Deep shadows numbered among the mottled in the Fighting pits, hard-packed dirt grating beneath the heels of fighting men and women, the sharp pangs of clashing blades, thocks of breaking wood and tired grunts were barely audible beneath crashing thunder. Above, roiling grey clouds hid the sky, an inverted sea of sluggish ashen waves crashing around and bordered by the pealing flashes of sheet lightning. The rain was a while off yet, but the wind still carved paths through the weather-worn stone that circled the pit and rose the dust in its centre.
Endir had needed an escape from his dorm, the crowded humid room often did his head in, and there was nothing like a little fresh air and practice to clear it. Dressed in a tattered tunic, his chest was exposed through undone laces, brown breeches mushroomed over knee-high leather boots and astride his waist was a sword. The blade was plain, scabbardless and its handle equally bare, the crossguard rusted and hand-and-a-half hilt bound in cheap leather.
"Okay, Endir, you remember how it goes." The squire mumbled to himself, brow knitted in concentration.
Unsheathing his weapon, he brought it about in a high guard, blade straight and looming above messy brown hair, his face glistening in sweat. He had jogged here. Slipping into a graceful set of movements, he brought the weapon about him with a serpentine grace, in harmony with his thick shoulders and bare forearms.
He had hoped to find more people about, or more free people at least, Drasir was otherwise occupied with study and his bunk-mates didn't care much for him.
Continuing on, Endir worked his aching muscles amid the hazy plume of stirred dirt. Rain came, assailing the pits and thick walls of Syliras. Endir carried on regardless.
Endir had needed an escape from his dorm, the crowded humid room often did his head in, and there was nothing like a little fresh air and practice to clear it. Dressed in a tattered tunic, his chest was exposed through undone laces, brown breeches mushroomed over knee-high leather boots and astride his waist was a sword. The blade was plain, scabbardless and its handle equally bare, the crossguard rusted and hand-and-a-half hilt bound in cheap leather.
"Okay, Endir, you remember how it goes." The squire mumbled to himself, brow knitted in concentration.
Unsheathing his weapon, he brought it about in a high guard, blade straight and looming above messy brown hair, his face glistening in sweat. He had jogged here. Slipping into a graceful set of movements, he brought the weapon about him with a serpentine grace, in harmony with his thick shoulders and bare forearms.
He had hoped to find more people about, or more free people at least, Drasir was otherwise occupied with study and his bunk-mates didn't care much for him.
Continuing on, Endir worked his aching muscles amid the hazy plume of stirred dirt. Rain came, assailing the pits and thick walls of Syliras. Endir carried on regardless.
