PM to join [Antonius Fighting Pit]Weapons Are Good, Eh? (Baelin Holt)

[Phaylix Whitevine]

87 | W I N T E R | 514 AV

Phaylix hops down from his post on a rigging for a building to the cobbles below, rolling to alleviate some of the force of the sheer drop. He lands on his feet, his cloak billowing around his calves. He walks forward with the dusk crowd, all the while keeping his hood on. He didn't want to alert the Syliran Knights of his presence. He didn't have the best reputation in the fortress city.

Assassins never have a good standing with the authorities.

Phaylix was still new to Syliras, and there was much to be had. He'd already been to the Stone Garden, where he'd assassinated Gyor. There were a few places to be explored. The Feather and Shaft, The Undeniable Interests, to name a few. But, as he looked down at the pilfered map from the dead body of Gyor, he found one place to be... eye-opening.

The Antonius Fighhting Pit.

Without hesitation, he made a bee-line for it, completely going south of his original destination.

There was sparring to be made!

~~~

He looks from the edge of the pit in. There's not too many people there at this time of night, just a few Knights, a definite Squire, and... an Akalak. How strange. Phaylix smiles at this, realizing he'd never seen an Akalak before. And here one was, sparring!

Phaylix drops into the deep pit, bending his knees to absorb some of the fall. But only some. His barely-trained knees buckle underneath him, giving Phaylix a faceful of dirt and sprouts.

"Shyke..." the Vantha mutters. He feels his pale cheeks flooding and the weight of a dozen eyes on him.

Could he be more clumsy?

[Baelin Holt]

Baelin shifted awkwardly between his feet, not quite sure that he should be here. He questioned his motives again, and decided for the umpteenth time that yes, he needed to learn how to fight. His sloppy haymakers were doing anyone any good, least of all himself.

Yet still...being at the Anthonius Fighter’s Pit was more than a little nerve-wracking. Winthrop Alley felt more like home than his own apartment...just not his part of the alley. He was still fairly close to the Ironworks, he could always go back.

No, he reminded himself, You’re here to learn.

That nearly caused him to snort audibly. Learning never had been his strong suit. Ignoring lessons, yes, but learning? It had better be something useful.

The Pit hadn’t always been here. He remembered that there used to be a manufacturing plant here. But the storm of 512 had left a scar on the city. The Pit had made good use of that scar.

Baelin was distracting himself. He hissed between clenched teeth and forced himself to move towards one of the weapon’s racks near the right wall. He pulled one of the practice swords off of the rack and inspected its blade. It was dull...far duller than anything they’d ever consider selling at the Ironworks. Baelin was nearly tempted to take it out of the Pit and sharpen it for them.

But he supposed a dull edge wasn’t the worst thing in the world for a practice fight. The smith tested the weight of it in his hand, giving it an experimental swing. The weight seemed well-balanced enough.

Yet still a frown grew on Baelin. He didn’t know the first thing about swinging a sword. Perhaps he should purchase a lesson...his frown deepened at the thought. If he had the mizas to waste on a lesson, then plenty of his problems would be solved.

Something in the corner of the rack caught his eye. The flat head of a hammer beckoned him towards it. Smiling, Baelin picked up the well-worn warhammer and gave it an experimental swing. It was weighted different than any of hammers he used in smithing, but it was still far more comfortable in his hand than any of the other weapons he had picked up had been.

A sudden noise shocked him out of his thoughts. He spun around to the source, instinctively on edge.

A stranger had landed in the Pit oddly and seemed to be embarrassed by it. Baelin’s brows lowered in confusion as to why anyone would have to land in the Fighter’s Pit when there was an entrance that was perfectly functional.

Perhaps the boy was as new to the Pit as Baelin was. Instinct and preference compelled him to ignore it and focus instead of testing the weight of the warhammer, but a small tickle of empathy kept nipping at the back of his mind.

He knew what it was like to be unfamiliar with a place.

Baelin’s breath hissed out of his nostrils as he realized that he couldn’t ignore it. Sighing, Baelin walked over to the stranger and thrust out his hand for the boy to help himself up with.

He was going to regret this.

[Phaylix Whitevine]

Phaylix curses himself silently, thinking of all the time he'd been training just to avoid these situations. What good was an Assassin if all he did was draw unwanted attention to himself? Morwen almighty...

He opens his indigo eyes to see a hand in front of him. Was someone here to help him?

"Um... thanks." the Vantha says as he takes the large hand in his own and pulls himself up. He wipes dirt off his cloak and removes his hood, revealing tussled brown hair. He takes a gander at the man who's connected to the hand.

He's somewhat taller than Phaylix, but not by much. His hair is black, and seems to be plastered to his forehead with... sweat, possibly? He's obviously much bigger and stronger than Phaylix, with a broad chest and large arms. Phaylix notices the hammer in his hand, reminding the Assassin of his motives for being here.

He knew shyke about swords.

"Thanks back there. I'm... new to the city," Phaylix says. He shouldn't just give out his information to everyone he he met. "I see that hammer of your's. You any good with it? And I'm..." The Vantha thinks about giving the man a fake name, but decides against it; he didn't seem too bad. "I'm Phaylix."

[Baelin Holt]

Baelin hovered with his hand held out, waiting for the boy to notice it. He ground his teeth unpleasantly, again questioning why he thought this was a good idea. When was the last time helping a stranger had done him any good?

However, to be fair, when was the last time he had helped a stranger? He tried to help customers, but that was different. He was obligated to. His livelihood depended on it.

There was no such need here. Baelin studied the cloaked figure and debated pulling his hand back. The lad was still absorbed in his own thoughts; likely embarrassed. Baelin hadn’t been noticed yet. He could still leave.

But Baelin had spent too long going back and forth and the decision was taken away from him. Startlingly purple eyes greeted him as a hand reached up and accepted his. Silently, Baelin allowed the boy to pull himself up while he firmly braced his legs and tightened his core.

The boy thanked him and dusted off once he was back on his feet before turning his attention on the half-Dhani. Baelin resisted the urge to shift uncomfortably, not liking the scrutiny in the slightest. He ducked his gaze behind thick hair as he felt a sudden intense urge to leave the Fighter’s Pit altogether. This had been a horrible idea. Despite himself, Baelin picked absently at a fingernail. There were no scales threatening to break through skin today.

But then the stranger thanked him again. The second thanks caught Baelin by surprise and he looked up, brows lowered in confusion. He had been expecting for the lad to drag himself back to his feet and then go about his way. The attempt at conversation was...unnerving.

The light shone against the boys eyes now and Baelin was now significantly less sure of what color they were. Was that blue? Yet it still looked purple. The smith frowned, knowing little beyond grayscale.

His frown deepened as the boy explained away his fall into the Pit as a result of newness to Syliras. Baelin smelled a lie, and he didn’t like it. Syliras was no stranger to foreigners, yet Baelin was still hard pressed to think of a culture that avoided doors.

The smith snorted when the colorful eyed stranger asked if he was any good with the hammer. Had it been his own hammer, he could assure him that he was fine with it. Yet this wasn’t his hammer...Baelin glanced down at the weapon in his hand and rolled it slowly in his hand. It had a sharp head, made for piercing not flattening. To be honest, it made him a little uncomfortable. Was this something he really wanted to do?

Baelin clenched his jaw, fist curling tighter around the wooden handle. He knew what shape rested in his palm. He would not let his goddess down. He would learn how to destroy those that seek to escape her.

The hint of a smile coaxed the corner of his mouth. The thought of watching a Nuit flail hopelessly against the ground as its miserable existence ended raced through his mind. That was a sight worth swinging an uncomfortable tool for.

The Eiyon looked back up at the boy in time to hear his unusual name. “Baelin,” he offered in response. He nodded his head towards the racks of weapons, gesturing for Phaylix to grab something. He was ready to figure out how to wield this damn thing.

[Phaylix Whitevine]

~W I N T E R~

OOCSorry for the wait!

The Vantha watched rather awkwardly as the man watched him. The man seemed a bit confused at him showing his gratitude twice. Wasn't that something people did? They did it at the Whitevine hold, thanking others multiple times. Maybe the rougher Syliras had different customs; no, he was sure there were different customs. He brushed himself off once more, eliminating any stragglers, as the man looked at the weapon in his hands.

Does he know how to use that thing?

Phaylix thought of his own inability to manage anything besides his wrist blade, safely clasped to his wrist. He was a hopeless Mercenary if he couldn't handle a petching shortsword. He knew this man, Baelin, as he said, had no idea how to use that hammer. He could tell from the longing looks he gave the weapon. Phaylix's guess: Baelin had no concept of any weapon, really. He had the tanned look most would get working outside, and the asperous hands to go with it. He probably worked arduous construction or maybe metalworking.

Mr. Baelin nodded to the weapons rack for the Vantha to retrieve one of the various practice weapons. Phaylix nodded back.

"I'm not too good with... anything, really. Expect some issues, I guess."

Phaylix knelt to the pit's earth-y floor, looking at the many weapons. He became dizzy looking at them, not knowing the names of any but three: the flamberge, with its exaggerated wavy blade, the bastard sword, and the rapier. He weighed his choices, and quite literally. He picked up each, weighing them. The flamberge was easily the heaviest. The rapier was the lightest. The cup-like hilt almost called to him. He smiled as he replaced both the flamberge and the bastard sword, and went back to the awaiting Baelin.

The Merc went into something attempting to resemble a ready pose, the rapier pointed in a strange way, his legs far too close, his other arm laying lazily at his side.

As far as he knew, he was a petching professional.

"You take the first shot, Baelin." The Vantha got into his bracing stance, one he knew rather well, as it was used quite often in his line of work.

He had no idea how this spar would end, but he knew he'd someway or another get injured.

[Baelin Holt]

The apprentice armorer frowned as Phaylix took his position. Baelin didn’t know much about fighting, but he did know a little bit about body building. How you held your body when you worked with weights was extremely crucial. It was the difference between a good session and an injury. And this boy had his weight all over the place. There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to it. His legs didn’t even look remotely braced.

All of a sudden Baelin felt anxious. Sure, he was fine with giving himself a few scars in his desire to learn how to use a strange tool, but hurting another wasn’t quite up his alley. Not unless they insulted or endangered himself, his family, or his goddess in some way. And maybe Ros and Fredrick too. And maybe the Ironworks. And maybe smithing in general. Any sort of insult, really, would make it much more appealing to cause pain.

But this boy had given him no insults. Instead he thanked him. Baelin was still trying to find the trick in that.

With a sigh, Baelin held out his hand and rested it gently on the tip of the boy’s blade. The scythe mark on his palm grazed the dulled point as the half-Dhani said softly, “I need to admit that I know little of fighting. I’m more likely to hurt you than help you. It’d be better if I practice alone for now.” Baelin spoke slowly, making sure to pick his words carefully both to avoid insulting the lad and to avoid bringing out his own sibilance. And he had to say he was pleased with the results.

Baelin didn’t wait for a response. He moved away from the boy with the colorful eyes and picked a spot that looked relatively empty. Accidentally hitting someone was very far from the list of things he wanted to do.

The armorer spun the handle of the warhammer in his hand, trying to get a feel for the differences between this kind of hammer and the more familiar blacksmith hammers. It was longer and definitely swung a lot differently. Baelin tried to swing it like he would his normal hammer. He used short and well-controlled hits and envisioned an anvil resting in front of him, a hot piece of iron on the table waiting for him to stretch it out.

He might as well have been hitting the iron with a stick. And he was still swinging with the blunt side first as if he needed to flatten metal. But this was a weapon. Baelin licked his lips and considered what he was holding. The pointy side was likely more than a counterweight, it was probably the actual striking side of the weapon. Baelin flipped the warhammer in his hand so it was pointy side down.

Short, controlled hits likely weren’t the way he was supposed to do this either. He did that in smithing so that he didn’t damage the material too much. Hitting the steel too hard would cause it to thin on him.

But in a weapon that was exactly what he wanted.

Baelin thought back to his earlier work as a Blacksmith’s striker. Being a striker was straightforward: you raised the hammer high, swung with as much force as you could manage while still maintaining accuracy, and repeat. The armorer repeated the motion with the warhammer as he lifted it high and then swung it down as if hitting an imaginary piece of stock metal.

It felt massively different. The warhammer was much lighter than a striking hammer. However, he felt like that kind of swing was a step in the right direction.

He didn’t have a clue, however, how to swing sideways.

Baelin huffed a frustrated breath and moved to the cart to return the warhammer. This was a nonsensical task without anyone to train him. The half-Dhani would have to come back when he had some more mizas to spend. For now...he glanced at the scythe on his palm and thought, I’ll just have to wait.

[Ball]

And the grades come rolling in.

 

Overall Comments

Nice starting thread, I like how you finished it off Baelin, sorta wished it was more finished =( Please mark your grade request as finished and any questions, always ask.

 

Baelin Holt

Experience Points.

Weapon(War Hammer)	+2
Socialization	+1

Lores.

• Antonius Fighting Pit: Remnants of the Djed Storm
• War Hammer v. Blacksmithing Hammer: Longer Shaft, Bigger Head
• War Hammer v. Blacksmithing Hammer: Transferring common knowledge from Smithing to combat strikes
• War Hammer Technique: Basic Overhead Downstrike
• War Hammer Technique: Full Swing

 

Phaylix Whitevine

Please contact me for your grades if you ever return.

Template Credit: Edric Wingard