68th of Spring, 514 AV
Bitt tentatively flexed his fingers, using the motion to slightly adjust his grip on the quarterstaff. Strange, Bitt thought, that the presence of the weapon in his hands felt less alien with each passing day. An extension of himself... well, not quite. In many respects, the squire recognised that he was still a long way from adequate.
But that's why I'm here.
Tensing his muscles slightly, Bitt settled comfortably into low-guard. His opponent, who stood a sensible distance away, mirrored the stance. Ser Crowe: Syliran Knight, and Bitt's patron. He too wielded a quarterstaff, which was appropriate. It was the older knight's duty to mould the young squire, teaching him the skills he would one day need to join the order himself. Today was no exception.
Crowe locked his gaze with Bitt's and, when he was sure he had the squire's attention, gave a slow, deliberate nod: the signal to start. Bitt had sparred with his patron before, but to describe their brief, brutal exchanges - in which Bitt would come out thoroughly bruised - as sparring would be true only as a technicality. This was to be their first, true, spar. Crowe was the superior fighter, of this Bitt had no doubt, but this was not a competition. His patron would restrain himself, matching his skill roughly to Bitt's own. This was training, plain and simple. The two men began to circle each other: the fight had begun.
The Antinous Training Grounds had sand scattered in the areas designated for practice combat, and it grated softly beneath Bitt's boots with every step. He had been feeling incredibly anxious in the moments leading up to the spar, but now that he knew an exchange was imminent, he felt at ease... too at ease; he was excited.
The Fury...
Bitt's name for his psychological condition. A lust for combat. A mental proficiency. There were some, undoubtedly, who would view it a blessing. The capacity to lose yourself in a passionate frenzy of violence... it terrified the squire. It was not something he wanted, nor was it something he knew he had, not until recently. A curse. Bitt's breathing intensified, and he sucked in deep gulps of air.
Focus Bitt! Focus! Focus! Focus!
As he mentally scolded himself, the squire shook his head, as if to dispel the sensation. Crowe waited patiently while his squire struggled with his inner demon. He knew that Bitt valued the discipline he had been working so hard to nurture, and the older knight sympathised with him. More than that, Crowe was proud of his squire's willpower and determination.
But that's why I'm here.
Tensing his muscles slightly, Bitt settled comfortably into low-guard. His opponent, who stood a sensible distance away, mirrored the stance. Ser Crowe: Syliran Knight, and Bitt's patron. He too wielded a quarterstaff, which was appropriate. It was the older knight's duty to mould the young squire, teaching him the skills he would one day need to join the order himself. Today was no exception.
Crowe locked his gaze with Bitt's and, when he was sure he had the squire's attention, gave a slow, deliberate nod: the signal to start. Bitt had sparred with his patron before, but to describe their brief, brutal exchanges - in which Bitt would come out thoroughly bruised - as sparring would be true only as a technicality. This was to be their first, true, spar. Crowe was the superior fighter, of this Bitt had no doubt, but this was not a competition. His patron would restrain himself, matching his skill roughly to Bitt's own. This was training, plain and simple. The two men began to circle each other: the fight had begun.
The Antinous Training Grounds had sand scattered in the areas designated for practice combat, and it grated softly beneath Bitt's boots with every step. He had been feeling incredibly anxious in the moments leading up to the spar, but now that he knew an exchange was imminent, he felt at ease... too at ease; he was excited.
The Fury...
Bitt's name for his psychological condition. A lust for combat. A mental proficiency. There were some, undoubtedly, who would view it a blessing. The capacity to lose yourself in a passionate frenzy of violence... it terrified the squire. It was not something he wanted, nor was it something he knew he had, not until recently. A curse. Bitt's breathing intensified, and he sucked in deep gulps of air.
Focus Bitt! Focus! Focus! Focus!
As he mentally scolded himself, the squire shook his head, as if to dispel the sensation. Crowe waited patiently while his squire struggled with his inner demon. He knew that Bitt valued the discipline he had been working so hard to nurture, and the older knight sympathised with him. More than that, Crowe was proud of his squire's willpower and determination.
You did a good job! I love the change in perspective and Bitt discovering his darker side. Combat can do that to people. 
