40th Day of Spring, 514 AV
It was mid-morning. The air still maintained a portion of its crisp freshness from the previous night, and a gentle spring-time breeze blew lazily across the open pastures that made up the Windmount Stables. A pleasant rippling of the grass and rustling of leaves accompanied every gust, making for a calming visual display. Birds filled the sky and whistled cheerful songs, their wonderful plumage adding dashes of color to the otherwise expansive fields of green. The entire place was a perfect scene of serenity... well, almost.
"That's good lad! Keep your back straight ! You've got to move with her lad; up-and-down, back-and-forth- keep your eyes forward! By Sylir, you've got to watch where you're going lad! ..." A stream of barely-coherent instructions flowed steadily from Crowe's lips. The older knight stood outside of the small pen with his arms in constant motion; each of his bellowed exclamations being punctuated by a dramatic gesture. The target of his insistent advice was the shaggy-haired, armoured youth sitting atop the old, light-brown mare who was trotting, albeit very slowly, around the perimeter of her pen.
Bitt had long since given up on responding to each of his patron's shouts. Provided he made the necessary correction or adjustment, Crowe would know he heard. From his time spent as a squire of The Syliran Knights, almost half-a-season, Bitt had come to realise that his patron was somewhat of an oddity. It's not that the older knight was lax, if anything Bitt suspected he was far stricter than average, but there were certain aspects regarding formalities that he seemed to ignore when unnecessary; his current behaviour was one such example.
Unfortunately, Bitt had no time to dwell on the thought, and it zipped through his head within the space of half-a-heartbeat. Of course, trying not to fall off of the large, moving animal upon which he sat demanded the majority of his attention.
Up-and-down, back-and-forth.
The young squire repeated the mantra in his head and awkwardly shifted his body accordingly, trying his best to match Sandy's, the horse's, movements. Posting, as Crowe had called it, was difficult to get the hang of.
"By matching your movements with the horse, you end up bouncing on her back less while she runs, lad. This means she's isn't as affected by your heavy rump and your rump will be significantly less swollen when you stop riding," Crowe had said.
In particular, that last point was incentive enough to try and master the technique; ever since he'd started riding, Bitt decided that it was either a brave or foolish man who tried to sit down after riding a horse.
The young squire was still a complete novice, and he frequently misjudged his timing, resulting in painful jostles. Still, slowly but surely he felt as if he were making progress.
At least I haven't fallen off of her since that first time.
It was a source of pride for Bitt that he hadn't repeated the mistake he'd made when he first tried to mount a horse, practically throwing himself over the saddle. Now, distracted as he was, it was only natural that he mess up his timing and be rewarded with a sharp lance of pain stemming from his rear end. Bitt grunted, grit his teeth and tightened his grip on Sandy's reigns with his gauntleted hands, a bead of sweat dripped down his cheek;
By Yahal's glowing toenails! Ouch!
Throughout it all, Crowe maintained his delightful encouragement;
"...saw that lad! I'd wager that hurt, and I'd wager even more that it happened because you lost your focus!"
"That's good lad! Keep your back straight ! You've got to move with her lad; up-and-down, back-and-forth- keep your eyes forward! By Sylir, you've got to watch where you're going lad! ..." A stream of barely-coherent instructions flowed steadily from Crowe's lips. The older knight stood outside of the small pen with his arms in constant motion; each of his bellowed exclamations being punctuated by a dramatic gesture. The target of his insistent advice was the shaggy-haired, armoured youth sitting atop the old, light-brown mare who was trotting, albeit very slowly, around the perimeter of her pen.
Bitt had long since given up on responding to each of his patron's shouts. Provided he made the necessary correction or adjustment, Crowe would know he heard. From his time spent as a squire of The Syliran Knights, almost half-a-season, Bitt had come to realise that his patron was somewhat of an oddity. It's not that the older knight was lax, if anything Bitt suspected he was far stricter than average, but there were certain aspects regarding formalities that he seemed to ignore when unnecessary; his current behaviour was one such example.
Unfortunately, Bitt had no time to dwell on the thought, and it zipped through his head within the space of half-a-heartbeat. Of course, trying not to fall off of the large, moving animal upon which he sat demanded the majority of his attention.
Up-and-down, back-and-forth.
The young squire repeated the mantra in his head and awkwardly shifted his body accordingly, trying his best to match Sandy's, the horse's, movements. Posting, as Crowe had called it, was difficult to get the hang of.
"By matching your movements with the horse, you end up bouncing on her back less while she runs, lad. This means she's isn't as affected by your heavy rump and your rump will be significantly less swollen when you stop riding," Crowe had said.
In particular, that last point was incentive enough to try and master the technique; ever since he'd started riding, Bitt decided that it was either a brave or foolish man who tried to sit down after riding a horse.
The young squire was still a complete novice, and he frequently misjudged his timing, resulting in painful jostles. Still, slowly but surely he felt as if he were making progress.
At least I haven't fallen off of her since that first time.
It was a source of pride for Bitt that he hadn't repeated the mistake he'd made when he first tried to mount a horse, practically throwing himself over the saddle. Now, distracted as he was, it was only natural that he mess up his timing and be rewarded with a sharp lance of pain stemming from his rear end. Bitt grunted, grit his teeth and tightened his grip on Sandy's reigns with his gauntleted hands, a bead of sweat dripped down his cheek;
By Yahal's glowing toenails! Ouch!
Throughout it all, Crowe maintained his delightful encouragement;
"...saw that lad! I'd wager that hurt, and I'd wager even more that it happened because you lost your focus!"
