3rd Day of Winter, 512AV
Razkar would always be drawn to fighting, mortal or otherwise, and so it was not unusual that many times he found himself walking by the Kendoka Sasaran. Most of his time was spent at outside the walls. Sparring, hunting, eating, even mediating and writing. He did not socialize much. But those times he did venture into the city - for feed or supplies or just for the novelty - his path always and inexplicably led him to the cobblestones outside the training hall.
He would hear the shouts and barks of orders and wounded, striking combatants. The heavy and high thwack of wood on wood. Feel the unmistakable aura of physical contest, however bloodless it tried to be. To a true child of Myri, the atmosphere was irresistible.
So he always found himself opening the doors. Just like this day.
Wide were flung the double doors and bright, cold sunlight filled the room anew. The blue skies were cloudless outside and deceptively so: it meant that there was little protection or buffer from the breezing winds that were whipping Riverfall like a stray slave. The Myrian wore his "usual": leather breeches and shoes over his loincloth, cotton shirt and his cloak of sewn scalps that fell down to his knees. Tattoos and piercings gouged and painted much of his exposed flesh, and he walked quickly... then slowed.
His (nominal) master was approaching.
"The cold does not favor you, I trust?"
Mizra Aqdas's eyes sparkled with mirth as Razkar snorted, giving him a wry half-smile. The Akalak was more than just a teacher and philosopher here: he was one of, if not the, most accomplished warrior in Riverfall. Over two centuries and countless thousands of duels and battles, he had only been defeated a handful of times. But now his mind and body were dedicated to a new and even more powerful enemy: ignorance.
"I have to wear so many clothes." Razkar said with a grimace, scratching at his itchy shirt. "Too much. Is not... natural."
"To each time and place, a season and a people."
"Yes. But come to spar, not... er..."
"Philosophize?"
"Yes, I think is word."
Mizra "hmm-ed" and looked around the busy training hall. The mats were covered in sparring men and women and... whatever, from a half-dozen races. Razkar even saw a many-armed Eypharian hacking and slashing away in a blur with her training weapons, fighting three enemies at once. He had to blink a few times just to convince himself it was real.
"Everyone is occupied as of the moment... what are you looking to train in today?"
"Sword. Ax." Razkar replied, touched each weapon on his belt instinctively. "Just wanting practice. Is no-one?"
"I'm sure we can make do, Razkar."
As it happened, the answer walked in the door a moment later.
Razkar would always be drawn to fighting, mortal or otherwise, and so it was not unusual that many times he found himself walking by the Kendoka Sasaran. Most of his time was spent at outside the walls. Sparring, hunting, eating, even mediating and writing. He did not socialize much. But those times he did venture into the city - for feed or supplies or just for the novelty - his path always and inexplicably led him to the cobblestones outside the training hall.
He would hear the shouts and barks of orders and wounded, striking combatants. The heavy and high thwack of wood on wood. Feel the unmistakable aura of physical contest, however bloodless it tried to be. To a true child of Myri, the atmosphere was irresistible.
So he always found himself opening the doors. Just like this day.
Wide were flung the double doors and bright, cold sunlight filled the room anew. The blue skies were cloudless outside and deceptively so: it meant that there was little protection or buffer from the breezing winds that were whipping Riverfall like a stray slave. The Myrian wore his "usual": leather breeches and shoes over his loincloth, cotton shirt and his cloak of sewn scalps that fell down to his knees. Tattoos and piercings gouged and painted much of his exposed flesh, and he walked quickly... then slowed.
His (nominal) master was approaching.
"The cold does not favor you, I trust?"
Mizra Aqdas's eyes sparkled with mirth as Razkar snorted, giving him a wry half-smile. The Akalak was more than just a teacher and philosopher here: he was one of, if not the, most accomplished warrior in Riverfall. Over two centuries and countless thousands of duels and battles, he had only been defeated a handful of times. But now his mind and body were dedicated to a new and even more powerful enemy: ignorance.
"I have to wear so many clothes." Razkar said with a grimace, scratching at his itchy shirt. "Too much. Is not... natural."
"To each time and place, a season and a people."
"Yes. But come to spar, not... er..."
"Philosophize?"
"Yes, I think is word."
Mizra "hmm-ed" and looked around the busy training hall. The mats were covered in sparring men and women and... whatever, from a half-dozen races. Razkar even saw a many-armed Eypharian hacking and slashing away in a blur with her training weapons, fighting three enemies at once. He had to blink a few times just to convince himself it was real.
"Everyone is occupied as of the moment... what are you looking to train in today?"
"Sword. Ax." Razkar replied, touched each weapon on his belt instinctively. "Just wanting practice. Is no-one?"
"I'm sure we can make do, Razkar."
As it happened, the answer walked in the door a moment later.