.
...12 Autumn, 514
...12 Autumn, 514
Parzival's boots crunched against the ground. Autumn was still young, and so the leaves were only just beginning to turn, but still the ground managed to be littered with them, as well as the tiny sticks and twigs that had always baffled him. He could understand why leaves detached themselves and drifted downwards towards the forest floor in the fall: that was why they called it 'the fall'. But why the twigs? Where did they come in? What made one part of the tree try and brittle, while other parts were springy and still green inside? Was it the wind that dislodged those brittle parts, and scattered them across the ground? Were the woodland creatures that skitted from branch to branch somehow responsible? Were they dislodged by birds building nests and accidentally dropped, or did the birds wait for them to fall and pluck their nest materials from the ground? How long had they been there? How fast did they regrow? How long did they stay? Why was he not crunching his way across a deep carpet of of mysterious twigs?
It was these thoughts that had roamed through the woods, gathering up as much dry wood of various sizes as he could find; rocks too, the size of his fist, or there abouts. He wasn't particularly sure why he was doing what he was doing; merely following some half remembered instructions from his patron decades ago. He'd seen campfires before; he'd seen the way that the small sticks lit the big sticks, and the circle of stones stopped everything falling over; and he knew that you needed dry wood because wet wood wouldn't burn; but that was the limit of his knowledge. He frowned as he bent down in the centre of the clearing he had claimed as temporarily his. It couldn't be that hard, could it?
As it turned out, it was. His first struggle had come trying to arrange the larger branches into the neat mountain that he'd seen others do; it had fallen over, frequently. Then he'd fumbled with the flint and steel, several minutes spent trying to even produce a spark, and then several more invested on trying to make that spark land on something flammable. When he'd succeeded at last the tiny spark had flickered and died before catching anything alight; his second partial success had involved an attempt at blowing, but had managed to do little more than create a small spiralling stream of smoke. In the end he'd thrown a scrap of paper into the mix along with a fistful of dry grass, struck at the steel once more, and muttered a silent prayer to Yahal under his breath. At long, agonising last a flame had flickered into life upon the paper, which Parzival had carefully prodded into position with a spare stick.
At last, the fire began to crackle and spread, literal and visual warmth expanding to fill the shadowy clearing. Just in time, too; from the fading colour of the sky, Parzival knew that evening was approaching.
Being here seemed like an odd choice; having spent so many years away from Syliras, he was surprised to find himself desiring to leave it so soon after returning. It was not the city itself though, nor the people in it that drove him away; but rather the signs and sounds of their presence. He had grown so accustomed to the peaceful quiet of the hermitage that every crowd, every creak, every sleeping squire's snoring breath, was a deafening roar to his ears. In time he would adapt, in time he would learn to focus through it; but for now it was a distraction, a plague on his concentration.
He stood, studying the trees that encircled his fire, scrutinising their trunks with narrowed eyes. Most were too narrow; a few too broad; but his attention settled on one about the width of a man's shoulders, not too twisted, not too gnarled. He bent for his staff, which his weary bones protested slightly, and then crossed the clearing towards his chosen tree, reaching into his thoughts to extract an imagined image of an opponent, and superimposed it onto the bark in his mind's eye. His body fell into a familiar stance; one foot pointed towards the tree, one behind and angled outwards, knees gently flexed; weight balanced between the two, ready to shift to either leg in readiness for attack or defense. Slow and methodical, easing himself into the muscle-memorised routine, one hand slid down the polished wood to the base of the staff, the other following, the staff swung like a lever to crack against the tree's imagined shoulder. His hands inverted the actions, reflecting the swing, another crack against the opposite shoulder. Next he swung low, a strike to one ankle; hands inverted, a strike to the other. One to the ribs; then again, to the opposite side. A downward strike towards the tree's faux skull; an upward strike, into the tree's barky groin. The last strike swung, and with a resounding thwack, struck the side of the tree's head.
He drew back; drew a breath; reset his stance, and repeated: shoulder, shoulder; ankle, ankle; ribs, ribs; over, under; strike. Another repeat, faster this time, the numbers one to nine uttered alongside his breaths. The staff moved with practice competence, swifter still, the pattern reversed at will: sometimes left before right; others right before left. At first each strike was an exhale, each slide of his hands an inward breath; by the end the motions were so fast that only a single breath completed with each sequence. His shoulders ached; his elbows complained as each strike landed with increasing force. The numbers became a mantra, the repetition driving all other thoughts from his mind, concentration, focus, clarity -
As one more sequence completed he froze, attention snared by a sound in the branches above and behind; a rustle of leaves, just a bird or the breeze perhaps; even so he remained still, waiting for another sign. The skin on the back of his neck prickled; he could feel himself being watched.
Carefully, he drew himself back into a rest stance, and cautiously turned his eyes and attention back into the clearing.
"Hello?"
It was these thoughts that had roamed through the woods, gathering up as much dry wood of various sizes as he could find; rocks too, the size of his fist, or there abouts. He wasn't particularly sure why he was doing what he was doing; merely following some half remembered instructions from his patron decades ago. He'd seen campfires before; he'd seen the way that the small sticks lit the big sticks, and the circle of stones stopped everything falling over; and he knew that you needed dry wood because wet wood wouldn't burn; but that was the limit of his knowledge. He frowned as he bent down in the centre of the clearing he had claimed as temporarily his. It couldn't be that hard, could it?
As it turned out, it was. His first struggle had come trying to arrange the larger branches into the neat mountain that he'd seen others do; it had fallen over, frequently. Then he'd fumbled with the flint and steel, several minutes spent trying to even produce a spark, and then several more invested on trying to make that spark land on something flammable. When he'd succeeded at last the tiny spark had flickered and died before catching anything alight; his second partial success had involved an attempt at blowing, but had managed to do little more than create a small spiralling stream of smoke. In the end he'd thrown a scrap of paper into the mix along with a fistful of dry grass, struck at the steel once more, and muttered a silent prayer to Yahal under his breath. At long, agonising last a flame had flickered into life upon the paper, which Parzival had carefully prodded into position with a spare stick.
At last, the fire began to crackle and spread, literal and visual warmth expanding to fill the shadowy clearing. Just in time, too; from the fading colour of the sky, Parzival knew that evening was approaching.
Being here seemed like an odd choice; having spent so many years away from Syliras, he was surprised to find himself desiring to leave it so soon after returning. It was not the city itself though, nor the people in it that drove him away; but rather the signs and sounds of their presence. He had grown so accustomed to the peaceful quiet of the hermitage that every crowd, every creak, every sleeping squire's snoring breath, was a deafening roar to his ears. In time he would adapt, in time he would learn to focus through it; but for now it was a distraction, a plague on his concentration.
He stood, studying the trees that encircled his fire, scrutinising their trunks with narrowed eyes. Most were too narrow; a few too broad; but his attention settled on one about the width of a man's shoulders, not too twisted, not too gnarled. He bent for his staff, which his weary bones protested slightly, and then crossed the clearing towards his chosen tree, reaching into his thoughts to extract an imagined image of an opponent, and superimposed it onto the bark in his mind's eye. His body fell into a familiar stance; one foot pointed towards the tree, one behind and angled outwards, knees gently flexed; weight balanced between the two, ready to shift to either leg in readiness for attack or defense. Slow and methodical, easing himself into the muscle-memorised routine, one hand slid down the polished wood to the base of the staff, the other following, the staff swung like a lever to crack against the tree's imagined shoulder. His hands inverted the actions, reflecting the swing, another crack against the opposite shoulder. Next he swung low, a strike to one ankle; hands inverted, a strike to the other. One to the ribs; then again, to the opposite side. A downward strike towards the tree's faux skull; an upward strike, into the tree's barky groin. The last strike swung, and with a resounding thwack, struck the side of the tree's head.
He drew back; drew a breath; reset his stance, and repeated: shoulder, shoulder; ankle, ankle; ribs, ribs; over, under; strike. Another repeat, faster this time, the numbers one to nine uttered alongside his breaths. The staff moved with practice competence, swifter still, the pattern reversed at will: sometimes left before right; others right before left. At first each strike was an exhale, each slide of his hands an inward breath; by the end the motions were so fast that only a single breath completed with each sequence. His shoulders ached; his elbows complained as each strike landed with increasing force. The numbers became a mantra, the repetition driving all other thoughts from his mind, concentration, focus, clarity -
As one more sequence completed he froze, attention snared by a sound in the branches above and behind; a rustle of leaves, just a bird or the breeze perhaps; even so he remained still, waiting for another sign. The skin on the back of his neck prickled; he could feel himself being watched.
Carefully, he drew himself back into a rest stance, and cautiously turned his eyes and attention back into the clearing.
"Hello?"
"Common" | "Pavi"
This template was made by Khara. She was blackmailed with threats against the lives of cute baby kittens.
This template was made by Khara. She was blackmailed with threats against the lives of cute baby kittens.
