[Bronze Woods] On the Edge of the World (Marcus)

[Sighard]

A piteous groan expelled from the lips of Sighard as he felt his arms shift unnaturally against the grinding weight of an alien force. The all too common impact of a parry caused internal seething, a fiery rage that conflicted with his otherwise calm demeanor. Time had worked against him, guaranteeing the momentary lapse of his previous parry had given his opponent such time to narrowly guard against the thrust, which, for all intents and purposes had the look to grant the boy’s first strike. Still, though, he remained a resilient force, drawing his arms backwards the immediate moment he’d registered a parry in order to cut the hang time of the blade and prepare for a sufficient block of his own.

Sighard pressed on instead of easing off, jerking his body forth and raising his blade to coordinate with his opponent’s next blow. His knees bent radically and lowered his position towards the ground in order that the distance the blacksmith’s blade would have to travel from the air to shoulder would become elongated and would have subsequently given the squire ample time to raise his blade high above his head in horizontal fashion to parry. His legs consequently reacted to the natural tension of such force and extended, causing the potential energy built up in his knees to be released so that the squire would literally drive his blade into the blow of his opponent’s using the full force of his body.

The close positioning of the two, if all went as planned would have allowed a transitional movement, wherein the squire would drive his knee into the solar plexus of his opponent, a spot where, if struck, often caused a person to double over and have the wind knocked out of them if caught unaware. There was little lapse in judgment in Sighard’s dance, rather it was instinctual aggression that kept him going forth at a swift, offensive pace.

[Marcus Braeden]

Midway through Marcus' own strike, Sighard's blade came up to meet Marcus' blade. Behind the squire's blade also came the force of Sighard's own body movements which essentially canceled out the power that Marcus had put into his swing, although it had still managed to cause some sort of staggering, judging by the groan that the boy had let out upon impact. While the squire relied on his entire body throughout the fight, Marcus was relying only on his arms for his power. If he wanted to stand a chance, he would need to start drawing power from every corner of his body.

After the lock between the blades was broken, Marcus identified his next threat. A knee flying straight toward his upper abdomen. First a kick, and now a knee aimed for me. Damn this kid sure does like using his feet Marcus thought to himself. The close quarters of the current combat situation didn't allow much time to think and act. Instead, Marcus' instincts kick into play once again. He found himself leaning forward as his legs jumped backwards, bringing his stomach with him. Although he had managed to protect his abdomen from the knee, he was now off balance and standing on his toes. He acted quickly before the young squire could strike again by recovering and planting one foot backwards as to gain some distance between him and his opponent.

Once some distance was secure Marcus began his next assault. He rushed forward, sword still secured in both hands. Another idea occurred to Marcus and he was determined to give it an attempt. This time, he was going to fight fire with fire. He detached his left hand from his sword and let it hang freely at his side. He then slashed downward towards Sighard's left leg. He expected it to be blocked but his intentions were not to strike his leg with the sword. Once the swords had connected, he would kick out with his left foot, toes pointed up, and attempt to land hit on Sighard's gut.

[Sighard]

. . . But assumptions were a fickle thing, viral anecdotes that clouded judgment and registered faulty logic. Displays of brutal instinct, animalistic fervor were praised often in times of desperation or the heat of battle where cogent thought was an inefficient means of solving a problem. The counts of Sighard’s own mistakes were hardened scars upon the flesh of his existence, amended only by time and reflection which inevitably allowed him to recognize preemptive planning in attacks and react accordingly. By now aggression had become his defining feature, a mantra in which to comfortably categorize and quell by an appropriate counter. Marcus expected reaction and a strike, a cookie-cutter pattern that could have effectively defined any swordsman. The boy was anything but ordinary.

First his gaze fluidly shifted towards his opponent’s offending appendage, wound upwards to strike downwards no doubt. His feet ambled off; according his body a more appropriate position and pushing it back out of the approximate reach of his opponent’s strike. He watched the pendulous arc of the smith’s blade drag through air, whirring and subsequently carving through the sound barrier which illicited the haunting melody of that subtle whir and dramatic scrape of the tip dragging against the dirt. A splay of dirt rudely splattered upon his leg, though he had no time to frown. His own blade had already gone into motion.

There was an elegance to this blow which contradicted the choppy brutality of his previous motif, a downwards, floating strike intended to intercept Marcus’ kick. Its designation was the fully flexed knee which would have hung loosely in the air as appeasing a target as any. No artificial exertion was required, as Sighard hoped to evidence to his opponent, for physics could often be manipulated to one’s own advantage. The power of his blow was naturally accentuated by the gravitational pull of the earth below and objects not grounded tended to have no base from which to be resilient. If the edge of his blade struck true, there was a good likelihood that the blunt trauma of the blow may do quite a bit more than bruise.

[Marcus Braeden]

Marcus' sword attack had been turned completely useless by Sighard's side step. Instead of scraping against the metal of Sighard's own blade. Instead, the blades edge ran across the dirt and mud, kicking it up at his opponents leg. Getting is opponent a little dirty was not Marcus' intention but he had bigger problems to worry about now. Sighard's blade wasn't locked with his own, and now it was free to attack Marcus at will. The blades chosen target? Marcus' kicking leg. More specifically it was aimed at his knee, and judging by the force that the blade travelling with, Marcus was in for some pain. But his blade was also free and unless he wanted a bruised knee or worse, he needed to act, fast.

Sighard was trying to use physics to his advantage, using the gravitational force to add that extra power to his attack. Marcus was also capable of using physics to his advantage. His sword still swung through the air and it was up to him to control his blade and intercept Sighard's blade. As Marcus' sword began its upward swing Marcus took control and guided it to its side and then down, eventually placing it in between his knee and the incoming blade. When Sighard's blade slammed down on Marcus' sword, a large amount of the impact was absorbed by the sword, however Sighard's force remained greater, causing the flat edge of Marcus' sword to hit his own knee. As soon as contact was made, his leg recoiled back into a natural standing position alongside his other leg. A slight blunt pain resided in his knee after the impact, but he had been through worse...much worse.

During that long winter 'living' with those who dwelled in the forests of Sylira, he was beaten often, but he endured. Not once did he lash out at his captors, because he knew once mistake would have gotten him killed. Dying there was not an option. After all, the end goal is to survive, to survive as long as your body can move forward. All of this fighting, it was beginning to make him see a little clearly. For a year, he had dreamed of going out into the forest and getting his revenge on those who captured him and other innocents. But Sighard's unrelenting strikes began to force him to realize that life isn't a simple storybook, and going out would most likely end up with his body face down in a river. A year had been wasted simply being full of vengeance and hatred. It was time to change. Time to let it go.

Instead of wasting his time on meaningless dreams of his quest for vengeance, he would reach for greatness. And that was not a simple goal, no, it was a challenge. He jumped backwards, separating himself from his opponent. He looked up and met Sighard's eyes and smirked. Maybe Marcus' dream of becoming a knight wasn't dead. It was simply shrouded in a cloud of anger that occupied his mind for a year.

[Sighard]

Son of a. . . the thought was a conflagration of his peace, an aggravation that expanded into a waking storm as soon as his well-placed swing hit. . .bitch. The sound was nauseating, a chord that played along the thin strings of Sighard’s nerves and made him rue any sort of metal clangor. His opponent could not jump back, could not efficiently impose a counter-attack at this pivotal moment where desperation accorded his movement and dictated haphazard, improvised style. This was no longer a spar between swordsmen. This was a challenge of the practiced against the free-hand, knightly combat against whatever scraps of knowledge had been picked up by Marcus. Momentarily the blacksmith should have found himself rather staggered by the impact of metal and appendage, his equilibrium offset that Sighard meant to viciously expose.

Step forward, practiced, quickly now. . . his thoughts were a liberal spattering of the weapon-master’s drilling, virtuous words that became inherent and vestigial and directed his instinctual movements. Swordsman do not just stop as long as there is a parry, and especially if they’ve been given a particular opening. The order of events following the parry were the quick, upwards jerk of his wrists and step forth that drew his momentum upwards in a long arc in order that the edge hit underneath his opponent’s jaw just as he was trying to regain himself from the previous blow. The transposition of passive to aggressive happened in nearly an instant and he’d hoped this time would allow him more fortune than previous attempts.

[Marcus Braeden]

The pain in Marcus' knee was annoying at best, a slight distraction from the battle at hand. He would have to cope if he wanted to stay in this fight. Marcus took slow deep breaths as Sighard charged with his next attack, which came immediately after his retreat. This time, the squires blade moved from in an upwards direction, aimed to strike Marcus' chin with the edge of the blade. If that hit landed the fight would most likely be over, as a strike to that region would most likely send Marcus to ground. A swordsman would probably react accordingly with a simple parry and and then make his own attack. It was almost systematic. But Marcus was no swordsman, he was but a weapon smith a few aspirations of his own. His own instincts dictated that he get the hell out of the way, and he reacted in line with those instincts. As Sighard's blade became perpendicular with that of Marcus' upper chest, he shifted his head to the right. He felt a s. His body followed and the movement was complete with the planting of his left foot. As his left leg came in contact with the ground, a slight jolt of pain was sent to his knee, and Marcus cringed slightly.

Marcus responded with another one of his improvised attacks. This time it was a simple horizontal slash aimed towards the boys chest. He swung his weapon using his right arm and cut across his body. If all went as planned the last three inches of Marcus' blade were to make contact with the boy's torso. But as he had learned previously, there seemed to be a counter for just about everything. That one rule dictated this entire fight.

[Sighard]

Damn. . . thoughts processed at lightning speed, and they flooded, streams of data unable to be integrated in time for sufficient action to be properly given. There was intent in Marcus’ style, an unwavering stubbornness that haphazardly moved him from one dangerous situation to another. He danced the fine line of defeat, and although he may have never admitted it, Sighard was the puppeteer who’d held the strings, and pulled them just so to progress the battle. One could never have imagined, however, that one of such a humble profession could have held his own against a boy who’d spent every day of his life to perfect the craft. So it seemed, as his blade sliced through air as opposed to flesh, that he gained a new respect for the citizens of Syliras, a more holistic view of their abilities that painted them more than the supposed sheep to be herded.

In this the boy did something unexpected, reckless, and with the intent of finishing this battle. In doing so he’d play the martyr, subsequently stepping inwards upon the drawing back of Marcus’ own strike in order to gain positioning for his own. His own blade at this point would have still hung in the air, tapering at the dreadful pull of gravity to which he accommodated it gracefully slamming it back down in the soft portion of the smith’s neck where the clavicle might be. The intent was to conclude, a move so savage that the pain inflicted on either end would have been tantamount to suicide in actual battle. The torso is well guarded by plate in actual battle, I may sustain injury here but—aghh!! A powerful thud heralded the onset of fiery pain which wracked at his side as the very top of Marcus’ blade slammed into his ribcage.

Sighard offered a sharp cry of pain, the tones of which maintained his rather light boyish qualities. The pain was dizzying, and he was assured his ribs were almost indefinitely bruised. There was some small comfort in the padding of leather which absorbed a bit of the blow, but it was powerful indeed. Unlucky for Marcus, the neck happened to be a particularly vulnerable spot in any sort of combat situation, especially two men clad in leather.

[Marcus Braeden]

Marcus' eyes lit up with delight as his blade made contact with the boys chest. He thought it was over, he thought he had won. A simple weapon smith defeating a squire, such nonsense wasn't heard of. A temporary feeling of success overcame his entire being and smile managed to crawl across his face. Just as he was about to open his mouth to speak, Sighard's blade made its final stroke. Darkness, and then Marcus found himself lying in the field, with one specific blade of grass getting dangerously close to his nostril, tickling his nose. But tickling sensation only lasted a second, and soon pain became the strongest of Marcus' current feelings. The slight annoyance that was in his knee had been replaced by a sharp pain in his lower neck. Marcus quickly released his sword and reached over with his arm and clenched the spot of the wound. At the very least, a bruise, and a large one at that. But once again, he had been through worse.

Marcus slowly stood up from, still grasping where it hurt. He looked over, and saw Sighard, clenching his chest, where Marcus' blade had struck. Marcus looked over and slightly smiled. "Heh, I think you have the victory on this one...at least you could have survived your wound..." he chuckled. Marcus bent over and retrieved the blade he had used and handed it back to Sighard.

"Hey, thanks for the invite out here today by the way. It was good to blow off some steam...plus it made me realize a thing or two..." Marcus said cheerfully. "Let me tell you though, I think you just put me out of work for a week" he laughed.

It was too bad John Griffin, the knight who had originally intended on sponsoring Marcus, was no where to be found. Finding a new sponsor was bound to provide some sort of challenge. But that was life. Challenge after challenge. After all, joining the knights was the goal, the reason Marcus came to Syliras, wasn't it? Why give up now? For a year his life seemed to be locked in one spot. Sighard brought Marcus back down to ground level. Time to move forward.

[Sighard]

“Temporary pain for an eternal experience, I’m sure,” he chided as he accepted the blade and gripped it loosely, allowing it to hang loosely at his side. Damn does it hurt. . . It seemed that the very muscles beneath his armor and begun to contort and shudder, uncomfortably writhing against the dull throb which pervaded every decent sense and forced him to clutch inwardly. Although he did his best to compose himself in such a situation, the attempt was a futile and fruitless effort. He could not be his father all at once, as much as he tried. “You’ve a talent with the blade I’ve seen in few blacksmith, and were an excellent exercise. The pleasure is all mine.” The thought lingered in the air for a moment, and the boy’s expression was contemplative, a humorous twisting of his features that ended in a laugh and more speech.

“Just. . . don’t let anyone know you worked a squire like me that good. It is a tough thing to repair the injury of rumors and gossip.” There was an ounce of sad truth to the statement, a certainty that lingered and existed in the world. It was almost too possible that word of the squire’s spar could be reformed into some assault on the Knight’s honor, a stain on their pride which marked them as incompetent, bumbling fools not fit to protect their own citizens. Sighard shuddered to imagine the repercussions of such an outcome. Cheer, for the most part, dominated his mood and elevated him above the shallow depression of intense pain.

And so the passage of time which held within it those precious moments of battled had passed and faded into the air, leaving subtle remnants into the dirt terrace below, skirting definitive footprints that told the story of the battle and silently echoed words only they could understand. Sighard made moves to depart from the scene, swift steps that carried him along the path that lead back to Stormhold. He stopped briefly, arching his neck to look back towards his new acquaintance.

“The Knights are always in need of a good sword-arm if you’ve ever the mind, friend.”

[Marcus Braeden]

The pain seemed to spread throughout Marcus' body, with it being centralized in his neck. His knee, his neck, everything was sore. There was a sparse layer of sweat that covered Marcus' forehead. Even in the Fall air, it felt as if he were working next to the fire in the Ironworks. Sighard grasped the blade and drew it from Marcus' hand, he was almost sad to see it go. Perhaps a sturdy sword for himself would be his next economic venture, or his next smithing project.

"Thanks for the compliment, I guess my brother and I did manage to learn a thing or two from those books even after all these years" he said, chuckling at Sighard's concern for his reputation. "Heh, don't worry, I'll be sure to tell people that you dispatched me in one single stroke" he said with a certain touch of drama.

As Marcus turned around and prepared his trek back towards the city that he had allowed to be his prison, those sweet words poured from Sighard's mouth.

"It's funny. I originally came to this city to become a Knight. Then my priorities changed for the worse, but now, after this small skirmish, my mindset has gone full circle. Funny how things are constantly changing...In short, I would be honored to join up, but I do lack the sponsor. I used to have one, but he disappeared some time ago..."