[Flashback] Patience

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While Sylira is by far the most civilized region of Mizahar, countless surprises and encounters await the traveler in its rural wilderness. Called the Wildlands, Syliran's wilderness is comprised of gradual rolling hills in the south that become deep wilderness in the north. Ruins abound throughout the wildlands, and only the well-marked roads are safe.

[Flashback] Patience

Postby Ulric on May 29th, 2010, 10:31 pm

34th Day of Fall, 496 AV

“Yaaargh!” Ulric slashed wildly with his axe. Kell evaded the blows easily, and then hammered his shield into Ulric’s face. It hurt.

“Don’t rush in, you little twit,” spat the grizzled warrior. Ulric staggered back, pawing at the blood that trickled from his nose. He was a skinny, hollow-cheeked boy of twelve, and Kell a man grown – hardly a fair fight.

“Well, what the petch am I supposed to do?” Ulric retorted. It was early morning and they were alone upon the strand, armed with padded shields and shafts capped with chunks of cloth-wrapped wood to simulate axes. Kell had traced a circle in the sand, no more than twenty paces in diameter, yet it was of little relevance since a thick fog had rolled in off the sea. It limited their visibility, reducing the section of beach into an ethereal arena.

“Be patient,” the warrior responded. “I’ll only say this once, so shut your petching mouth and listen for a change. Got it? Good. Now then, you need to wait for opportunities and think before you strike. Axe fighting isn’t just about speed and brawn. Any fool can hack a man to death; put two fools together and the luck will be the deciding factor. Mark my words, you do not want that to happen. Ovek is a fickle bastard on the best of days. Instead, you need to control distance. If you can’t control distance, you’re never in position to strike. It means you’ll overextend with your attacks, making you easier to hit.”

“Isn’t that why we have shields?”

“Don’t interrupt,” Kell rapped Ulric’s skull with his handle of his axe. “Unlike swords, the axe is shyke as a defensive weapon – unless, occasionally, it’s on the end of a petching long pole. Halberds, those metal-clad pricks call them. Can’t parry, can’t riposte, can’t do petch-all in the way of defense. However, the axe can penetrate armor that swords are ineffective against, meaning you’ve only got to get in one, maybe two good strikes to send your opponent to the mud. So you need to control the distance, pick your spots, and absorb any stray blows on your shield. Feel its weight upon your arm and remember that it’s as much a weapon as the axe.”

“You don’t need to tell me that,” Ulric scowled. His bloody nose was beginning to clot now, but it was still a mass of pain. Kell didn’t seem the slightest bit concerned.

“Now, you can bash the buggers in the face or slash them with the rim. It’s blunt, but it’ll crack bone and maybe break a tooth or three – something to make your opponent think twice about fighting in close, which is the axeman’s fatal weakness. Once your opponent rushes past the head there’s not much you can do, so if you don’t have a shield, make sure you get the petch out of there.” Kell peered into the fog for a moment, the wind teasing the loose strands of his beard. “Do you remember the three basic strikes?” He asked finally.

“Hook, poke, and hack,” Ulric recited. He wasn’t that much of an imbecile, despite his obvious lack of both skill and strategy.

“Aye, that’s right,” Kell nodded. “As I said before, any fool can hack, but it takes a skilled fool to poke. All you need to do is thrust the axe in the bastard’s chest to break his momentum. If he’s unarmored and there’s a spike on the axe head, it’ll stick him too. But the poke isn’t for killing; only the hack can deal a fatal blow. If you mistime your poke, you stand the risk of having the axe struck from your hands, or being flanked before you can regain your balance. Now as for the hook,” Kell sneered, “the hook is special. Only warriors that have mastered both distance and timing can perform the hook and expect to see results. It’s the slowest and most complicated attack, so you’ll need to wait for an opening before trying it. If you lead with a hook, it’s highly probable that your opponent will see it coming, dodge, and counter before you’re back in position. So don’t lead with a petching hook.”

“Got it,” Ulric hefted his axe and shield. “Now what?”

“Now you lead with a hook,” Kell said with a crooked smile. Ulric scowled in anticipation of the valuable, yet painful, lesson the warrior was about to teach him, but raised his axe anyways. He stepped forward, holding his shield high, and swung his axe in a curved motion around Kell’s unprotected side. Kell dropped his own shield and wrenched the weapon from Ulric’s hands, then tossed upon the sand.

“Too. Petching. Obvious,” The warrior gritted. “You’re relying on your arms when you should be using your entire body. Instead, aim the axe behind your opponent, wait for the haft to strike them, and then shift your body back by sliding on the rear foot. It’ll pull the bastard off-balance, and perhaps, if he stumbles forward, allow you to bash him in the face. You can hook for the knees, torso, and head – or even the hands or the hilt of his weapon to disarm him. But you’ve got to make it petching subtle, and petching quick. Now, try it again.”

Ulric did, and this time Kell didn’t move, letting Ulric hook the weapon behind his knee. Ulric yanked with all his might, but the warrior stood firm. “Pathetic,” spat Kell.

“What the petch?” Ulric threw down his axe. “How am I supposed to pull you off balance when you’re so much bigger and stronger than me?” Kell barked a laugh.

“Pick up that rock,” he pointed toward a head-sized boulder. Cursing in frustration, Ulric strode to the rock, then raised it to his chest and allowed to fall back upon the sand. Kell snorted in amusement. “Feel stronger?”

“No.”

“That’s right. You’re a weak little shyke, and nothing save time is going to change that. So you might as well think of another way to beat me.”

“Like what?” Ulric snarled. He wholly, absolutely, utterly hated this man with every fiber of this being. But there was no one else to teach him, and Kell had volunteered. It was probably how the warrior soothed his inner sadist.

“You have to be very cunning, or very lucky,” was Kell’s response. “Now, come at me again.” Ulric did, with as much caution as he could muster, and again the warrior sent him sprawling to the sand. “Why the petch are you still rushing in?” Kell growled.

“Because you told me to!” Ulric’s face was livid.

“Because I told you to,” Kell’s voice seeped with scorn. “In case you hadn’t realized, I’m not going to be around when you get into a fight, so you’d best start thinking for yourself.”

“Fine, I’ll think for myself. Now what?”

“Again,” Kell sneered. Ulric glared at him, wishing nothing more than to beat that smug smile off Kell’s face, but he remained still. One minute passed, and then two, with neither of them making so much as a move. Finally, Kell inclined his head. “Not bad, not bad. It seems you’ve fought me to a draw.”

“What?” Ulric screeched. “But we didn’t even do anything!”

“Other than turning tail,” Kell replied, “that’s probably the wisest decision you could’ve made. Know why? I’ll tell you; it’s because you can’t petching beat me.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Ulric sulked.

* * * * *


“Now that you’ve learned your lesson,” Kell continued, “It’s about time we started getting serious, don’t you think?”

“What are you going to do now?” Ulric scowled, “chop me into a cauldron of soup?”

“Something like that. I want you to try a bit of misdirection – feints and the like. But first, you’re going to lift that rock over your head a hundred times.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I want you to be tired. In battle, only the corpses are allowed to rest.” Grumbling, Ulric strode to the rock and proceeded to hoist it above his head. By the tenth lift he felt the prickle of sweat through his shirt and by twentieth he was breathing hard, but he persevered, his muscles aching, until he was unable to raise his arms over his head any longer. “Sixty-three,” Kell snorted. “Petch me, I didn’t think you were going to reach fifty. Now, weapons.”

Ulric slipped the shield onto his arm and raised his axe, feeling as if he’d been trampled by a horse – nay, a herd of horses. He felt some of the fatigue drain from his limbs, but he was still dead on his feet. This time it was Kell who went upon the offensive, surging forward with a series of hacks and a short thrust that penetrated Ulric’s defense and deposited him on his backside. “Petching hell,” the boy grunted as he began to rise, only to see Kell’s axe blurring toward his face. Squawking in astonishment, Ulric barely managed to roll out of its path. He rose and looked warily at Kell.

“Good reflexes, poor judgment,” the warrior pronounced. “Always expect an attack, even when your opponent offers the illusion of honor. It’s the best way to stay alive. Plus,” he grinned, “you can always kick the unsuspecting shyke in the bollocks. In a fight, there’s no such thing as fighting dirty.” Ulric bit his lip.

“You’re not going to kick me in the bollocks, are you? I might want to plant my seed someday.” Kell barked a laugh.

“No, I’m not going to kick you in the bollocks – not unless you’re particularly irritating. How are you holding up, by the way?”

“I hurt all over, and I think you might’ve broken my nose.”

“Good,” Kell nodded. “I suppose you’ll be all right for another hour or two. You know,” he sneered, “the best way to learn is to have shit beaten out of you – helps you remember where you petched up. Now, the rock again – and if you can’t do at least half as much as before, I’ll flay you alive.”

Ulric managed thirty-four, but just barely. Gasping for breath, his throat constricting with nausea, je returned to his weapons and waited for Kell’s charge. It was a stroke of brilliance, a simple bull rush that culminated with Kell halting at the last moment and swiping Ulric’s legs from beneath him.

“Umph!” grunted Ulric.

“Pathetic,” Kell sneered. “Up, and again.”

Ulric regained his feet, realizing that no matter how he reacted, the warrior was going to surprise him with a different line of attack. Meaning, Ulric managed a wan smile, that I have to surprise him instead. This time he veered low and to the right, barely evading Kell’s looping axe, and then disengaged, hurling his shield at the warrior’s knee like a discus. Ulric gaped as the blow landed, and then stars burst in his head as the warrior battered him to the sand.

“What the petch was that?” Kell demanded. “Did I say you could throw your petching shield?”

“No.”

“Well, petching don’t, you little shyke!”

“It’s not like it helped any,” Ulric sulked. He rose, the blood beginning to trickle again from his nose, and reclaimed his shield. “Besides, I thought I wasn’t supposed to listen to you.”

“Back to the rock,” Kell glared at him. “I want a hundred squats, quick-like. No more prancing about for you, m’boy.” Ulric cradled the rock against his chest, and began, the breath ragged in his throat. This time he did spew his breakfast upon the sand, but he picked up the rock and continued until he’d amassed a hundred squats and a stitch in his side.

“Now,” Kell was sitting on a boulder. “Ever kicked a man in the chest or the bollocks?”

“No, and yes.”

“Good,” the warrior tossed Ulric his shield. “Let’s practice a bit.” For the next half-hour Ulric aimed kicks that Kell blocked deftly while raining blows down on the boy’s shield and exposed shoulders. It was not pleasant. By the end, Ulric was staggering about, scarcely able to raise his legs. “How you feeling?” asked Kell.

“Petching awful.”

“Good, now let’s put it all together,” Kell clashed axe against shield. Ulric was beginning to see why men in Kell's line of work seldom reached the age of forty, but still he armed himself and faced the warrior. This is not, he reflected, going to be pleasant.

And, of course, it wasn’t.

Hack, shield bash, hack, answered with a thrust in the gut that sent Ulric back with a strangled, “Gurrgh!” Kick to the shield, hook to the knee. “Yaargh!” Hack, kick, hook, thrust, bash – it went on for what seemed like hours, but was, in fact, only a matter of minutes. Unlike before, Kell seemed to pull his attacks, delaying the finishing blow until Ulric felt like he had participated in a pitched battle.

“How do you feel?” Kell’s face swam into view.

“Urgh,” Ulric spat blood. “I think you broke my ribs.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic. Can you stand?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, do it.”
Last edited by Ulric on June 29th, 2010, 2:33 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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[Flashback] Patience

Postby Ulric on May 31st, 2010, 1:22 am

Ulric’s ribs were not broken, in fact, but he did have one final, unsavory task to complete before Kell decided their training session was over; single combat with another boy. Jens was a year younger, but he stood nearly as tall as Ulric and almost as broad. He also possessed the advantage of not being sore and exhausted from Kell’s tutelage.

“Ready to fight?” Kell grinned at them.

“Good luck, Ulric,” said Jens.

“Guurgh,” Ulric replied, and waited for Jens to charge. It came faster than he’d imagined. Jens bashed his shield against Ulric’s – making the older boy’s teeth rattle – and aiming a blow over the top. Ulric felt his legs quiver, but he managed remain upon his feet, ducking the blow with inches to spare. He stumbled back with a half-hearted thrust, absorbing Jens’ next attack upon his shield. Control the distance! Ulric disengaged, and for several moments he had Jens circled one another, considering their next moves. This time it was Ulric who attacked; feinting, hacking, and following up with a shield bash. Jens danced back and countered with a looping blow that nearly connected with Ulric’s head. It was only a matter of time until he landed. Wait for opportunities! Panting, Ulric waited for Jens to attack. Hack, hack, shield rim slicing past his fast. Stepping back, Ulric caught the haft of the Jens’ axe with a wild hook, but the other boy was stronger. He ripped the axe from Ulric’s hands with a snarl of delight and battered at Ulric’s shield. Ulric winced as Jens landed stinging blows to his head and legs, and – suddenly fearing that Kell would call a halt – summoned his remaining strength to shove the other boy away. Jens rushed in wildly, impatiently, plainly seeking to end the fight with a final exchange.

Ulric kicked him in the bollocks.

It was a satisfying feeling, though not as satisfying as when he followed through by planting his shield in Jen’s astonished face. Ulric tore the circle of wood from his arm and swung it like a club, bludgeoning the other boy to the sand, and then climbed atop the other boy. He lashed out with his fists, elbows, and head, shrieking like a demon, until Kell dragged him away.

“Yaargh!” screamed Ulric.

“Urgh,” moaned Jens.

“What the petch,” grunted Kell. He backhanded Ulric across the face to silence him, then peered into his bright, feverish eyes. “Effective,” he admitted, “but you lack finesse. I don’t think we’ll ever make a proper warrior out of you, boy.”

“Petch,” Ulric spat blood. At the moment, he didn’t much care.

* * * * *


Gentle waves lapped at the prow of the canoe, making it difficult for Ulric to retain his balance as he deflected the stones Kell hurled in his direction. Five foot wide and twenty long, the boat was pointed at both ends and crisscrossed with wooden struts. Ulric couldn’t retreat, couldn’t step to the side, couldn’t even move nearer to the stern without getting his legs tangled. It was, in short, a tactical nightmare.

No wonder Kell had selected it.

“Keep your shield up!” barked the warrior. He hurled another stone in Ulric’s direction and reached into the bulging sack at his feet for more.

“Ummph!” Ulric swung his practice axe, smacking the missile twenty paces out to sea. They had been at this for close to an hour, and his legs ached from maintaining his balance. He didn’t understand why Kell insisted upon this exercise. Why, if the axe was shyke-all as a defensive weapon, was he doing this instead of practicing with his shield or footwork?

“Now, on one foot,” Kell sneered. It was obvious he’d been waiting for this moment.

“What?” Ulric’s jaw dropped. He was already tired, and the absolute last thing he wanted was to take a spill over the gunwale. The lake was frigid this close to winter, and Kell had already promised him a beating should he upset the boat.

“You heard me,” said Kell, and Ulric begrudgingly complied. His leg trembled, but for the time being, at least, he was stable enough. It didn’t last very long. Kell intensified his assault, the stones striking Ulric’s thighs, chest, shoulders, and head with impunity while the boy sought to deflect them with his axe. Finally, a stone bounced off Ulric’s temple and he lost his balance, squawking as he pitched into the dark, frigid water. It felt like his chest was being crushed beneath an anvil, the cold driving the breath from his lungs and sending tendrils of ice through his veins. Ulric surfaced, numb and shivering, and clambered into the boat.

“What… the petch!”

“You forgot your axe,” Kell pointed to the floating chunk of wood. Ulric glared at him for a moment, and then dove reluctantly into the water. He was a poor swimmer, so he flailed for what seemed like ages, doubting that Kell would bother to rescue him if he went under. But eventually, Ulric returned to the whaleboat with blue lips, stiffened fingers, and the axe. Kell spat over the stern. “Cold?”

“No,” Ulric shivered, “I’m s-s-snug as a r-rug.”

“Good, because here’s where it gets interesting.” Kell tossed Ulric a shield, and then hefted a pair of wooden practice swords. “We may prefer axes on these gods-forsaken shores,” the warrior said, “but swords are the weapon of choice in the south. So there may come a day when you come up against a swordsman who’s fixing to slice you into strips of bacon.”

“Sounds tasty.”

“That’s enough from you,” Kell growled as he danced forward. In a trice, Ulric was arse-down in the prow, with Kell’s swords at his throat. “First thing to remember about swords is the bastard is always quicker than you,” said the warrior. “He can fight both outside and in, where his petching pig-sticker will carve your guts up something awful. Meaning, of course, that you have to preempt your opponent’s attacks. If he gets inside of you, get inside of him. When he goes to attack, either pin his arms with a shield bind or knock his arm to the side. If you go face to face, neither of you will have the range to any serious damage, so hack for the legs. Bastards never see it coming,” Kell chuckled. “Still, you’d best make sure he doesn’t thrust up beneath your shield, because you won’t be able to see that coming, either.”

“So why can’t I stay on the outside?”

“I don’t care what the petch you do,” Kell spat over the gunwale. “Now try and bind me.” Ulric leapt forward, only to trip over a strut and fall painfully upon his face. He rose, trying to ignore Kell’s sniggers, and tried again. Wham! A sword pommel crunched into Ulric’s face, opening a cut above his left cheekbone and pitching him into the water once more.

“You bastard!” Ulric sputtered. “Why the petch can’t we do this on solid ground?”

“Helps the process,” Kell shrugged as Ulric climbed back into the boat. “Now, the shield bind isn’t all about angles and footwork – you also need to sense what your opponent is about to do. Charge in head on, like so, and you and your opponent are both petched. Instead, sweep your shield to turn his attack and hack at his exposed side. But you need be wary of feints. If you commit too early, or fall into a trap, you’ll find yourself off balance and exposed to his blade.”

“How do I recognize a feint?” Ulric’s brow furrowed. He was starting to internalize the dynamics of fighting with axe and shield, but everything seemed to happen so quickly. Kell had instructed him to think, but where was the petching time for it?

“Either you learn or you die,” the warrior tugged at his beard. “It’s that simple.”

“Oh, good,” Ulric’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “In that case, perhaps I should lay down my weapons and turn tail.”

“Shut your face,” Kell swiped at Ulric. “I swore to your father that I’d teach you to fight, you little shyke, and that’s what I mean to do. So listen up. In addition to feints, you need to be wary of grappling. If your opponent grabs your arm, he can pull you off balance and even throw you to your knees.”

“Can’t grappling work both ways?”

“Aye,” Kell nodded. “I suppose you already know the basic of throws, eh?”

“Of course.”

“Well, try not to use them. If your opponent breaks free, he’ll be the only one with weapons. So don’t petching do it unless it’s your last resort.”

“So… I should only grapple when I don’t have any weapons?”

“I believe that’s the definition of last resort,” Kell snorted. “Now, show me what you’ve learned.”

* * * * *

“Let’s see how good you are,” Jens glowered. “And no dirty tricks, this time.” It was after dusk, and the two boys had met in the forest to settle their bad blood following the fight on the beach. A ring of torches cast an eerie light upon the trees, creating an audience of writhing shadows.

“No such thing,” Ulric sneered. He thrust his left arm through the straps of his shield and hefted his axe, never taking his eyes from Jens’ face.

“Ready?” Jens asked. Ulric nodded, and the younger boy charged with scarcely a moment’s hesitation, his axe held high. Stepping back, Ulric used a stop-thrust to arrest Jens’ movement and swept the incoming hook aside with his shield, then drove his axe into Jen’s exposed side. Wincing, Jens tried to swipe Ulric with the rim of his shield, but Ulric was already in retreat. He stood with shield raised, waiting for the next assault. It came with predictable ferocity and lack of foresight. Compared to sparring with Kell this was no more than a walk upon the strand, an evening in the hall, a game for children. Jens’ hacks were wild, his thrusts mistimed, and he kept lowering his shield. For once, Ulric found that he was the one dealing out painful lessons with a sneer upon his face. He hadn’t anticipated that physical dominance could be so… intoxicating.

Hack, block, hook, sweep – it went on for minutes, with Jens failing to strike Ulric more than once or twice in passing. To worsen his lot, the younger boy was swiftly becoming fatigued. When Jens rushed in again, Ulric stepped aside and kicked him in the chest, sending Jens on his arse. Jens rose and circled, his teeth bared in a show of impotent rage, seeking an opening. This time, Ulric charged with his axe held high and locked shields, then used his superior strength to shove Jens to the ground. “Had enough?” He smirked.

“No I petching haven’t!” Jens’ voice trembled as he rose. Ulric was uncertain whether it was from shame or rage, but he was content to continue for as long as the younger boy wished. Or at least until he dealt Jens some dire injury. Maybe Kell was right, and the best way to learn really is to have the shit kicked out of you.

“All right, then.” Ulric danced to the side as Jens charged, hooking his axe around the boy’s foot and depositing him upon his back. Jens struggled to his feet, snarling, and pressed Ulric with a series of wild hacks and shield bashes, throwing strategy to the winds. Ulric blocked and dodged the attacks as best he could, taking a stinging hit on the shoulder, and countered with a vicious, sweeping blow to Jens’ head that sent down like a sack of meal.

This time, Jens did not rise immediately.

“Enough?” Ulric stared down at his dazed opponent.

“Enough,” Jens agreed, taking Ulric’s proffered hand. Once upon his feet, he rubbed the welt on his temple, shaking his head. “How the petch did you get this good?”

“Believe me, you don’t want to know.”

“Oh, but I do,” Jens said, their past animosity forgotten. Ulric stared into his shining eyes and nodded.

“Well, to begin with, you have to be patient…”
Last edited by Ulric on June 29th, 2010, 2:37 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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[Flashback] Patience

Postby Harlequill on June 2nd, 2010, 6:44 pm

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Character: Ulric
Experience: 3xp Bearded Axe, 3xp Shield, 3xp Tactics, 2xp Unarmed Combat
Lore: Basics of Deflecting Missiles, Wisdom of a Draw, The Three Basic Strikes, Patience, Fighting While Exhausted, Why There is no Dirty Fighting, Importance of Balance in Combat
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