Looking back on Ayatah's days in the Taloba military service
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Taloba, home to the Myrians, is the thriving core of Falyndar. Inhabited by a fierce and savage tribe where blood sacrifices are normal and a way of life, they are untamed and proud of it. Warlike, and with their numbers growing, the Myrians are set on reclaiming what is rightfully theirs. [Lore]
|| 8th day of Fall, 506AV || The training grounds, Taloba || Early morning. ||
Ayatah’s family had tried to prepare her for the experience of military training. They had warned her of how she would be dragged from her bed before even the sun had fully woken, let alone herself. They’d told her the things that they had been called during their own services - so she would be half-prepared for the verbal abuse to come. They had also told her that she would be treated roughly, cruelly. She would feel pain, humiliation, and hunger.
Despite their warnings, Ayatah had not been ready.
She had not been ready when a cold hand dragged her from her bed and pulled her to her feet before she had even opened her eyes. Orders were barked at her, but she had stood there dumbstruck, confused. A punch to the stomach almost made her fall down, but she had steadied herself in the dark. The orders were repeated - get dressed and down to the training yards. Nothing was mentioned about what would happen if they were to be slow; and Ayatah had not particularly wanted to know.
The hour was early, and the other recruits stumbled about like drunkards. They dressed quickly, instinctively. The fear clung to the air - nobody wanted to be the last one out.
There were about new fifty recruits in total; men and women, of varying ages. Ayatah stood amongst them, looking no different to any of the others with her shock and fear. They were the only ones in the training yard - was this meant to be a joke? A few yawned and muttered curses under their breath.
Footsteps. The body of recruits turned towards the sound in unison, and a fifty pairs of eyes watched as a woman marched towards them. She was stout, strong - so strong - and with an expression of pure disgust and disdain. Ayatah and her new classmates jointly recoiled backwards. Her name was Herliz, that much Ayatah knew, and she was the head of training. She known to be mercilessly ruthless and to simply not give a shyke about it.
“This,” the voice rang out in the otherwise silent grounds, and Ayatah spotted a few people shiver with noticeable fear, “is your first day of training. You will bleed. You will bruise. You will be tested to limits that you didn’t know that you had.” She circled around the group, looking blankly at the faces that watched her back. She had done this hundreds of times before, and would do it hundreds of times in the future. The recruits were nothing more than beasts to her, beasts that needed to be trained in order to be of any use to the Goddess-Queen and her people. “From here on, do not expect to rest, eat, or sleep without meeting our commands and our expectations. Your role is to train and prove yourself actually worthy of our Goddess-Queen, or bring shame to your clans. We will turn you from the piles of skurak that you are now to respectable soldiers of our army. Now, pair up.”
The final command was said with the same amount of disdain as the others, and it took a chime or two for the recruits to realize what had been said.
When they did, however, it was every Myrian for themselves. The recruits scrabbled amongst each other, grabbing a stranger and claiming them to be their sparring partner. Ayatah stood half-frozen, but someone barged into her shoulder and she joined in with the chaos. Eventually, the recruits were organized into two rows, and she found herself opposite a tall, hungry looking young man.
Herliz walked through the middle of the two rows, looking at each other the recruits in turn. Most of the newcomers looked at their feet, some looked straight ahead, but none looked at the head trainer in the eye. Ayatah didn’t either - she wasn’t stupid. She stared into the face of her partner, and noticed how one of his front teeth was chipped.
“Number one,” A hand was thrown out to the side opposite to Ayatah, “grab hold of number two.” This time Herliz pointed to Ayatah’s row, “let’s see how you petching recruits fair against each other. When you have escaped your partner, I want you both to select a weapon from the cart, and the real training will begin. The loser of each pair will run extra laps at the end of the day. I will remember.”
She had moved now, and the two rows stepped closer to each other. Ayatah’s new friend had awful breath, and she was glad when he turned her around to encase her in his thick arms. She was pulled into chest, her wrists (that embarrassingly fit into just one of his spade-like hands) were held tightly. His other arm wrapped around her neck. She could just breathe.
“Begin.”
There was instantly a fit of struggling and grunts as the recruits in Ayatah’s position tried to escape the arms of their partners, who equally struggled to keep them encaged.
Her own partner gave a low chuckle; so far Ayatah’s wiggling and jolted elbows had completely failed in freeing herself. Frustrated, she tossed her hair to one side --
And heard him inhale her scent deeply. A different sound came from his throat now, and Ayatah took full advantage of his momentary distraction.
She buried the heel of her foot into her partner’s toes, and just as he swore out in pain, she threw her head backwards to meet the hard back of her head with his lips and teeth. There was a horrific crunching noise, and Ayatah’s partner half-threw her away from him. She staggered forward, looked either side of her -- and realised with joy that she was the first person to escape their captor.
There is no time to celebrate. With her heart jumping to her throat, Ayatah sprinted the short distance to the weapon cart.
Herliz was there, leaning against the side of the cart casually and watching the struggling recruits. Her eyebrows raised a slight fraction when she saw that it was Ayatah - a long-legged, weak looking thing compared to her other young comrades - that reached her cart first. But when the young woman bent over to scrabble through the wooden weapons, Herliz caught a whiff of something in the tiniest of breezes.
A small, almost sick smile crossed the trainer’s lips. “Eypharian.” Was all that she said.
Ayatah shot up, her dark eyes wide and her cool self-constrain fizzled out. She met Herliz’s eyes with her own, but daren’t say anything. I am ready for whatever you will say. She thought - as if thinking the words would make them true.
“Men think only with their g'iib-tah, Eypharian.” She nodded to behind Ayatah, back to her partner, who despite having spat out a tooth, was jogging his way towards the cart, “when you face a woman, being half-deyhan will not help you.”
The words certainly cut through Ayatah like a blade - but that was more down to how they were said. She had been called deyhan two or three times before - but never so… nonchalantly. Herliz had thrown the casual statement to Ayatah in the same way that she might have called Ayatah a woman; it was part of Ayatah’s identity, who she was. And she knew almost instantly that nearly nothing would change Herliz’s opinion. She will never see me as her racial equal.
Ayatah didn’t say anything; she was too busy trying to wipe any trace of humiliation off her face. She dipped a hand into the weapon crate, pulling out a wooden double-bladed dagger like the one she had used in training with her cousin. There were a couple of other recruits at the crate now, muttering quietly to themselves as they searched for the weapon of their choice. She backed away, her eyes downcast to avoid Herliz’s piercing look.
The young man who Ayatah was paired with was looking at her differently now: with utter contempt and hatred. He had overhead the latter part of Herliz’s comment about Ayatah only being half-Myrian, and now the expression on his face was of pure hatred and contempt. It was nothing new to Ayatah - but she didn’t usually see this expression on the face of someone that she would be sparring with.
Hell hath no fury like a sexually frustrated young man, apparently.
Her partner came to her fast and furiously, making sharp cutting motions with his wooden hand axe. One of his hits struck Ayatah’s forearm, another on her hip. She yelped out in pain, leaping backwards to avoid yet another swing.
But he was already slowing down as much as his rage had fired up, Ayatah could tell, and it was here that she would strike.
Whilst he was bringing his axe downwards once again, Ayatah stooped low, jabbing at the soft flesh just above his loincloth. The young Myrian male staggered backwards, but the blow did not seem to cause as much damage as Ayatah had hoped it would.
The axe dropped down to her shoulder, and her face crumpled up in agony, yet this time no sound escaped from behind her lips. His empty hand was coming towards her, and Ayatah grabbed hold of it, using almost the entirety of her bodyweight to stop him from hitting her in the face. She jabbed the wooden blade of her dagger in the crook of his elbow, twisted her wrist, and stabbed at the joint again with the other blade of her dagger. His arm went slack almost instantly, and Ayatah raised it up, stepped under it, and pinned it against his own back. Her dagger hovered just over where she thought - or hoped - his kidney lay deep within the flesh and blood.
She thrust the dagger right there, and when his back arched and he released an almighty shout, Ayatah knew that she had found the sweet spot she had hoped for. She and her cousins had always kidney-punched each other as children, and she knew how to deliver a painful hit to that critical area.
Her partner gave an enormous shrug of his shoulders, and Ayatah found that she could hold onto his arm no longer. She let go, jumping back to avoid the fists or kicks that he threw out in her direction.
Now, his tactic had changed; he was coming towards her slowly. There was a repugnant smile on his face as he came closer, and he twirled his handaxe in those great hands like a child might do with a toy. Ayatah stepped away, disturbed by the haunting look in his eyes.
It's like he wants to eat me.
But she countered his intimidating slow speed with bolting quickness. As he raised his arm to strike her, she stabbed into his armpit, holding the central hilt of her dagger in a reverse grip. His arm dropped instinctively, and she smacked the side of his face horizontally with the flat side of her dagger blades.
She backed away once again, making sure to conserve some of her energy - she did not want to tire quickly when battling with a giant male with huge amounts of energy and hatred for her. For a single chime, Ayatah glanced around her. The other recruits were battling away, but some had already been defeated and were running laps. One girl lay groaning on the ground, her arm bent out at an alarming angle.
Whilst Ayatah became distracted glancing either side of her, the recruit she was battling with punched her square in the stomach. When she bent over gasping for air, he dropped his elbow onto her back, knocking Ayatah forwards and onto the ground. She landed facedown, long arms and legs sprawled outwards. Where her dagger was, she didn’t know; right now, all she cared about was catching her breath.
Ayatah had lost; that much she knew. Her lungs felt as if they had collapsed from the punch to her stomach, and even when she rolled onto her back, it took a few bells for her breathing to regain a regular pattern. Her partner stood above her, a hand reached out. Surprised, she accepted the offer, and he yanked her up with all the grace of a drunken baby Tskanna. Once on her feet, she nodded a small thanks to him, but there was no trace of kindness or compassion on his broad, ugly face.
He shook his head slowly, and as he walked away from her, Ayatah heard him mutter ‘Sha'lokk’ under his breath. Her eyes narrowed and she followed him to the cart to put away her wooden weapon.
Despite the dull pain in her back, and the fact that her shoulders felt as if her newfound rival was sitting astride them, Ayatah forced her muscles into a run. Her legs buckled after a couple of strides, so she stumbled and nearly fell over again. But slowly, slowly, her determination blocked the pain. She watched the head of the recruit in front of her, how the dark head bobbed up and down with each step. Thinking of nothing else but run, run, run - Ayatah created a system. She would watch the individual in front of her, and when she mustered up the strength and power, she would overtake them. Then her attention would switch to the new person in front of her, and the pattern would repeat.
"ENOUGH!"
The recruits stopped instantly, and it was not until then that Ayatah felt her muscles cry out and her heart thud in her ears. She doubled herself over, gasping for breath and release from the burning sensation that ran under her skin. She had pushed herself too far, she she suddenly feared that she would vomit. Swallowing down the bile that had rushed to the back of her throat, she followed the rest of the recruits.
The idea made Ayatah both joyous and nauseous. Her body craved energy, and as soon as she could smell the aromas of food, her stomach grumbled noisily. But her muscles ached and she had not yet caught her breath completely. She just wanted to rest.
Still, she slid in next to her comrades to sit at the wooden tables. Their food was already there, some mixture of wheat, seeds and vegetables. Food to keep us going, Ayatah thought as she looked down at the sloppy meal.
”I heard what he called you.”
She turned towards the voice that had spoken to her, and Ayatah looked upon the dark face of a female Myrian. The other woman smiled meekly and took a bite of her own food. Wincing, she pushed the bowl away from her.
”I can’t believe he said that.” The woman was shaking her head slowly, disgusted.
Ayatah blinked. She doesn’t know I am mixed blood she realised as she investigated her company. The woman was possibly only a year or so older than herself, but of a much broader and taller build. ”I… What?” It was unlike other Myrians to not pick up on the subtle differences between their people and Ayatah - most of them realised eventually, even if it was after holding a conversation with her.
Those moments of inconspicuousness were always the easiest for Ayatah. After she had either told people, or they had guessed, that she was not a pureblooded Myrian, she had always felt like she had to explain herself. Or, her company would simply perceive her as an abomination, and conversation would end there.
”I don’t know who he think he is, but I’d only let the trainers talk to me like that.”
That’s because you are a good pureblooded Myrian girl who has never been called such a name
She smiled politely to the girl, unsure of what to say next. Should she come forward and explain to the other woman why her sparring partner had insulted her so? And why the words carried less of an insult for Ayatah than other Myrians?
Might as well…
”Actually, I am half-Eypharian. So…” She let her words hang there, waiting for the inevitable raising of eyebrows and turning of backs.
The other woman made a small ‘o’ with her mouth, then shrugged her shoulders. "You fought well for a half-breed."
The words were far from some of the worse things Ayatah had heard after explaining her heritage. In fact, perhaps they were even meant as a compliment? She eyed the woman through narrowed eyes, as if trying to read her like a book and find an explanation for her words. "Thank... you." She said slowly, her head tilting to one side.
Her company nodded and turned her attention back to the slop in front of her.
But Ayatah saw the beginnings of a faint smile - perhaps she would survive this military service after all.
Thirty arrows were released from thirty bows, but only twenty-seven hit the targets in front of them. Luckily, one of them had been Ayatah’s.
The three recruits who had missed their target handed in their long- and short bows ad had begun running their punishment laps. The targets - wooden figures of human men, women and children - had the arrows plucked out of them and were repositioned.
The training had been going on for thirty or so chimes. All fifty recruits had started, and after twelve attempts, just over half remained. Already Ayatah’s arms and shoulders were crying out in pain, and she salvaged those moments after firing but before loading her longbow once again. She rolled her shoulders in their joints, twists her wrists, and loaded up again.
This time, it was not just Herliz training them. Her minors joined her to criticize the positioning of the recruits as they trained their arrows onto their target, and to also de-arrow and move the targets themselves.
”Elbow.”
The word was accompanied by a forceful slap to Ayatah’s arm, and she raised her elbow a fraction higher. The trainer circled her slowly, staring from her feet to her face with a critical look. Her poked her left foot with his, so she shifted her position slightly. Ayatah nodded when she realised that the tiny movement had certainly made her body feel less extended and more comfortable. They do know what they’re on about….
Her trainer stood behind her, leaning inwards just enough to be a distraction. His breathing on her ear was certainly annoying, but when Herliz cried out for them to let their arrows fly once more, he let out a puff of air, making Ayatah squint her left eye instinctively.
”Skurak.” She muttered, shooting the older man a withering look.
”Not bad, Eypharian.” His eyes had never left the target, which he now nodded towards. Ayatah’s arrow, but some grace of Myri, had still hit the target - albeit on the right arm. It wasn’t a critical hit, but it was still a hit. ”Of course a pureblood would never had been distracted so easily.”
He walked onwards, and Ayatah smirked to herself. Yes, he had called her ‘Eypharian’ - but she had expected no different in her training. They were known to exploit the tiny differences between their recruits, anyway. And in Ayatah’s case, the trait that made her stand out was not so subtle.
She notched an arrow once more, and this time incorporated the trainer’s tips. With her elbow held slightly higher, could half-rest her hand that held the bowstring below her cheekbones. And as she shifted her left foot into the position he had kicked it into, she found that her body was more sideways onto the target, her feet perfectly parallel to it.
"AGAIN!"
This time, only twenty arrows flew towards the man-shaped targets. Ayatah held her position until the last of the arrows thudded into place, barely allowing her chest to raise and fall with her steady breaths. If there was one thing that Paira had taught her daughter that Ayatah would never forget, it was the importance of holding one's position after the arrow has been released. As an indignant child, Ayatah had assumed that she had known best, and would spend evening after evening trying to fire a decent shot, getting agitated and annoyed when she couldn't. Finally, her mother's words had sunk in, and since then, Ayatah had half-frozen on the spot until she knew her arrow had made it's journey.
"AGAIN!"
Seventeen arrows. Ayatah's landed on her shoulder's target. Had it been a real person, it would have been a good shot. She nodded, and waited for command.
"AGAIN!"
She fell into a pattern. Get an arrow, notch, draw, fire, wait for command. Herliz's order was just as repetitive: 'AGAIN' 'AGAIN' AGAIN'. Her words were coming faster now, though, and there were only ten recruits left. Their trainer walked in front of the row of recruits, all of whom had their bowstrings drawn back at the ready.
"Three arrows. Straight after the other. You best petching hope they all hit."
They were all the orders Herliz gave. But luckily, Ayatah and her comrades needed no further explanation. Whosever arrows hit the target with the best aim, but also the quickest, would win. If anyone should miss, or only release one or two arrows...
"NOW!"
Ten arrows were released. Before Ayatah's had even landed, she noticed the male recruit two people away from her stoop down to collect his second arrow. She hoped that his first had missed, but wasted no time to investigate.
Get an arrow, notch, draw, fire..
Get an arrow, notch, dr-
"STOP."
What -- really? Her bow dropped a few inches as Ayatah glanced either side of her. Herliz was marching down the centre again, in between the recruits and their targets. Her face was turned away form them whilst she inspected their shots. Ayatah's target had only two sad little arrows sprouting out of it's stomach and chest.
They had been good shots, but it would not be enough.
"You all have far to come to change from the petching children you are now to respectful soldiers of our Goddess Queen. Try harder tomorrow."
The head trainer had not even shown the slightest bit of interest in who had been the best and fastest shot. To her, all of the recruits were childlike in their abilities and even more infantile in their mentality. It would take huge amounts of personal growth and change to impress Herliz.
And they only had one year.
Ooc :
Credit completely goes to Razkar for the character of Herliz. Used with permission, of course!
Not All Myrians Are Vicious Bigots (Some Are Polite Bigots)
Additional Notes :
Nice thread! I liked the way you fleshed-out and characterized the trainers in general and especially the other recruits. The big bully and the other female were very well-realized. I liked your portrayal of Herliz, too, and while you didn't go over the top in this thread, keep in mind that all training regimes, no matter how brutal or harsh, do not set out to kill or mutilate their recruits. Mental abuse, sure, but not to the point of a breakdown and very rarely anything physically debilitating. Oh, and try and avoid repetition: I saw you use "hatred and contempt" twice in two sentences right after one another. On the whole, though, great work!
