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Post by Howl Wilde on Jan 29, 2007 23:22:31 GMT -5
Tornac moved as though he was dancing.
The courtyard was quiet, the brick walls rising up around him, pale in the watery spring sunlight. The tiles under his booted feet swirled cream and red split with dark grey mortar and spots of green where grass and weeds tried to rear their heads through the cracks. Green and white ivy clambered up the walls and the potted trees in the corners, strangling the shrubs. Standing tall in the middle of the space was a massive elm, the green leaves twitching in the cool breeze.
Balefire flickered in the sunlight, a warm glow playing across the longsword’s plain, unadorned blade.
The place smelled of the city around it – bootblack and smoke, the tang of metal from the blacksmiths, the warm smell of humans and animals packed together in a heated environment, horsedung and horseflesh from the stables, a clean smell from the trees and faintly the sweet smell of the resin used to cure the leather of Tornac’s dark jerkin.
The world blurred around the old man, even his own feet becoming a unimportant wash of color as he moved with a deadly grace through the stances of the sword.
Most of the bustle was locked out of the courtyard by thick walls, but the hustle and bustle of the city reached inside ever so quietly. The rustle of leaves slowly permeated the lukewarm air, twining with the whoosh of the longsword that carved a path through the air, parting the wind. A bee hummed near the white flowers in the bed under the elm, a miniscule noise in the eerie quiet.
Tornac brought his sword up in a finishing move and stopped with his sword blade pointed away from his body at a right angle.
Drops of sweat ran down the old blademaster’s face and made his loose black shirt cling to his wiry, decimated body. His white hair was tied back in a ponytail down his back, swinging slowly in his arrested momentum.
The teacher unfroze and wiped his hand across his brow, letting balefire fall to his side. His chest moved up and down faster than usual, but he looked cool and relaxed as he turned to the only other person in the courtyard. He nodded at the tall shape as he sheathed his long sword over his back.
“Your turn.”
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Post by §Murtagh§ on Feb 3, 2007 21:21:08 GMT -5
At his teacher's command, Murtagh stepped forward from his corner of the courtyard, where he had been watching the entire preformance. When he reached the center, he stopped and drew his long hand-and-a-half sword. Holding it perpendicular to the ground, lethal tip up, he closed his eyes and entered a state of mind where the sword was all that mattered in life.
His fierce, dark eyes snapped open and he began the sequence of moves that Tornac had taught him years ago, flowing from one move to the next with deadly accuracy. He was aware of nothing around him; only the swish of his sword through the air, and the sounds of his feet against the stone of the courtyard.
Murtagh brought his sword up in a conclusion to the deadly dance of the sword, the blade only inches from his now sweating face. His chest heaved up and down with the effort, and he let his blade drop to his side, but kept his fingers wrapped firmly around the hilt. Finished, Murtagh turned to Tornac for any comments on his preformance.
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Post by Howl Wilde on Feb 3, 2007 21:36:30 GMT -5
Tornac moved aside as Murtagh took the field, sitting down the edge of one of the potted shrubs. Although he didn’t show it, the old man felt more than ever the ravages of age pulling at his limbs and making the once-light sword feel weighted. There had been a time when he could have gone through the entire sword form sequence without breaking a sweat, but those days were drawing away fast.
The teacher watched his young pupil. He’d never taught before – he had no idea if the fierce, angry young man was doing well for his age or not. The only standard that Tornac had was his own training, and as far as that was concerned he’d been surpassed already. He’d been sixteen when he first swung a sword in combat; Murtagh had been much younger. But the young man’s technique wasn’t perfect yet, and sometimes Tornac worried about the boy’s stamina. But it was the responsibility of senile old men to worry about their young students, and although he was certainly old, Tornac was far from senile.
Murtagh came to a stop, hand-and-a-half sword unmoving. Tornac wondered if perhaps he himself should not use the ‘half sword when teaching, rather than his own two-handed longsword, but the more Murtagh had to adapt his motions the more effectively he would learn to improvise his own technique if the time came that the standard sequence no longer sufficed.
“A little slow on the turn,” Tornac growled as his student turned to face him. “A gentleman wouldn’t trip you, but anyone else might be tempted with you moving almost on your toes. Try again, but keep your feet firm. There’s a difference between dancing with a girl and dancing with a sword.”
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Post by §Murtagh§ on Feb 14, 2007 10:51:54 GMT -5
Murtagh nodded, disappointed with himself. He had been trying in vain, it seemed, to overcome his faults with the blade, and he didn't seem to be doing any better than he had done last year. With a sigh of resignation, he nodded, and turned back to the center of the courtyard to try again.
Resuming the stance with his sword, he paused, before suddenly flashing out with the silver blade. His face contorted in concentration, Murtagh focused his attention on the areas that Tornac had said he needed to work on, keeping his feet steady, and yet not unmoving on the stone ground as he twisted and turned and he moved his sword through the air with a whistling, deadly grace.
With a single, sweeping motion, he brought his sword up to his face and looked out past it at the landscape that graced the courtyard. Letting it drop, he sheathed it and turned to his trainer for the second time that day, asking silently for advice and comments. [I'm sorry, that was a really bad post...I just wanted to finish it... ]
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Post by Howl Wilde on Feb 15, 2007 19:27:52 GMT -5
Pshaw.
“Better, better,” Tornaz growled, rising to his feet again. He drew his sword once more, his elbows complaining at the angle, and kept the sword in a clumsy one-hand grip. He dropped into a crouch, right leg forward and on the balls of his feet and back foot firm on the tiles; he held the sword up at a forty degree angle from his body with both hands. He paused, breathed in, lifted the sword over his head and moved forward on the out breath:
Step forwards with front leg, pull back leg up behind, sweeping sword downwards in the same movement. Tornac breathed in and straightened upright.
“One leg on the balls of your feet,” Tornac explained, “Won’t be enough to trip you in this move, and besides you should be out of reach anyway unless you’re a complete bollocks-brained idiot, which I hope you’re not. But remember to keep the other foot down flat, or you’ll loose your balance on the next movement you make – and don’t step forward in a straight line, either, you’ll fall. Try it onehanded, then I’ll lend you a two-hander.”
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