Midday 33rd of Winter, 515 AV
Winds swept up from the west, carried by the roiling frothy waves of the Suvan Sea, over the precipitous inclines and across Syliras. It was midday, the sun a cold white blister without the warmth it brandished in summer and carrying a callous light that seemed to lack colour. Winter was setting in now, bowered pathways lay exposed beneath wilted branches, and patchy clumps of snow decorated dirt. The leaf and needle that had kept through the unforgiving cold were sparse and the greenery left sprouting from the earth was the sort with sharp burrs and thorns or weeds that attracted the cruellest of insects. Stone outcrops beneath trees were the little shelter the animals of Sylira had left to hunker down and even those weren't enough to stave off the perpetual winds that ravaged once-verdant hills. Pastures barren and farmland untilled there was little to behold, it was a stark season. Not unexpected.
Endir stood on the rooftops on the Eastern edges of Syliras' first tier. The Antinous Training Ground was as much a home to him as any warm Inn might be, but in the stead of a mug full of warm mead, he wielded his bastard sword. The steady breeze gathered his short hair, plastered his tunic to his chest and whipped his loose breeches. He was alone in a roofless salle, weapon gliding elegantly about in the palms of his hands, the lower of them the counterweight that brought the broad blade around in fatal sweeps. He struck at nothing, focusing on balance and footwork as he combatted the air, dicing imaginary opponents with refined counterstrokes. He was decent with a sword, better than some of his peers while not as good as others. Dust rose around him from the worn flagstone, roused by his pivots and only given a moment to settle.
His mind was a void, tempered to a point where nothing mattered but the blade. His focus would be difficult to break, surroundings a bleak haze. He only felt the blade, the leather-wound hilt in his palms, the pommel rubbing at the bottom or his and an the crossguard at the top, the flashing iron naught but an extension of himself, a deadly limb he intended to master. If someone stumbled into this whirlwind of practiced motions, they'd likely find themselves without an arm, or worse... a head.
Winds swept up from the west, carried by the roiling frothy waves of the Suvan Sea, over the precipitous inclines and across Syliras. It was midday, the sun a cold white blister without the warmth it brandished in summer and carrying a callous light that seemed to lack colour. Winter was setting in now, bowered pathways lay exposed beneath wilted branches, and patchy clumps of snow decorated dirt. The leaf and needle that had kept through the unforgiving cold were sparse and the greenery left sprouting from the earth was the sort with sharp burrs and thorns or weeds that attracted the cruellest of insects. Stone outcrops beneath trees were the little shelter the animals of Sylira had left to hunker down and even those weren't enough to stave off the perpetual winds that ravaged once-verdant hills. Pastures barren and farmland untilled there was little to behold, it was a stark season. Not unexpected.
Endir stood on the rooftops on the Eastern edges of Syliras' first tier. The Antinous Training Ground was as much a home to him as any warm Inn might be, but in the stead of a mug full of warm mead, he wielded his bastard sword. The steady breeze gathered his short hair, plastered his tunic to his chest and whipped his loose breeches. He was alone in a roofless salle, weapon gliding elegantly about in the palms of his hands, the lower of them the counterweight that brought the broad blade around in fatal sweeps. He struck at nothing, focusing on balance and footwork as he combatted the air, dicing imaginary opponents with refined counterstrokes. He was decent with a sword, better than some of his peers while not as good as others. Dust rose around him from the worn flagstone, roused by his pivots and only given a moment to settle.
His mind was a void, tempered to a point where nothing mattered but the blade. His focus would be difficult to break, surroundings a bleak haze. He only felt the blade, the leather-wound hilt in his palms, the pommel rubbing at the bottom or his and an the crossguard at the top, the flashing iron naught but an extension of himself, a deadly limb he intended to master. If someone stumbled into this whirlwind of practiced motions, they'd likely find themselves without an arm, or worse... a head.
