2nd Day of Fall, 509 AV
Flexing her muscles, she prepared for the long day ahead. The skies were clear indicating the crisp weather outside, a hard empty blue horizon. There would be time for rest later, but until she’d completed her training, she couldn’t entice herself with the prospect. She strolled out into the empty dirt opening and began to stretch. First she bent double and touched her toes, the languid uncoiling of her body sending a delicious burning sensation throughout her whole form. Bobbing up and down, she pushed toward the ground, until completely relaxed. Both palms were resting on the tops of her feet. Her hands walked out until they felt the dusty earth. She breathed into the stretch deeply. Focusing power into her abdomen and calves she pushed against the dirt until her body was suddenly completely upside down.
She walked on her hands for a moment, completely tight until she could take no more and drifted forward, rolling over and back onto her feet. It was difficult but she did this a few more times, strengthening, pushing to her limits. There was a lot of teetering to the side and a lot of falling over involved, but when it was clear there’d be no more of that for the day, she stopped and plopped down on her hind end. She reached for her toes once more, this time flattening her form against the tops of her legs. The burning was there, that sensation lengthening her, working knots out of the backs of her thighs. Then came the butterfly stretch, her legs assuming a triangle with both soles pressed together. Her wildly curly hair obscured her face, hung about her being like a dry, tangled jungle. There’d need to be a brushing later. That was more daunting than what lie ahead.
When finally she felt adequately prepared, she turned to her belongings, piled in a middens heap behind her. She removed the gleaming longsword from its scabbard, the act unsheathing producing a smooth ringing sound. Sybel loved the sound of steel sliding out of leather, the sound of skill; If one chose to pursue it. She certainly did. Her grip was close to the hilt for better control. Walking to the center of the ring, she crouched low into her stance.
The object when fighting armored opponents, was to deliver strikes to small and unarmored points. She visualized the plated knight before her, gleaming with malice. He lunged and she parried, the blade held flat to better receive the blow. They stalked one another, cats in an alleyway brawl. She lunged at his armpit as he raised his sword high, rolling away as she found purchase before he split her skull. Unwieldy and injured, he swept his blade in a clumsy arc, and she danced out of range. Her eyes were flashing. As he zeroed in she assumed the “true cross,” a technique she’d learned about. Her back was turned curiously to the enemy, yet her head was cocked to face him. It made her look vulnerable, weak. He lunged in and she pivoted easily to the front, setting aside the thrust and bringing the point on line.
He growled, the sound of a cornered animal. Her sword came up under his arm, against his rib and through his heart, the imaginary foe vanquished. What an invisible battle it had been, too. He gurgled, a suffocating noise, and fell to his knees. The phantom clatter his armor made as he collapsed rang in her ears. Maybe her imagination was a little too developed, she reflected.
That wouldn’t do… It wouldn’t be enough. She’d have to return to the city, find a real opponent. Not someone to kill, only to train with. If only one of those stiff-necked knights would demonstrate their secrets. Every technique she tried alone would come to fruition sure. She’d only read about it after all. In practice, an imaginary opponent was vanquished before the fight even began. Spitting, she resolved to find a true partner.
Gathering herself, she stalked into the city, uncertain where to begin her search. The Knights would loiter in various taverns, but the Stallion was usually empty that time of day. There would be no use looking there, she thought sourly. Perhaps they’d be closer to the Castle, a looming moniker of obedience. Finding one was only some of the work. Of course, the more difficult task was convincing them to come with her, just beyond the city to fight in single combat. Her gender, of course, did nothing to help that end. They’d laugh in her face. Unless… Her mind trailed as she walked through the narrow streets, weaving between small groups of passerby.
She entered Stormhold Castle, moving with purpose despite her lack of destination. For some reason she found herself in the bustling bazaar, one of her usual haunts. That was no good, and she frowned to herself. It would have been better to find one of the training yards, sweet talk some squire. Instead she was lost in the vivid labyrinth of vendors, bodies packed along each stand. As she moved past a kiosk holding rows of spice, raised voices suddenly piqued her curiosity.
“…Furthermore, I refuse ter believe that anyone can beat me,” a man boasted near a wine seller. “Especially not a punk like you!” He belched, clearly drunk. This person wasn’t a knight but the kid he’d insulted clearly was, his tunic clearly emblazoned with the windoak. Sybel listened intently, pretending to browse the wares set under her nose.
“Sir, you’d be mistaken.” The youth said calmly. “Now lower your voice before I have you removed.” The drunken fool turned on him, towering a good foot above the sandy haired squire. “Oh yah? I’d like ter see you try, brat!” His beard was fuller than the dismal salt and pepper wisps atop his egg-shaped head. This was the perfect opportunity. Not only was this gentlemen drunk, he was clearly stupid.
“I bet I could fell you in a single blow.” She intoned, interjecting herself in the scene. The boy looked taken aback, drinking in her exotic scent. “Tell you what, you cone-headed old fool,” she spat. “Get your wits about you and I’ll meet you just outside the city. If you’re brave enough, that is.” There was a belligerence in her eyes. He looked stunned for a moment. Then suddenly he erupted in laughter, his rancid breath sending a weakness straight into her stomach. “Yer a lively wench!” He announced. “I’ll fight ya, if you want little girl.” He brandished the hilt of his greatsword. “But then I’ll fight yer boyfriend, who clearly needs a woman to save his knightly dignity!” With that, he staggered off toward the exit, taking a long messy draft from a wineskin.
The squire cleared his throat uncomfortably. She turned to him, expression contrite. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” she murmured. He looked her over with wary green eyes before he expelled a mournful sigh. “It’s fine, my lady.” He said sadly. “I’m only grateful there was no one to witness such a shameful event. I can’t even handle a bumbling drunk like him.” He was clearly dejected.
“Come with me,” she enticed. “You should fight him once I’m done. Prove your mettle once and for all.” He shook his head. “I could not do such a thing.” He frowned. “Once beaten by a woman, what would such a victory mean?” Straightening, she narrowed her eyes. “You don’t think I can handle myself?” He realized then the corner he painted himself into. Unable to respond, his mouth opened helplessly, then closed. “I mean, my…”
She turned to leave. “Just outside the city.” She repeated and stalked off. The boy buried his face in his hand. “Oh Sylira…” He murmured.
Flexing her muscles, she prepared for the long day ahead. The skies were clear indicating the crisp weather outside, a hard empty blue horizon. There would be time for rest later, but until she’d completed her training, she couldn’t entice herself with the prospect. She strolled out into the empty dirt opening and began to stretch. First she bent double and touched her toes, the languid uncoiling of her body sending a delicious burning sensation throughout her whole form. Bobbing up and down, she pushed toward the ground, until completely relaxed. Both palms were resting on the tops of her feet. Her hands walked out until they felt the dusty earth. She breathed into the stretch deeply. Focusing power into her abdomen and calves she pushed against the dirt until her body was suddenly completely upside down.
She walked on her hands for a moment, completely tight until she could take no more and drifted forward, rolling over and back onto her feet. It was difficult but she did this a few more times, strengthening, pushing to her limits. There was a lot of teetering to the side and a lot of falling over involved, but when it was clear there’d be no more of that for the day, she stopped and plopped down on her hind end. She reached for her toes once more, this time flattening her form against the tops of her legs. The burning was there, that sensation lengthening her, working knots out of the backs of her thighs. Then came the butterfly stretch, her legs assuming a triangle with both soles pressed together. Her wildly curly hair obscured her face, hung about her being like a dry, tangled jungle. There’d need to be a brushing later. That was more daunting than what lie ahead.
When finally she felt adequately prepared, she turned to her belongings, piled in a middens heap behind her. She removed the gleaming longsword from its scabbard, the act unsheathing producing a smooth ringing sound. Sybel loved the sound of steel sliding out of leather, the sound of skill; If one chose to pursue it. She certainly did. Her grip was close to the hilt for better control. Walking to the center of the ring, she crouched low into her stance.
The object when fighting armored opponents, was to deliver strikes to small and unarmored points. She visualized the plated knight before her, gleaming with malice. He lunged and she parried, the blade held flat to better receive the blow. They stalked one another, cats in an alleyway brawl. She lunged at his armpit as he raised his sword high, rolling away as she found purchase before he split her skull. Unwieldy and injured, he swept his blade in a clumsy arc, and she danced out of range. Her eyes were flashing. As he zeroed in she assumed the “true cross,” a technique she’d learned about. Her back was turned curiously to the enemy, yet her head was cocked to face him. It made her look vulnerable, weak. He lunged in and she pivoted easily to the front, setting aside the thrust and bringing the point on line.
He growled, the sound of a cornered animal. Her sword came up under his arm, against his rib and through his heart, the imaginary foe vanquished. What an invisible battle it had been, too. He gurgled, a suffocating noise, and fell to his knees. The phantom clatter his armor made as he collapsed rang in her ears. Maybe her imagination was a little too developed, she reflected.
That wouldn’t do… It wouldn’t be enough. She’d have to return to the city, find a real opponent. Not someone to kill, only to train with. If only one of those stiff-necked knights would demonstrate their secrets. Every technique she tried alone would come to fruition sure. She’d only read about it after all. In practice, an imaginary opponent was vanquished before the fight even began. Spitting, she resolved to find a true partner.
Gathering herself, she stalked into the city, uncertain where to begin her search. The Knights would loiter in various taverns, but the Stallion was usually empty that time of day. There would be no use looking there, she thought sourly. Perhaps they’d be closer to the Castle, a looming moniker of obedience. Finding one was only some of the work. Of course, the more difficult task was convincing them to come with her, just beyond the city to fight in single combat. Her gender, of course, did nothing to help that end. They’d laugh in her face. Unless… Her mind trailed as she walked through the narrow streets, weaving between small groups of passerby.
She entered Stormhold Castle, moving with purpose despite her lack of destination. For some reason she found herself in the bustling bazaar, one of her usual haunts. That was no good, and she frowned to herself. It would have been better to find one of the training yards, sweet talk some squire. Instead she was lost in the vivid labyrinth of vendors, bodies packed along each stand. As she moved past a kiosk holding rows of spice, raised voices suddenly piqued her curiosity.
“…Furthermore, I refuse ter believe that anyone can beat me,” a man boasted near a wine seller. “Especially not a punk like you!” He belched, clearly drunk. This person wasn’t a knight but the kid he’d insulted clearly was, his tunic clearly emblazoned with the windoak. Sybel listened intently, pretending to browse the wares set under her nose.
“Sir, you’d be mistaken.” The youth said calmly. “Now lower your voice before I have you removed.” The drunken fool turned on him, towering a good foot above the sandy haired squire. “Oh yah? I’d like ter see you try, brat!” His beard was fuller than the dismal salt and pepper wisps atop his egg-shaped head. This was the perfect opportunity. Not only was this gentlemen drunk, he was clearly stupid.
“I bet I could fell you in a single blow.” She intoned, interjecting herself in the scene. The boy looked taken aback, drinking in her exotic scent. “Tell you what, you cone-headed old fool,” she spat. “Get your wits about you and I’ll meet you just outside the city. If you’re brave enough, that is.” There was a belligerence in her eyes. He looked stunned for a moment. Then suddenly he erupted in laughter, his rancid breath sending a weakness straight into her stomach. “Yer a lively wench!” He announced. “I’ll fight ya, if you want little girl.” He brandished the hilt of his greatsword. “But then I’ll fight yer boyfriend, who clearly needs a woman to save his knightly dignity!” With that, he staggered off toward the exit, taking a long messy draft from a wineskin.
The squire cleared his throat uncomfortably. She turned to him, expression contrite. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” she murmured. He looked her over with wary green eyes before he expelled a mournful sigh. “It’s fine, my lady.” He said sadly. “I’m only grateful there was no one to witness such a shameful event. I can’t even handle a bumbling drunk like him.” He was clearly dejected.
“Come with me,” she enticed. “You should fight him once I’m done. Prove your mettle once and for all.” He shook his head. “I could not do such a thing.” He frowned. “Once beaten by a woman, what would such a victory mean?” Straightening, she narrowed her eyes. “You don’t think I can handle myself?” He realized then the corner he painted himself into. Unable to respond, his mouth opened helplessly, then closed. “I mean, my…”
She turned to leave. “Just outside the city.” She repeated and stalked off. The boy buried his face in his hand. “Oh Sylira…” He murmured.
