50th of Summer, 514.
The times were few and far, since he'd managed to find time away from patrolling or training with his fellow fang-mates. Perhaps it was just him, that felt the need to occasionally escape their grasp and move out into Taloba in search of something.. well, new. However, it wasn't new that he found, but rather something much older - the Arena of Ancients. Perhaps it was just him - after being dragged back to the arena, over and over, by his father for training in the arts that he would eventually come to need, if he would ever survive in the military. He'd never regretted his time there - bare-fisted, punching back and forth.. although his father usually got more in than Kwantu. It brought back such memories, the walls and the floors of the old gladiatorial arena. Now he stood there, a man; a member of the military through and through, with his spear in hand and his gaze scanning repeatedly over the small circle of rock.
"It always seemed so much bigger, in those days." Perhaps it was the crumbling rock or the overgrowing moss that gave the place a much more crowded feel, but he was suddenly worried for damaging such a place with a single swipe of his spear. He tapped one of such walls with the butt of the spear and a heavy piece of stone rattled in place, accompanied by a small cloud of dust that sent the Myrian coughing. The last thing he needed, in the burning heat of the full Summer day, was choked lungs as well. But since the Arena was mostly empty, he decided that he might as well put a little bit of practice into his swings and see if he could bring back a little of his old talent to heel. Those young days, he could swing the pole around like it was a third arm. Now, though.. with the spear put to so much real use, he wondered if he could even remember the old ways.
It went something along the lines of.. swinging it around in a half-circle-- no! Swing it a half-circle, while twisting his wrist so that the spear swung on its own axis during the heavier swing.. and then, he needed to reach behind his back in order to catch the movement and continue it around the opposite side of his body, but-- damn. The thing fumbled and nearly fell out of his fingers. He felt like a damn old man, sitting in the middle of an old arena and trying things he'd barely managed to do when he was 17. Oh well.. it wasn't like there was anyone else around to notice. The Arena had long ago been abandoned for little other than blood sports.. the reason that he, and his father, practised in the very spot was for little reason other than that his father was still a man of the military as well. The walks back to the clan-lands was a few days; too long and too wide for him to return back home every time he had a short break from the long patrols and longer guarding duties along the Zinrah Barriers and indeed, the jungles that lay between the barrier and the city.
He lifted the butt of the spear and stabbed it into the dirt, lifting up a small cloud. He thought he could hear some noises coming from the far edge of the arena.. pushed away behind some of the larger rocks. It wouldn't be anything non-Myrian.. but then, what would someone be doing out here, in these arenas of bloodsport..
The times were few and far, since he'd managed to find time away from patrolling or training with his fellow fang-mates. Perhaps it was just him, that felt the need to occasionally escape their grasp and move out into Taloba in search of something.. well, new. However, it wasn't new that he found, but rather something much older - the Arena of Ancients. Perhaps it was just him - after being dragged back to the arena, over and over, by his father for training in the arts that he would eventually come to need, if he would ever survive in the military. He'd never regretted his time there - bare-fisted, punching back and forth.. although his father usually got more in than Kwantu. It brought back such memories, the walls and the floors of the old gladiatorial arena. Now he stood there, a man; a member of the military through and through, with his spear in hand and his gaze scanning repeatedly over the small circle of rock.
"It always seemed so much bigger, in those days." Perhaps it was the crumbling rock or the overgrowing moss that gave the place a much more crowded feel, but he was suddenly worried for damaging such a place with a single swipe of his spear. He tapped one of such walls with the butt of the spear and a heavy piece of stone rattled in place, accompanied by a small cloud of dust that sent the Myrian coughing. The last thing he needed, in the burning heat of the full Summer day, was choked lungs as well. But since the Arena was mostly empty, he decided that he might as well put a little bit of practice into his swings and see if he could bring back a little of his old talent to heel. Those young days, he could swing the pole around like it was a third arm. Now, though.. with the spear put to so much real use, he wondered if he could even remember the old ways.
It went something along the lines of.. swinging it around in a half-circle-- no! Swing it a half-circle, while twisting his wrist so that the spear swung on its own axis during the heavier swing.. and then, he needed to reach behind his back in order to catch the movement and continue it around the opposite side of his body, but-- damn. The thing fumbled and nearly fell out of his fingers. He felt like a damn old man, sitting in the middle of an old arena and trying things he'd barely managed to do when he was 17. Oh well.. it wasn't like there was anyone else around to notice. The Arena had long ago been abandoned for little other than blood sports.. the reason that he, and his father, practised in the very spot was for little reason other than that his father was still a man of the military as well. The walks back to the clan-lands was a few days; too long and too wide for him to return back home every time he had a short break from the long patrols and longer guarding duties along the Zinrah Barriers and indeed, the jungles that lay between the barrier and the city.
He lifted the butt of the spear and stabbed it into the dirt, lifting up a small cloud. He thought he could hear some noises coming from the far edge of the arena.. pushed away behind some of the larger rocks. It wouldn't be anything non-Myrian.. but then, what would someone be doing out here, in these arenas of bloodsport..
Myrian Tongue | Common Tongue | Tukant Tongue
