Timestamp: 20th, Winter, 504AV “Petching winter,” breathed the young man who stood outside the barracks lining the tall, fortified walls of the Vitrax. He rubbed his hands together, hoping the friction would at least reduce the numbing sensations that was beginning to creep into his fingers despite the perceived lack of ice due to Rhysol’s influence. And Deven was grateful, damned grateful, else he was sure he’d be a walking icicle by now. It was morning, and the usual sounds of clashing swords and barked orders emanated from the buildings in his direct vicinity, and hung in the still air before being swept away by strong currents that seemed to take pleasure in rocking him on his feet. He was to meet his overseeing soldier today; a usual morning. Heavy footfalls took him to a building across from the barracks he was housed in. The incessant clangs and shouts gradually increased, until Deven opened the door and stepped inside, relishing in the stark contrast between warm and cold. Immediate silence. All eyes trained on him, Of course, I’m the petching pageant queen. He smirked at the resounding stillness, then with a light shrug, he walked over to the rows of weapons that lined the walls, “You can keep on staring, but I’m not turning into you’re wildest desires.” “Deven.” Came a stern bark from across the room. He winced, “Sir Fren,” Deven stood to attention as the rest of the apprentices continued their assaults on dummies or each other. The man that approached him now was tall, nearly 6’3”, with dark, wavy hair held back in a tight pony tail and scars that marred one half of his face. He looked grizzly. “At least you’re punctual,” he growled, “Have you your weapon on you, boy?” “Yes, sir.” Deven held up the curved dagger for his commanding officer. “Good, you’ll be practicing until evening with that today. No breaks, no chit chat, I want your ass planted at a dummy with complete focus on it at all times. Do I make myself clear?” “Yes, sir.” “I don’t care if your fingers start to petching bleed, I want to see every inch of that dummy torn apart. Know that I’ll be watching every style, every technique you use, I want to see diversity, understood?” “Yes, sir.” Deven already knew not to stand before Fren for too long. He had a tendency to smack the living shyke out of any apprentice that stood before him for an extended amount of time. He usually called them “half brained, lazy bastards,” and the young seventeen year old had no desire to be labeled as such, despite the amount of beating his face has taken over the years. He was already eyed with enough suspicion as it is, and the desire to overcome the prejudice by his peers had been instrumental in his determination. Taking up his mantle at one of the worn dummies on the far corner of the room, Deven fingered the hilt of his dagger. Rather… Jartu’s dagger. Even for being such a bastard, the man had taught him a lot, even magic, and to him, a teenager who knew not why everyone regarded him with such suspicion, he was grateful for it. He damned well knew the consequences of not following orders amongst the Ebonstryfe, having witnessed two of his peers suffer dire consequences for their misgivings. Enough. Discipline. Concentration. What can I see here but my greatest enemy? A Syliran Knight! Instinctively, the apprentice’s arm shot out, catching the arm of the dummy in a sidestepped sweep of his blade, knocking it on it’s rickety hinges and forcing the arm to launch in a full circle, catching him off guard. Deven was smacked in the back with a good measure of force, sending him nearly tumbling to the floor. ”Shyke,” he hissed under his breath. His composure was stable, however. He simply got his ass up once more and tried again. One arm raised, right leg placed farther up than his left, Deven administered an upsweep with the dagger, aiming for the chest cavity. Hearing a satisfied crack as a splinter flew off and collided with the wall, the young Ebonstryfe apprentice smiled. He flexed the muscles in his hand, then tried once more, this time, once again, aiming at the arm. He knew what to anticipate now, so when the blade sunk into the wooden arm of the dummy and sent it circling around, Deven ducked, missing the arm by a hair’s breadth but conjuring enough tactic to stand straight once more, lock his arm out to block the incoming blow. He couldn’t help but grin. |