Solo Quaking Emotion, Training Day

[Shouta]

8th Day of Winter, 512. The wooden dummy took the blows well as Shouta remained relentless in his viciousness. I shall not fail! He held his kusarigama with a reverse grip, blade near his elbow, handle inverted. Perhaps he was moving too fast, but he was not concerned. He pushed through the fatigue and the sweat. He would make Uphis notice him. He was a monk and combat was his toolset and his purpose. If he could not do that, then what was he? Another volley of blows and the dummy did not move. There was a subtle difference in his practice tonight opposed to the norm. He had been lacing his blows with anger, emotion, rather than purging exterior distractions from his mind. Usually it was a burning of doubt, and fire to consume his daily woes. But this practice was like a forrest fire, unchecked in it;s wrath and violent in it’s punishment. When he did not land enough of his blows to the dummy he cried out in anger and sent a quick kick to the dummy’s side almost without pause. The pain throbbed silently through his leg as it connected solidly with the dummy. Shouta smiled. It had knocked the thing over into the dust. Served the damn thing right! Why did he waver so?! What about his faith left so much doubt? He had chosen Uphis! He had pledged himself and his future to the Alvina, because it had felt like the right path. So why was he struggling with his convictions when other monks, like the desert-born Kassan, were so solidly entrenched in their faith. Had he missed some vital point? Had he failed in some way, and he had yet to see it? He reset his stance, opting for a more ambitious start than the normal Small Fox stance. He used the Falling Crane stance, a slightly higher level movement. His old teacher, the retired monk whom had given him the kusarigama, had only showed him this stance once. He crippled the handle of the kusarigama backwards, letting the blade rest near his elbow, and held it out in front of his face. At the same time he assumed a low stance and held the weighted end in his left hand, chain dangling ominously. The idea behind this stance was to attack with the weight in the beginning, grappling or disarming the enemy, and then pull them in and execute a series of powerful, quick blows with the blade. Shouta knew the stance was a bit beyond him but did not care. He was here to throw pain out of the blade and weight of his weapon, with little regard of the ideal technique. He was here to rage upon the chiseled wood of his silent watchers. He paced back and forth, staring at the three battered dummies. His limp slowly subsided as adrenaline washed over the pang of the bruised shin. Such peace of mind… was foreign to him. The way some of these monks meditated and prayed, and were content! Perhaps there was something within him keeping Shouta from such a place of peace? Something he had not found out about himself yet? But he had been walking this world for fifty years. Humans would stand, fall, and die within that span and know themselves better than he knew himself. He tried to calm himself.

[Shouta]

“Feel the rip of my chains, Petching scum!” Shouta growled in a very un-Ethaefal like manner. His face was skewed into an angry visage, a harsh imitation of his usual self. He had failed to banish the doubt in his mind with the practice of his forms. And he would rather take this unrest out on the mundane forms of his three dummies rather than those in the city. He just hoped no other wandering monk would come across him out here in the earth maze that was the Warfields. Shouta grunted heavily as he brought the weight forward and tangled it within the crossed arms of two dummies, symbolizing a grappling of their imagined weapons. Lunging forward off his right foot he threw the excess chain at the stoney pair to further disorient them. Stiffening up his whole right arm he threw a series of strikes and cuts with both arms. A vicious kama cut would be powered by the full force of his twisting torso before being followed up by a quick open palmed, or else tight fisted, strike with the left. This method was called Falling Crane Strike. It utilized one of the best methods for close range combat the kusarigama was capable of. Though the blade was very close, only a few feet away from the torso at most, the wielder was still label to use his left hand to block, strike, or disarm. And with some practice, he could even use the handle of the kama, leaving both hands free to strike and block simultaneously. But Shouta was not so skilled. Only a few of his cuts were deep enough to actually count as solid hits, and his strikes hurt his palm more than they would hurt the dummy. But he was learning the form, and in a haze of subtle rage. Rage and strong emotion may be powerful fuel for some combatants, but the Style of the Crane and Fox was about technique and timing. No emotion would make any of his blows more powerful. He needed practice, and eventually mastery. But today he needed something to unleash upon. He needed a health dose of exercise to tire his stormy emotions out. He needed exhaustion. Nyka was lit by the sun and shaded by a few bold clouds as Shouta toiled on through the daylight hours. The place was utterly perfect for martial training. It was able to be used by many monks working in synergy, or house the single monk seeking lonesome practice. It was far enough away from the bulk of the city to mean there would not be heavy traffic, except those who were also training. Shouta had spent most of his training time alone, mostly because he wanted peace and quiet when practicing his forms, but also because the kusarigama was a rare weapon to see. He did not know any monks who carried it, and none who did not know it could teach him anything about it. His emotions stormed on, simmering on the surface of his face and trembling in the shaking of his knees. He was wallowing in his own inadequecies and he hated himself for it. How could the rabble that was the general populous live like this? How could they go on without the certainty that when dead, they would be worthy of their god’s love? He had abandoned the faith of Leth, because Leth had cast him aside. Perhaps this one act was enough to damn him from the moon’s side forever, or perhaps past deeds, past triumphs outweighed the gravity of his present decisions. But either way, this life had been dedicated to a deity that would not cast him aside. It was dedicated to the pursuit of the favor of Uphis and all that meant. Did Uphis value the tranquil dedication that monks like the High Priestess and Kassan had? Of course he did. But he also valued skill in combat. Though he had doubts in his faith, he would forge the skills to be called a chosen devout of Uphis.

[Shouta]

The chain sang as it flew through the air. Shouta had lost count of the repetitions, simply continuing on. His anger was simmering down, he had spent all day dwelling on the idea of his worthiness, his faith. But if you think about something so much, stress about it for so long, the threat of the thing dulls down. He began to rationalize as he moved his body. Strike, strike, cut. His arm, his chest, even his legs, were just an extension of his core. The blade of the kama was simply the striking edge. The success of the attack, and in truth, all his attacks came from his core. Uphis had chosen to let Shouta become a monk. So perhaps it wasn’t a matter of being strong in his faith, but being strong in his devotion. Perhaps Uphis would let Shouta figure it out, and serve and protect his city in the mean time. What better way to unravel the faith of the God of blades than a bit of practice with his weapon? Shouta launched the weight again, this time effortlessly wrapping it around the wooden arm of the dummy. With two fingers straight against the chain of the kusarigama, Shouta flicked his wrist and sent a wave rippling down the chain. It looped again around the wooden arm of the dummy, who remained coldly silent. Pulling hard, Shouta saw the chain tighten up and become taut between himself and his prey. A successful grapple, easy stuff. He slammed his foot down on the chain, letting himself be drawn closer to the dummy. This was simply for practicality, in reality the victim would be yanked closer to Shouta. Then he stepped forward, remembering to get a strong footing as a base for his attacks. Twisting and hissing, Shouta released a relentless blow with the kama, this time the cut was deep and held a surprising amount of power behind it. Shouta was pleased, but could not afford to congratulate himself. He threw a downward chop on the dummy’s imaginary ear and neck area and followed up with a jarring elbow to the face with the arm that wielded the kama. Shouta practiced a series of blows, concentrating on the flow of the strikes rather than their power. He practiced different combinations, imagining differently armed opponents each time. Each set he practiced ten times before moving on. Elbow, elbow, upward cut, eye gouge. Elbow, palm heel strike, knee, knee, cut. Cut, uppercut, cut, kidney punch, cut. Repeat, repeat, repeat. Repetition was his tool. Though it could be tedious at times, it enforced his memory. It created for him the pool of abilities to draw from in the heat of combat. A wise man would be thankful for such a practical tool. Shouta simply wanted to learn it all very fast. But he was smart enough to know that would be difficult.

[Shouta]

Another grapple, this time less successful. Shouta’s glare could have lit candles. Sweat ran down his back, cool between his skin and the woolen cloth of his robe. His mind raced from form to thought, to memory. A sandy beach. Two tanned blondes staring down at him. Green grass waved in the wind… Shouta shook his head violently. What had that memory crept up for? He had been almost totally focused on his training, and the first memory of Mizahar slid to the forefront? His past was usually something for an idle mind. Shouta was not sure why the thought of the two Sylirans upset him so much. They were his saviors, and had lead him to safety first, before anything else had happened to him in this life. The squire had been a mere child back then. More adolescent than Shouta had been, but now he was older and grayer, and Shouta was the same. Such was the blessing of the Ethaefal. Shouta reached up a callused hand and rubbed the leaking liquid from his eyes. Mortality, it was almost as cruel as immortality. They were forced to cram everything into so few years, living largely and brightly for a moment. He was cursed with the memory of much better men. He and his forgotten kin were the silent historians that watched the deeds of others and remembered, mourned. And he had been worried about being the favored of a god. Now that seemed like such a pampered worry, faced with the thought of mortality. What did the average man care of gods’ favor? He cared to wake up the next morning and cram some love into his short life, maybe. Men who lived, and died, by the edge of their blade. They had no time, and he had all the time in the world. But he spent it alone. Not alone, Uphis would not grow old and die. He was eternal, just as war was always on the horizon. But he had to earn his place near Uphis. Shouta shrugged of the nostalgia and stepped once again to the dummy. A throw of the weight later the chain of his weapon was dancing in the air. Another repetitive flick of his two fingers and a loop wrapped itself around the roughly hewn wood. A flash of light as the Nykan sun’s rays reflected off the mirror that was his blade. He grunted with the effort of the blows as he went through his steps again. He painted an invisible picture with his fist and kama. Not even he knew what it looked like, for he was consumed in the precision and effort of the act. But it would be painted red in the pigment of blood.

[Balderdash]

Delicious rewards! Happy days and jubilation!

Skill	XP Awarded
Weapon: Kusarigama	4

Lores: Petch Inner Calm, Kusarigama Stance: Falling Crane, Faith Through Might, What Is Wrong?

Items and Consequences: Nil

A fun little solo. Interested to see how this plays out...

If you have any questions or concerns about this grade, please PM me. A happy you is a happy Balderdash!