Open [The Training Grounds] Short End of the Spear

[Vhertos Forgebroken]

Summer 41st, 515 AV. His footsteps seemed to sound out louder today than usual as Vhertos made his way slowly towards the training grounds, his mind deep in thought and body still waking from sleep. He liked to rise early, to avoid the vast majority of the other squires while they still slept, and on this occasion his mind was troubled. He had once more been haunted by nightmares of his father, visiting him from beyond the grave as if to torment him, his eyes blank and arm still very much missing. It was something that always put Vhertos in a sombre mood, and this was no exception, with the young squire deciding to take action in order to try to clear his thoughts of the night’s torments. He took pause as he came upon the training grounds and reached up to rub at his jaw, his eyes looking over the training equipment with a sort of apathy. He knew that his preferred weapon was not exactly the easiest to spar safely with, and so he pondered his choices, legs carrying him to where the weapons were located as his eyes swept over them. His right hand moved out to retrieve the pieces of practice armour, while his left hovered over the spear. It was a weapon that would serve his purposes, and would make him a more rounded knight when he finally got to that stage, not to mention it was not exactly easy to use a mace on horseback. The spear was the safer option to train with as it stood, the edges blunted and the tip rounded, although were it not for the armour they wore, Vhertos gathered they could still do damage if intended, and probably had in the past too. His left hand pulled back, and assisted his right with strapping on his armour, his gaze cast out over the training grounds as they did so, glancing to see who occupied the fields at the moment. His patron was nowhere to be found, but then he did not expect to see him here, as it was still early yet, with the sun barely having risen to cast light upon the fortress. He lowered the helm onto his head and turned, snatching up the spear into one hand before moving out onto the fields. He doubted there would be many here willing to spar against him, and so for the moment, he would focus on his stances and attack the still forming shadows of the early morning. Izurdin knows he needed the practice more than anything, he had a long road ahead of him before he could become a knight.

[Suvaris]

Death waited in the shadows. It lurked in the half-glimpsed flickers of movement, wallowed in the atramentous pools of darkness that stained the jungle floor, ever-present and always waiting. It drifted in the humid air, clung to him like the sweat that slicked his skin, close and uncomfortable as he pushed a heavy vine from his path. He crouched, one hand resting in the cool, reassuring damp of the earth and the other pressed lightly against the bark of the tree he sheltered behind. He knew it was foolish to do so, to slink about as if he could escape Death's notice, for Death was everywhere. It could strike at any time, from whatever angle, in whatever form it pleased, yet it was content to let him scurry about the undergrowth like a rodent, desperately attempting to elude a viper's notice. How could Death not hear him, when his heart thundered in his chest like the drums of war, fit to burst through bone and flesh alike? When every motion he took seemed as loud as shattering glass in a silent chamber? He felt thick and weary, movements weighted and clumsy due to fatigue. He did not know how long he had been running, only that his lungs burned and his muscles sang with agony, wailing their reluctance incessantly as he continued to push them further and further past their limit. He had to. If he did not, Death would catch him, and the darkness would swallow him whole forever. He heaved another laboured breath and dragged himself forward, stumbling onwards in a stilted, staggering run. Each footfall felt as if it took the last of his dwindling reserves, feet rendered leaden and impossibly heavy as he struggled on. If he could just make it out of the darkness, into the light, he would be safe. He knew this in his very soul, an unassailable truth that was an unquestionable as the pain that assaulted his senses. His foot snagged on an upturned root, sending him sprawling to the ground in a boneless tangle of limbs. Try as he might, he could not bring himself to rise, face pressed firmly against the moist earth, even as the dank breath of what must surely be Death caressed the back of his neck, hot and terribly close. He tensed, waiting for the final blow, squeezing his eyes shut at the inevitable, violent introduction of fang and tired flesh, and-

He woke with a start, bolting upright in his bed, thin sheet tangled about him and stuck fast to his skin with the cold sweat that coated his body. His chest heaved as he drank down breath after greedy breath, the pounding of his heart a welcome affirmation that it was, as it always was, but a dream. Always the darkness and the jungle and the Death that he could never escape. He inhaled deeply through his nostrils, taking a steadying breath as he pressed his right hand to the mask that was strapped to his face even in slumber. The presence of the worn mask upon his features was a familiar and welcome sensation, the smooth and worn surface against his sweat-damp palm as soothing to him as a mother's embrace. He was alive. He was safe. Cautiously, he opened his eyes to take in his surroundings, slivers of blue surveying the slumbering forms of the other two squires that he shared the room with. He did not need to check the time to know that it would be early-He had always risen early, and thus it would be some time before the rest of the dormitory stirred to life. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he set his feet upon the cool stone of the floor and mused to himself that life as a squire really wasn't all that different from his time at the orphanage. You slept in a room with others, you woke up, you ate together, you performed chores and duties together. The other squires even tended react to him much as the orphans had done, with a mixture of curiosity, derision and wariness due to his unusual appearance. He shrugged it off much as he had ever done, content to let them have their stares and their hushed whispers as he walked past, for such things were of little consequence. He was here to become a Knight, not to be popular.

Before he could become a Knight, however, he had a great deal of work to do, and idling on the side of one's bed wasn't going to get it done. He dressed swiftly and made his way to the training grounds, doing his best to step lightly lest he wake the others as he passed. He would have to seek out his patron for proper training with the weapons he had purchased, but that could wait. It would likely behoove him to have some familiarity with them before he was thrown in the deep end, after all, so a little early morning practice wouldn't hurt. As he made his way to the racks of training equipment he noted the sound of someone else present, the faint scuffle of swift movements emanating from not that far off. Another early riser like himself, then, perhaps here to enjoy the relative peace that the unsociable hour permitted. Turning his attention back to the impressive variety of weapons arrayed before him, he pondered upon what would be best to start off with. The weapons of his childhood, the bagh nakh claws, would be an ill fit to a proper fight unless heavily modified, so they were out. His patron was more skilled with the sword and greatsword, he believed, so perhaps he should get to grips with something else. His fingers curled and flexed in slow, unhurried motions as he perused the selection, startlingly blue eyes roving over the racks and tables with much curiosity. This was, after all, the most comprehensive selection of items of war that he had ever seen in one place, and he could not help but be a little in awe. The gleam of the steel, even worn and well-used as it was, called to him on some deep, primal level. Oh, how he would love to while away the hours just trying out everything that was on offer here, sampling all of the martial delights he could get his hands on! Alas, it was with a slight twinge of remorse that he reminded himself that he was here with a purpose, not to play around with all the shiny toys. He placed his hand upon the worn haft of one of the glaives that were propped up within a rack of assorted other polearms, hefting the lengthy weapon and relishing the weight of it, the feel of the smooth wood against his skin. He let out a soft grunt of approval, one of his characteristic 'Mm.'s. This weapon would do nicely, for the time being. He set about donning one of the spare sets of training armour and, glaive in hand, strode out towards where the sounds of training emanated from.

Stepping out onto the fields, he noted the other occupant, who was possessed of a much shorter, stockier build than himself. He cocked his head at the other man-For his gender was not difficult to guess-, taking in his movements with the polearm that he wielded. Once more, he let out a gentle grunt, shifting his stance to be more open as he speaks, soft voice distorted somewhat by the mask that covers his face. "Mm. New to glaive. Spar?"