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

[Sighard]

Fall 6th, 511 A.V.

Two tournament swords rested, shimmering in the rays of sunlight which filtered through the canopy of conifers overheard. Fabric of faded hues trailed loosely from their pommels, cast aside every which way in the fluttering breezes of fall. It was a cool, airy day and the shadows lowered the temperature enough to convey that it was undeniably Autumn. These blades were stuck into the soft, loamy ground and they crossed against each other. Aside them stood a man dressed in plain brown tunic and breeches. Sighard, squire to the Syliran knights patiently awaited the arrival of a guest. His posture did not indicate who, necessarily, but rather the pads of leather strapped to his body offered that it had the potential to be a violent showing.

Though the setting was serene, and the sights were to be sung of in tales of bards Sighard was still unsettled. His glance gestured southwards and was bound to the dominion of Stormhold that was almost impossible to miss. Just North from the gates the boy had found the least bit of distance he'd had to travel to find a suitable location for a spar. From here he could still hear that slow groan of caravan wheels and the neighing of Knight horses that patrolled the area with a vigilance. The chattering of bolder citizens that rounded from the gates off onto a scenic trail in the woods was still audible but it was not where this particular squire had chosen to stay.

The blades were not haphazardly stuck into the ground, but rather they were stuck at the center of a long since used sparring pit. In this diameter of about twenty yards there were no trees and only simple ferns sprouted from the earthy patches of ground. The prints of old footsteps were still visible to the trained eye, and a more keen awareness could catch subtle depressions were great men once fell in their spars. Sighard admired the history of the place but it did not make it any more safe. He knew only the walls and these rising trees were not acceptable substitutes. He'd have this session and be back within the safety of Syliras where he felt most comfortable.

[Marcus Braeden]

A gentle breeze brushed against Marcus' face as he walked away from the city that he had come to call his home, just as he did the Winter prior to the one on the way. Except that time, Marcus had no idea of the dangers the world presented. Many travelers fell victim to random ambushed by those that made the wildlife their home. They were those who turned there backs to life within the walls of cities, and instead lived by only the laws of nature, and themselves. Marcus was simply another casualty lost to these people, these savages. That Winter, the Winter of Marcus' captivity, seemed to pass as if it were an eternity, until one day he managed to slip away, through the grasp of those who had taken him, before finally returning to Syliras to start life all over again.

This time however, Marcus was an educated man, a man of experience. A harsh lesson was learned that Winter, and Marcus took his experience to heart. But Marcus was not the kind of person to simply sit back and forget it ever happened. Over the course of the year, the memories of that Winter had slowly returned to him over time, and the more that returned, the angrier he became. But revenge was not the purpose of this "adventure" into the wilderness, but rather, it was invite by a stranger, a squire actually. This squire, Sighard was his name, had caught Marcus in the Ironworks swinging around one of the swords as if he were a child...well Marcus was a tad bit more skilled than a mere child. Marcus soon found himself being invited by Sighard to do some sparring. Without his brother, Marcus really wasn't able to do much sparring like he used to, so he quickly jumped on the opportunity. Besides, actually learning to fight may come in handy somewhere down the line.

Marcus looked ahead, and saw the squire that had invited him as well as two tournament swords in the ground, crossing each other. The rays of sunlight that had managed to break through the web of leaves that shielded the forest floor reflected off of the blades. Another breeze rolled past him, catching his cloak and causing to it to flutter in the wind. Marcus raised his hand as he approached, waving to the young squire. Well this definitely going to be interesting... Marcus thought to himself.

Finally Marcus found himself standing before Sighard, eye to eye. He placed one hand on the hilt that was closest toward him, "Well are you ready?" Marcus asked plainly.

[Sighard]

"Of course, friend!" Sighard responded in tones uncharacteristic of the Beleld appeal. The deep, throaty dominance which pervaded the voices of his Elders could not be found in his mixed tenors, but rather it smoothed into elegant, charming tones that seemed princely. He reached out to catch a hilt and jerked the blade free from the dirt with a quick twist and pull. Showers of sediment, dirt and gravel splayed outwards at the foray which marked his transition into a more combative stance. The appearance of knight suddenly meshed with his playful demeanor. The divide between his nature and occupation collaborated at this point. It was an inherent conflict to maintain the dignity of his charismatic appeal which participating in the necessary barbarism of combat. Because, truly, there was no such thing as an elegant sword-fight when it came down to it.

"I hope you do not mind the destination! We are close enough to Syliras that the woods provide no immediate threat and I've alerted the Knights of this training session so there are extra eyes given to us on their patrol." The boy continued levelly whilst he encircled his opponent in casual stride. He held his blade single-handed, a very relaxed position that inferred his comfort with the weapon. This wasn't his first rodeo, and surely it would not be his last. It benefited him that as he spoke he simultaneously evaluated his opponent and drew conclusions based off of his own knowledge. Weaponsmiths knew the technicalities of a blade, and no doubt they'd had ample opportunity to practice such a skill. Many he had met practiced a very unorthodox style of fighting due to their lack of organized style of training but he'd had no doubt that Marcus would practice the basics. In the end this battle would come to a who could show a clearer mastery of the fundamentals.

Sighard swung immediately about on the axis of his heels, placing his back to the blacksmith and sauntered several strides forth before rotating easily once again to face the blacksmith he'd expected be several paces from him at that moment. "Make some distance, and then let us engage!" There was a hungry glimmer in the squire's lingering gaze as he spread his feet apart in a broad base, bent slightly at the knees and held his blade in a far firmer grip. His empty, left hand was extended to his side and the fingers of its palm were flexed.

[Marcus Braeden]

"Of course I don't mind! My last trip into the wilderness was...less than desirable shall we say" Marcus said as he placed his cloak against the trunk of a nearby tree. A large cloak like that flying around would simply get in Marcus' way in the long run. His cotton shirt and trousers would do for this battle. The "arena" Sighard had claimed was certainly tranquil. As it was still early in the season, the trees had not yet began the transformation to the warms shades of red and orange. The colors were really the only thing to look forward to during the fall. As the colors in the leaves became warmer, the temperature in the air dropped.

Marcus wrapped his fingers around the leather bound hilt of the tournament sword and tugged it free from the earth. The moment he held that sword in his hands he felt a rush. An actual sparring match, two years after his last one. It was one thing when simply swinging at the air, pretending to strike down whichever enemy your imagination could conjure. He and his brother did it all the time, pretending they were great heroes from the stories they heard and the books that they had read. When not apprenticing for their father, Marcus and his brother could be found sparring both with each other, or these invisible foes they had dreamed up. Dreamers, that's what everyone called the two brothers. But Ravok was no place where dreams could possibly come true. It was possibly the worst place those two brothers could have been born. And that is why Marcus left for Syliras, taking action to try and make his dreams come true, to join the Syliran Knights. But stories unfold, and all of a sudden you find yourself looking back at your old dreams, thinking what a fool you were.

As Marcus and Sighard stepped away from each other, Marcus analyzed his weapon. After a few practice swings he found his weapon to be hilt heavy, rather than balanced like he was used to. It would suit his preference of using only one hand but, he would still have to adapt, and quickly. After Marcus assumed he was a sufficient distance away, he turned and faced Sighard. He readied his sword and put his left foot back. Marcus was ready.

[Sighard]

It began with a calmness and practiced step that once again transformed the features of Sighard to accommodate the situation; His smirk melted into the stern flattening of his lips that seemed to draw the rest of his face into tighter poise. Briefly the scene before him enlivened, and he saw before him the reflection of his father whose stone-like features scrutinized him with ambivalence. For the moment the squire had understood the demonstrative power of expression and composure, and saw that it fit well for the situation. The imaginary apparition dissipated then, leaving full view of Marcus some distance away. And then he exhaled.

Prominently he threw a right foot forth, contemplated, and then slid his left forth in a very practiced motion. From there on his movements transitioned fluently. His steps lightly skirted him across the field in the arena in the same, functional movement of prominent right step and left drag of the foot which was turned slightly outwards so as to provide sufficient stability to fall back on. It was all rudimentary, common footwork that enabled sword-fighters like the boy to develop their particular style. He expected the movement to be reciprocated by Marcus, who would have in turn approached at his own pace. It was often typical for fighters to approach and fall back in the beginning of a match to gauge distance and check for an opening. Sighard, however, began immediately and with a surge.

He approximated the distance from himself to his opponent while including the length of his blade, drew in via a jerk forth by his right leg and simultaneously swung a horizontal slash to the upper body of his opponent, intending for the base of his blade, if struck to collide with the unprotected left rib-cage. Amidst the one-handed swing, Sighard supplanted the blow by slamming his free left palm to the hilt to add both force and stability to to the blow. These blades, as both fighters already knew, had no edge to speak of, and were little more deadly than lumps of dull metal. They were blunt and unwieldy, but at least they were not lethal.

There was simplicity in Sighard's tactics but they were complemented by a crispness which implied he was no novice to the blade. If he was uncertain to the boldness his own aggression he did not make it known.

[Marcus Braeden]

Marcus grit his teeth and tightly gripped the hilt of his sword as Sighard charged forward on the offensive. It looked like Marcus was going to be on the defensive for this battle; hopefully he would be able to make something of it. Marcus did not underestimate his opponent. Marcus knew that Sighard was a squire for the order, a knight in training. He was trained for this by knights who would make short work of Marcus. Marcus was just a simple weaponsmith who had read a book or two on the art, as all as had a brother who was always looking for the occasional spar. But his brother was on a lower level than the squire who was closing the distance on him.

Marcus observed the squires movements, while also planning out his own movements. Sighard moved similar to just about any other average swordsman, they were basic, but they were also clean and fluid. The young squires training was obviously showing through. He was but a young boy, a teenager, yet, perhaps there was a knight in him. Marcus managed to eyeball Sighard's intended target, the left side of his upper body. It was indeed a valid spot to make an attempt at, seeing as Marcus was right handed and preferred to wield his weapon one handed, but he was not against bringing his left hand to the party when need be. But he did hate the idea of using a shield. He felt that it weighed one down too much, and agility wasn't something Marcus wasn't willing to sacrifice.

As Sighard initiated his attack, Marcus also reacted, shifting his body leftwards and raising his sword to intercept Sighard's blade. Marcus kept his right foot back, with his left foot forward. When the two blades collided, Marcus heard the clinging of the metal. The shock produced from the collision proceeded to go up Marcus' arm. Marcus managed to remain calm, even though the collision had startled him a bit. The feeling of two swords colliding was both familiar and strange to him. It had simply been a long time.

After the clash, Marcus quickly forced the other blade off of his by using his left hand to add some needed force. He then removed his left hand from the hilt, and leapt backwards as to add a couple of feet of distance between the two. He then quickly went into his own attack, bringing a vertical slash aimed for Sighard's own left shoulder. His movement's may have lacked the crispness of the squire's, but he was determined to hold his own against Sighard.

[Sighard]

Wrapped in the steel embrace, Sighard succumbed to its fervor, driving deeply into the blow so as to rattle the vibrations of the clash into his opponent and unsettle him. His arms remained locked sturdily in place for the momentous parry and one could notice that the thin arms hid wiry muscle beneath them as they flexed to meet the strength of the blacksmith’s own. It was beyond the boy to further his aggression, for it seemed at that moment it was absolute. It was thrilling and horrifying at the same time. So long had the boy been beaten down by elders clearly above his skill. He’d never once had the upper hand in a fight. Lest preconceptions be the death of him, though, he had to settle his excitement and focus.

The basics of footwork dictated that as the offensive swordsman, you follow the retreat of the defender as you would your dance partner. Wherever an opponent goes, you follow, and meanwhile do prepare your next attack. By the time the parry had broken Sighard had naturally fallen into the rhythm of his next swing, snapping his wrists in a clockwise circular momentum so as to arc the blade from the ground up and slam, with its horizontal length facing Marcus, into the one handed vertical cut of his opponent. The expected result was that the force of a two handed swing against a one-handed would be enough to stagger the blacksmith.

If this were indeed the result, Sighard would have aimed a straight kick at the stomach of his opponent following the parry, with heel poised right to slam against Marcus’ gut and send him back several more steps.

[Marcus Braeden]

The cling of steel once again rang in Marcus' ears as Sighard's came up to meet Marcus's own blade with its own force behind it. Sighard had attached his off hand to his hilt in order to add more power to his own counter swing. Marcus's vertical slash toward Sighard's shoulder wasn't a necessarily challenging maneuver to intercept, and Marcus had no expectations of actually landing the hit. However what he didn't expect was Sighard adding his own counter force in an attempt to stagger Marcus. When the swords did finally meet each other, Sighard's added power managed to send Marcus back a few steps, however did his best to recover quickly.

Sighard followed up on his own counter move with a kick aimed straight for Marcus' gut. Marcus acted on his instincts this time, as he stretched his left arm out to try and intercept the kick. As Sighard's foot came flying at him, he braced his arm and flexed in order to dull his opponent's incoming attack. Hopefully when contact was made, Marcus would be able to hold his footing and not lose any more ground than what he had already lost from the squire's previous counter. When Sighard's boot clashed with Marcus' arm, Marcus' back foot, his right foot, slid backwards in the earth. However, Marcus made a quick decision and bounced back towards Sighard, stepping forward with his right foot, and swinging his sword upward with both hands toward Sighard's left upper arm simultaneously.

[Sighard]

The delay of Marcus’ sliding back from Sighard’s kick was a pivotal factor that allowed the battle to flow accordingly without any unforeseen consequences. His foot dropped immediately as his opponent fell back, and as gravity dictated. The forceful stomp sent a cloud of dust to rise in elegant whorls against the base of his ankle and dissipate outwards to collect with the scattering, nebulous wisps that escaped at the choppy foot-movements of both combatants. Practiced technicalities would win this battle, and, in the end, if the squire maintained his discipline, he’d felt his victory assured.

From a rooted base he acted towards the clearly conveyed movements of his opponent and a trained eye dictated the direction of the man’s swing. A quick twist and jerk of the wrist accommodated for Marcus’ blow and Sighard’s blade fell upon his opponent’s in a dull clangor that resonated throughout his entire body. While the leather-bound gloves he wore did well to absorb the damage, the natural strength of the blacksmith he was facing could still be felt and it caused his legs to wobble momentarily following the transmission of force. It delayed the squire’s counter for only a heartbeat’s moment.

The versatility of a longsword was a wondrous thing which allowed for easy transition of slashes and thrusts. In this case, Sighard chose to follow his parry up with a simple thrust wherein he had gained the advantage of interior positioning with his blade, he’d lurch his body forth and throw the weight of his blade into a clear concise thrust aimed once more for his opponent’s stomach. If Marcus had expected aggression in this battle from his opponent, then he would not be disappointed by this blow which, at the very least if struck, would send the blacksmith staggering back. Ideally, if the tip of his blade were pointed, he’d had skewered the man in a successful attack.

[Marcus Braeden]

Once again, Marcus found that the more skilled squire had managed to parry his attack. Marcus watched Sighard's body as the the blades made contact and Marcus found that Sighard had been a little bit staggered, even though the squire's recovery was quick. Although Sighard was the more skilled combatant, Marcus found his one advantage and he was surprised it had taken him this long to realize it. Strength, that was the key difference between the two swordsmen. Sighard was in his teens, probably only 16 or 17, while Marcus happened to be a 23 year old smith. He was young with a more athletic than muscular build, but still, the nature of his work had developed and toned his muscles, which could give him a slight edge in the battle. But before he made any sort of offensive maneuver, he first had to deal with Sighard's counter attack.

This time rather than a simple slash of some sort, Sighard had decided to preform a thrust, aimed for Marcus' stomach. Marcus still held his own blade in both of his hands, and the blade remained pointed downward, from his last parried attack. Quickly he moved his blade from the right to left in order to intercept his opponents blade and force it to his left flank. The metal once again collided but Marcus had failed to remove Sighard's blade far enough out of the way, as the blade has caught on to the left side of Marcus' shirt. He had underestimated the power Sighard had put into the forward momentum of the blade. If these were real swords, Marcus would have walked away unscathed, but his shirt would be much less fortunate.

Marcus kept his left hand attached to the hilt of his sword. Right now, he needed all the power he could muster. Immediately after parrying Sighard's attempted thrust, Marcus went with a vertical slash aimed for Sighard's shoulder, just as he done earlier, but this time Marcus hoped the extra power would gain better results than the previous attempt. The blade carved through the air, creating a slight whistle in the air as it approached Sighard's shoulder.