Spring 5th, 510 AV
Antinous Training Grounds
Spring was the virginal portion of a year that exposed its fawning flora to the world and extended layers of buds magnificent in their fluorescent hues. Viral, perpetual petals floated elegantly against the crisp breezes of day and scattered along the ground, carpeting the ground in the ascending oak’s vomited product and became the soft cushion from which metal boots pressed and wrested them of their tranquil peace, tearing them negligently asunder into shards of their once existent beauty, now a muddied brown from the underlying sediment. Antinous’ grounds were spectacular, and perceivably a circus of dancers cast in iron and steel who whipped up eddying flurries of grass and petal with their swift, hard footwork. No man who’d first gazed upon the training area in spring ever feigned his amazement, for the spectacular gaze nearly pulled the exuberant wonder out of a man no matter how tough he was. It was a reminder to what they fought for, a testament to the tranquility which existed following the chaos of dramatic events.
Sighard thrust, his raw palms grating against the oaken, splintery shaft of a training spear which splayed out in deliberate, uncompromising motion. The rigidity of his blow worsened the reverberations, powerful shudders that caused him to stir and dug wooden daggers against his calloused hands. Power was noted, but the dummy did not budge, absorbing the impact while maintain the courteous smile painted delicately upon its face. Its straw, compact interior consumed the metal stud at the end of his weapon and then spit it back out at the menacing twist of an aggravated squire who whirled the weapon forth from his mark. Slow going was the day of practice, thankless exertion which amounted to his fatigue and injury. Keep the beauty of this place in songs. It is a hellish test like no other. AGAIN! He fired his thrust again, the result akin to its previous result.
Beauty was a shallow thing indeed, and one that faded with the seasons. The true, incorridible essence always existed, at its core. No matter which way these grounds were painted, they contained the stew of blood sweat and tears. A vigilant, unbroken man could assert his entire life to honing his ability, all to have it erased with a chance blow or arrow. The amount of glories which pervaded such a place could be matched by tales of desolation, and it seemed, to the novice teenager, that time could be better well spent. Of course, physical strain does often bend and twist the psyche, and conflict with the even the deepest morals of a person. Perhaps it was why men ignored their innate incentive to stop when physical pain enervated them and urged them on, that ideals were resilient and that these grounds were but a breeder of them.
The silver lining to this day was the company, not yet received by the squire but someone of his equal measure regardless. He rather dreaded the straw companion who resigned to absolute silence and an unwavering ability to piss the other knights off. Any moment now Sighard could stop pretend jamming his stick into an inanimate douche.
