Timestamp: 01 Summer 515 AV With sharp deliberation, he chose a thing he was terrible at. The bastard sword was heavy with the weight of killing, the triumph and turmoil of lives slain. It had once belonged to a slaver from Ravok and it knew near nothing of mercy. It was therefore well suited to the day’s task and provided what punishment Caelum sought for his transgressions. He stood in the open air of the sea cliff far above the din of a bustling sea and balanced his weight forward onto his right foot. What brief lessons he had been given in sword fighting stressed balance and grounding, beginning with this position which was called the Horseman’s Stance. He took a liking to the name for the obvious reasons and found it to be an easy position to master considering the level of training he had already put his body through in learning unarmed combat. The sword he gripped with both hands. It was called a hand and a half, or so the story went, capable of being wielded singly or doubly depending upon the strength and desires of the swordsman. The blade was straight and double edged and the handle was longer than that of a long sword’s, suited perfectly to nothing. It befit him, and his mood. A wind off the water scuffed against the cliff’s edge and flattened the grasses in a path towards the ethaefal as he stepped forward, transferring his weight in a fluid motion while extending his elbow up and out. The sun was lowering into the Suvan and flash off the blade as he brought it down with the swift precision he had been shown. Sliding his leading foot back, he returned to his original position with the blade at a ready angle. This simple thrust and retreat maneuver he repeated twenty times, each one steadily increasing the speed in which he performed it. Muscles warming, Caelum took a breath and began all over again, only this time he add the side sweep of the defensive parry at the end, lengthening his solitary dance. Muscles stretched and limbs ached as he moved, focusing on the position of his hands and his feet and the balancing of the blade as an extension of himself. Around the fifteenth repetition he dropped to a knee and removed a knife from the height of his riding boot. His grip on the sword was made one handed and the knife was gripped in his off hand, blade pointing downward and fingers curving loose and familiar about the handle. A third step was added to this martial dance wherein he turned sideways following the parry with the sword in a striking position learned from practicing kicks. From there the knife was brought up in a butterfly sweep, this a movement far more familiar to his bones than anything yet to do with the sword. The additional focus adding a dual handed third maneuver to his repetitions required of him forced all of the ugly, snaking shadows threatening to overcome his sun to be dismissed. He had not time to linger on the darkness when he was too busy fighting it. His feet beat a pattern in the dust and he paid no heed to the darkness growing out from the feet of the trees nor the frail white moon still strengthening as it ascended. The weight of the weapons began to task his muscles as he pressed on, repeating the same sword strike, sword deflect, and knife parry over and over. In time that too became blurred, somewhere around the second dozen cycle, and Caelum closed his eyes. Behind them he saw an assassin, the phantom of the man who had come upon he and Aoren Skycrown and managed with fierce cunning to fling his lover's spirit free. Subtle shifts in Caelum's stance and the angle of his attacks were made, rolling back a shoulder, turning on the back of a heel to cast a powerful sideline kick at this invisible foe while his blades stabbed down to counterweight his balance. He stumbled, staggering right out of what was usually an easy kick for him to perform when unarmed, thrown off by the accompaniment of knife and sword. Ultimately he ended up in a crouch, the blade of his sword biting into the earth and breath heaving hard through his chest. He shook the sweat out of his eyes and watched the horizon bloody, realizing that he was going to require an actual teacher to instruct him on the fine points of combining fighting techniques. Summer was come, flourishing brilliant ivory through the downward curve of his horns. Unlike all previous summers, however, his hair had begun to bloody into a gold streaked auburn rather than the laurel leaf gold it typically took on during this season. He noticed it now, a too long lock -- in need of cutting -- spilling sweat slicked into his eye even as it grew saturated with the color of heartbreak. He should return to the Sanctuary, perhaps visit Aoren's bonded strider Katya in the stables, have dinner with his daughter, a drink with his friends. He had been lurking like a haunt himself at Alements these past days, unwilling or unable to leave Aoren's side, replaying in his mind the series of events until he could see every flaw in exquisite detail. Only the favor of Rak'keli had saved Aoren and only her favor was sustaining him now. Caelum had traveled through the Chavena, wondering through the vaulted forests of shining history, searching and searching until Elise had shaken him awake, afraid that he too would not rise again. That was when he had promised her to go home, to leave Alements for a little while, to do anything but hunt and heal and steep in his own fury. And he would make the short walk to the Sanctuary from this cliff side field, and he would pay a visit on Aoren's strider, and he would go on. He would. He always went on. There was unlikely to be a century in sight wherein he would not, ageless and now able to heal the majority of injuries at will. For now, he waited for the sun to set, and for his busted heart to slow down. |