He takes a moment to compose himself before drawing the sword from the sheath at his left hip and swinging two controlled blows at Varis' head and side.
Varis manages to catch the first one, high on his shield, the second slipping low beneath his guard but again slowed by a flash of red light, the sigil on his chest now almost blinding in its radiance. Reversing his grip on the practice sword, Varis slams his fist into the glowing symbol, and Darius’s limbs begin to stiffen.
Darius’ eyes glaze over for a second...before he grimaces at Varis. “It’ll take a lot more than that to frighten me, boy!”
He takes two steps back before launching himself into the air and at the knight, spinning round with his left arm outstretched, shield aimed at the side of Varis’ head. Using the momentum of the shield crashing against Varis’ helmet, he keeps moving, completing the circle and bringing the flat of his blade into the same spot.
Reeling from the blow to the temple, Varis staggers, spitting blood onto the hard packed earth of the training ground. Pushing himself up, the face that looks up at Darius is terrifyingly cold. Varis drops the training sword and clutches a strange amulet that hangs around his neck – a tiny, glimmering crystal globe suspended on a black iron chain.
Perhaps it is the exertion of the morning, or perhaps the late spring sunshine that now bathes the yard, but Darius’ armour begins to feel warm. Warmer than it should. Leather creaks as wave upon wave of heat begins to rise from the complex harness of overlapping steel plates. Then, just as the temperature becomes unbearable, the heavy armour beginning to turn rosy, as though once again in the forge flames that shaped it, Varis shakes his head and the heat vanishes.
The young man is silent for a moment, head down and eyes closed. He speaks without looking up.
“Forgive me, sir. It has been some time since anyone pressed me like that, and my temper got the better of me. I yield.”
Darius doesn’t move for a few, long moments – shield braced, sword angled back – watching the dangerous young man on one knee before him. Eventually, he slowly sheathes his sword and exhales. He relaxes. Slightly.
“Reckon you would have had me with that last attack. That felt nasty. And here I was worried you and your lads only knew how to fight pretty,” he says, with a half smile, before turning serious once more. “Temper’s good. Use it. Just keep it in check when it’s not needed.”
Darius walks over to Varis and offers his hand. "Maybe I pushed harder than was necessary for a practice session. It has been a while since I’ve been able to let loose. My apologies. A draw?"
After a moment, Varis takes the outstretched hand and lets the larger man pull him to his feet.
“That is gracious of you, sir, but I know when I’m beaten. Gods but you’re strong!”
A laugh escapes the young man’s lips and he gives the side of his jaw a gentle probe, wincing at what he finds.
“I’m not sure I landed a blow you’d even have noticed, but if you have any injuries, I have some skill in practical medicine.”
As he says this, a soft glow emanates from the hand inspecting his jaw, and where it passes the swelling and bruises that cover fade.
"I've no talents like you or some others around here,“ Darius replies, ”Just 30 years' hard work. Nothing special. I've trained with these," he gestures to shield and spear, "longer than you've been alive, no doubt. And I'm good for healing for now, thank you, young sir, unless it's of the alcoholic variety? May be too early for you, but I always find an ale a welcome refresher after training. Is a shield something you normally carry into battle?"
“In truth, I seldom have need of one. I’m more comfortable with a heavy weapon. But come, I’m sure Gretcha can find something to your taste. Have you broken your fast? Perhaps while we eat, you could tell me where you served?”
Varis begins leading the way to the mess hall, from which the smell of bacon and fresh bread drift. As he nears the door, there is a faint scuffle, as though several people had moved quickly away from the far side, but as they reach the hall, the men and women of the Order are studiously concentrating on their meals.
A few feet from where the Half-Elf stands, a tender green stalk pushes through the level earth. Varis frowns at it, walking distractedly to where the small plant breaks through the clay of the yard and stooping to pull it free. At the last moment he hesitates, instead dropping to squat on his heels and staring through the little flower, beyond it, into some moment long since passed.
It is deep in this reverie that Darius finds him, the young warrior looking up to see the veteran ride slowly through the archway into the yard.
Darius, clad in his nondescript armour, swings his right foot over the horse’s neck and slides down off the saddle. He doesn't tie his mount up, but takes a moment to lay a hand on her nose and whisper something into her ear before unhooking his shield and a long spear from the saddle. The horse nuzzles against him and moves away to drink from the water trough outside the Order’s stables.
"Not disturbing you, am I, lad? Just got my shield back from Milo and thought I'd take you up on that offer to spar."
Varis shakes his head as though to clear it, then looks up, smiling at the older man. “You’re not disturbing me at all, sir. Indeed, I could use a stretch. From what Conrad says, I might even learn a thing or two. Bear with me a moment.”
The young man walks inside the building, reappearing a few moments later with a slender black-and-red kite shield and a blunted training sword. Giving it a few careful swings to test the balance, he sets his feet and waits for the ex-soldier’s first pass.
Darius nods briefly at Varis before leaping forward, his speed surprising for a man of such size and age. Varis barely has time to brace himself before Darius' shield slams into his own, the bulk of the older man sending the Half-Elf crashing to the floor.
"'Ware your stance!" shouts Darius, lightly jabbing down with the spear point once, twice, thrice, four times in quick succession. As the first strike approaches the prone warrior’s chest, the bloody fist emblazoned there flashes with red light and the spear seems to slow as though moving through treacle. Varis catches the first strike on his shield, but the remaining three slip past his guard.
As the older man retreats, Varis regains his feet, stepping warily forward. His first probing attack is deftly parried, and when he repeats the move, the broad fighter turns the edge of the shield to catch Varis’ wrist, jarring the blade from his grip.
Darius steps back a pace or two into a defensive position, resetting the shield on his arm and resting the spear over the top with the point towards Varis, motioning towards the fallen sword with his head as he does so.
Varis keeps his eyes on his opponent as he crouches to pick up the blade, then makes two more swift strikes against the man, nodding to himself as they are both batted away. A wry smile stretches his lips as he mutters something under his breath, the air around him starting to shimmer slightly.
In response, Darius moves in quick and low, almost squatting under the second swing from Varis, before rotating the spear in his grip to sweep the reinforced wooden haft at the warrior’s legs. It connects with a sharp crack, and Varis staggers, dropping to one knee. Darius springs up and, spinning the spear back round to hold the weapon point down, goes to rap Varis’ helmet twice. The first strike again seems to be moving through water as there is a flash of red light, and though the blow connects, its passage is slowed.
Seeming to fall back into old ways, Darius starts to bark, “Always…” before grunting in surprise – in grudging admiration – as a red-gauntleted fist snaps up to catch the spear's second descent and tear it from his grasp. He doesn't see the blade in Varis' other hand come around in a blur, the pommel catching him on the side of his unhelmeted head and sending him stumbling back.
Darius shakes his vision clear, ears ringing, and wipes the blood away from the edge of his mouth. "Ha, always protect your head. Maybe I should heed my own advice." He takes a moment to compose himself before drawing the sword from the sheath at his left hip and swinging two controlled blows at Varis' head and side.
Varis manages to catch the first one, high on his shield, the second slipping low beneath his guard but again slowed by a flash of red light, the sigil on his chest now almost blinding in its radiance. Reversing his grip on the practice sword, Varis slams his fist into the glowing symbol, and Darius’s limbs begin to stiffen.
Darius’ eyes glaze over for a second...before he grimaces at Varis. “It’ll take a lot more than that to frighten me, boy!”
He takes two steps back before launching himself into the air and at the knight, spinning round with his left arm outstretched, shield aimed at the side of Varis’ head. Using the momentum of the shield crashing against Varis’ helmet, he keeps moving, completing the circle and bringing the flat of his blade into the same spot.
Reeling from the blow to the temple, Varis staggers, spitting blood onto the hard packed earth of the training ground. Pushing himself up, the face that looks up at Darius is terrifyingly cold. Varis drops the training sword and clutches a strange amulet that hangs around his neck – a tiny, glimmering crystal globe suspended on a black iron chain.
Perhaps it is the exertion of the morning, or perhaps the late spring sunshine that now bathes the yard, but Darius’ armour begins to feel warm. Warmer than it should. Leather creaks as wave upon wave of heat begins to rise from the complex harness of overlapping steel plates. Then, just as the temperature becomes unbearable, the heavy armour beginning to turn rosy, as though once again in the forge flames that shaped it, Varis shakes his head and the heat vanishes.
The young man is silent for a moment, head down and eyes closed. He speaks without looking up.
“Forgive me, sir. It has been some time since anyone pressed me like that, and my temper got the better of me. I yield.”
Darius doesn’t move for a few, long moments – shield braced, sword angled back – watching the dangerous young man on one knee before him. Eventually, he slowly sheathes his sword and exhales. He relaxes. Slightly.
“Reckon you would have had me with that last attack. That felt nasty. And here I was worried you and your lads only knew how to fight pretty,” he says, with a half smile, before turning serious once more. “Temper’s good. Use it. Just keep it in check when it’s not needed.”
Darius walks over to Varis and offers his hand. "Maybe I pushed harder than was necessary for a practice session. It has been a while since I’ve been able to let loose. My apologies. A draw?"
After a moment, Varis takes the outstretched hand and lets the larger man pull him to his feet.
“That is gracious of you, sir, but I know when I’m beaten. Gods but you’re strong!”
A laugh escapes the young man’s lips and he gives the side of his jaw a gentle probe, wincing at what he finds.
“I’m not sure I landed a blow you’d even have noticed, but if you have any injuries, I have some skill in practical medicine.”
As he says this, a soft glow emanates from the hand inspecting his jaw, and where it passes the swelling and bruises that cover fade.
"I've no talents like you or some others around here,“ Darius replies, ”Just 30 years' hard work. Nothing special. I've trained with these," he gestures to shield and spear, "longer than you've been alive, no doubt. And I'm good for healing for now, thank you, young sir, unless it's of the alcoholic variety? May be too early for you, but I always find an ale a welcome refresher after training. Is a shield something you normally carry into battle?"
“In truth, I seldom have need of one. I’m more comfortable with a heavy weapon. But come, I’m sure Gretcha can find something to your taste. Have you broken your fast? Perhaps while we eat, you could tell me where you served?”
Varis begins leading the way to the mess hall, from which the smell of bacon and fresh bread drift. As he nears the door, there is a faint scuffle, as though several people had moved quickly away from the far side, but as they reach the hall, the men and women of the Order are studiously concentrating on their meals.