4th of Autumn
9th Bell
The Fighter's Pit.
Aoren did not frequent the Pit. Indeed, he made it a habit to do the exact opposite. For the most part he preferred to train alone or with one of the few people whom he counted amongst his friends. There were things that one just could not learn sparring against imaginary foes amongst the wilderness. Bushes, trees and leaves could only put up so much of a fight.
In that regard he was now perched against one of the dilapidated walls of the Fighter's Pit observing the many patrons who flocked to Gerard Anthonious. Mercenaries. The rabble-rousers of Syliran society. People of from all walks of life could be found in the Pit. He saw men practicing their archery. Some of them seemed to be of apparent skill. Others were lacking. Aoren could not attest to any measure of skill with a bow and arrow. He was no marksman. He saw two fierce looking women practicing acrobatics with their daggers. Uncertain whether or not they were dulled blade he prayed to the Twin Goddesses that neither of the women disemboweled one another. That would have been a hard thing to ignore. No doubt the Knights would have berated Gerard for letting it happen under his watch.
The majority of Syliras had mixed feeling about the Pit. Aoren believed it was a place where you could truly see just how diverse the populace of the Fortress City of Peace really was. The upper-crust of Syliras tossed it up to being a place where one could just find ruffians looking to hone whatever it is that ruffians specialized in. No doubt they were prone to believe it was to come steal their goods in the night. Such notions only made Aoren chuckle.
Overall, Aoren didn't really see anyone who caught his eye. There he stood, leaning against a wall in the cool early-morning air searching for a partner. It wasn't hard to guess why he was there. He wanted to train. From the bandages that were wrapped around his hands and up the length of his forearms it would be easy for a more seasoned individual to guess he was looking for hand to hand combat training.
"Who is it going to be?"
He thought quietly to himself. Aoren wasn't a masterful fighter. He knew a basic stance, how to throw a punch, and how to kick. That was about it. He needed to refine his skills and that was something you could only do by working with and studying with others.
Who would it be indeed?
9th Bell
The Fighter's Pit.
Aoren did not frequent the Pit. Indeed, he made it a habit to do the exact opposite. For the most part he preferred to train alone or with one of the few people whom he counted amongst his friends. There were things that one just could not learn sparring against imaginary foes amongst the wilderness. Bushes, trees and leaves could only put up so much of a fight.
In that regard he was now perched against one of the dilapidated walls of the Fighter's Pit observing the many patrons who flocked to Gerard Anthonious. Mercenaries. The rabble-rousers of Syliran society. People of from all walks of life could be found in the Pit. He saw men practicing their archery. Some of them seemed to be of apparent skill. Others were lacking. Aoren could not attest to any measure of skill with a bow and arrow. He was no marksman. He saw two fierce looking women practicing acrobatics with their daggers. Uncertain whether or not they were dulled blade he prayed to the Twin Goddesses that neither of the women disemboweled one another. That would have been a hard thing to ignore. No doubt the Knights would have berated Gerard for letting it happen under his watch.
The majority of Syliras had mixed feeling about the Pit. Aoren believed it was a place where you could truly see just how diverse the populace of the Fortress City of Peace really was. The upper-crust of Syliras tossed it up to being a place where one could just find ruffians looking to hone whatever it is that ruffians specialized in. No doubt they were prone to believe it was to come steal their goods in the night. Such notions only made Aoren chuckle.
Overall, Aoren didn't really see anyone who caught his eye. There he stood, leaning against a wall in the cool early-morning air searching for a partner. It wasn't hard to guess why he was there. He wanted to train. From the bandages that were wrapped around his hands and up the length of his forearms it would be easy for a more seasoned individual to guess he was looking for hand to hand combat training.
"Who is it going to be?"
He thought quietly to himself. Aoren wasn't a masterful fighter. He knew a basic stance, how to throw a punch, and how to kick. That was about it. He needed to refine his skills and that was something you could only do by working with and studying with others.
Who would it be indeed?
