4th of Spring, 515 AV
The air flew, like a loosed arrow from Lorden's lungs, as a cumbersome, unarmored fist, tried to force its way through the knight's abdomen.
Shyke, the raven-haired swordsman thought, as his torso bent in with the heavy punch, that he was now unwillingly receiving. Angrily, the knight attempted to raise his own right hand up in something vaguely resembling an uppercut, to hit the man who was hitting him; the knight didn't even manage to get halfway through the motion.
Holy Petch. Why did I agree to this?, Lorden thought, when a backhand quickly followed the gut punch, sending him stumbling backward, all but falling over his feet. The knight hadn't even caught the movement, of the hand he had just been slapped with; presumably it had removed itself from his stomach at some point.
"If you want to learn to fight, without that clunky sword, Ser Lordin. You're going to want, to not let me hit you," the weaponsmaster, and the owner of the fist that had just assailed Lorden, spoke heartily from a few feet off.
Lorden looked up at the brown-haired, stocky man, and opened his own mouth wearily.
"I'll keep that in mind, Ser," Lorden called back, the jest-filled response pouring from his lips, along with runny, water-like blood. Trying to think through the ringing that had been forced into his ears, the knight gritted his teeth.
Maybe one day I'll fight like him, but until then, this is going to be a petching mess, the swordsman thought, reestablishing his footwork, and dropping himself down into the only stance he knew. Lorden's right foot shot forward, and his left maneuvered back behind it; the knight held no sword in his hand, and it caused his stance to feel severely off-putting to him. It was almost as if his leg had been ripped off, and someone still expected him to stand, run even, Lorden noted. Irregardless of any symbolism, it didn't feel right, and Lorden's face framed a less than comfortable look, as he tried to ready himself, for whatever the weaponsmaster might throw at him next.
Shyke, the raven-haired swordsman thought, as his torso bent in with the heavy punch, that he was now unwillingly receiving. Angrily, the knight attempted to raise his own right hand up in something vaguely resembling an uppercut, to hit the man who was hitting him; the knight didn't even manage to get halfway through the motion.
Holy Petch. Why did I agree to this?, Lorden thought, when a backhand quickly followed the gut punch, sending him stumbling backward, all but falling over his feet. The knight hadn't even caught the movement, of the hand he had just been slapped with; presumably it had removed itself from his stomach at some point.
"If you want to learn to fight, without that clunky sword, Ser Lordin. You're going to want, to not let me hit you," the weaponsmaster, and the owner of the fist that had just assailed Lorden, spoke heartily from a few feet off.
Lorden looked up at the brown-haired, stocky man, and opened his own mouth wearily.
"I'll keep that in mind, Ser," Lorden called back, the jest-filled response pouring from his lips, along with runny, water-like blood. Trying to think through the ringing that had been forced into his ears, the knight gritted his teeth.
Maybe one day I'll fight like him, but until then, this is going to be a petching mess, the swordsman thought, reestablishing his footwork, and dropping himself down into the only stance he knew. Lorden's right foot shot forward, and his left maneuvered back behind it; the knight held no sword in his hand, and it caused his stance to feel severely off-putting to him. It was almost as if his leg had been ripped off, and someone still expected him to stand, run even, Lorden noted. Irregardless of any symbolism, it didn't feel right, and Lorden's face framed a less than comfortable look, as he tried to ready himself, for whatever the weaponsmaster might throw at him next.