Solo The Dullest of Days

[Belugnir]

Summer 1st, 517 AV, tenth bell of morning, beach near the Port:

The day dawned on Sahova with incoming dark and cloudy promise of thunder and storm. Yet Einar would not let himself be condemned to a full day of gathering dust in the mages’ damned fortress. He would, however, see himself fit and able for better self-defense when either a new monstrosity came his way with the duty of a warden, or when a spiteful wizard would tire of another ‘Pulser’ that pranced about instead of being dissected, so, in spite of thick, enclosing clouds on the horizon, he made his way down to the beach, planning to remain there for at least as long as the sky overhead wasn’t blackened. He had come up with an innovation in his training. Even though he felt his body was slowly becoming leaner with muscle and better defined from his regular exercises, but he would see the process quickened.

Rather than use the three remaining wooden beams he stored away as targets for his poleaxe or hurling knives, he plucked one out of the ground, disrobed till he was naked from the waist up, and placed the bulky wood over his shoulders horizontally. Memory came to him of the Sunberthian workers and slaves, how they labored under the hot sun and their owner’s whip, and how they would become bulky with muscle and strength in the ordeals. Without the whip to drive him, he would see himself more pleasantly delivered to such improvement. Ein began to walk his way up and down the beach with the full wood laid across his back, yet after a minute he realized that the endeavor was oddly uncomfortable, the arms he stretched across the beam’s length to hold it in position began aching far faster than he expected. He cast the beam away, reaching for a hurting shoulder. After a moment of ponder, he proclaimed himself an idiot twelve times over, recalling that he should bloody warm up before beginning with the exercise.

Taking a bit of time to stretch his legs, back and arms, he would rest a minute, then stretch them again, before taking up the haul of wood across his shoulders once more. The aching of his arms and shoulders did come along again, though slower this time, and the burden was not too heavy at first, so Ein hastened his step into a light jog until it would become weighty, taking care to breathe out in accord with the advances of his feet. Once the haul on his shoulders would actually become a hinder is when he’d slow down, and start counting out two chimes to put actual meaningful stress upon his muscles. Then came a pause, followed by another session of the same length and order. A brief stretch, a light jog along the beach until he felt his upper body and legs beginning to ache from the beam on his back, and then a couple chimes of slow-paced hauling to challenge his own strength and endurance, followed by a brief rest. He repeated this four times over, and by the time his fourth pause was done, the day was passing on to its afternoon. The recent memory of approaching storm barely stuck at the back of his mind.

[Belugnir]

With a drink of water, Einar left the wooden weigh in the sand, taking up his crude weapon. Then came several bells of routine, repeating and refining his poleaxe techniques. A side slash, followed by a brief retreat and then a thrust that would come at a man’s chest. A horizontal shove, a bash to the side of the imaginary opponent’s head with the weapon’s hammer end, before bringing the axe head back for a lethal third strike. Repeat and pause, many a time over. Breath and footwork still required bits of his concentration, and he knew he would still tend to lose control of both during an actual fight. He could, however, feel control over his weapon improving, not astonishingly so, but he was comfortable that he wouldn’t just flail the poleaxe in a panic instead of thoughtfully parrying an incoming spear or sword thrust. To further his improvement in control, he made up a new exercise. His intent would be to deliver multiple thrusts, slashes, shoves and bashes to the thin air around a training dummy, taking care to stop the weapon an inch or less before hitting the beam, rather than digging his weapon into the wood. The most fitting way of improving control that he could think of, for in the heat of a fight it was easy to succumb to the urge of biting your weapon into the bastard who just had the nerve to dub you ‘shykespawn’. And should one enthusiastic, uncontrolled swing go missing its target, its momentum would leave one wide open and ripe for the gutting. Ein could remember multiple meat-bulky whoresons who met their ends like this, and he would most definitely not wish to join them thanks to an oversight such as an exposed flank. In addition to improving control, exercising this self-restrained style of fighting wouldn’t deplete his weapon’s durability trough mere training. Naturally, it wasn’t such a breeze, stopping a lengthy poleaxe’s swing after committing to it, the weapon would still end up lightly slicing or stabbing into the wood, but not nearly as much as if he were going thoughtlessly about the exercise.

Ein decided to mix up his poleaxe practice with sessions of learning the proper handling of the newest addition to his arsenal, the throwing knives. Half a bell of melee training, a bit of rest, then some twenty chimes spent trying to nail an immobile wooden beam with a dagger from fifty steps away. Rinse and repeat for three sessions of each. He committed to the daggers as he did with the poleaxe, giving momentum to the motion that would deliver the attack with all heels, knees, hips and shoulders, not just his upper body. His aim and his gut feeling when it came to the hurling of knives were still poor, but he knew they would improve with time, so patience did rule over frustration for the most part whenever he’d go missing his mark eight times in a row.

[Belugnir]

At the length of another long pause, counting the drops of sweat that were rolling down his bare back, Ein pondered when was the last time he’d actually spoken to another person. The latest he could remember was that good for nothing Feto fellow, a muttering sorcerer wannabe who almost got them both killed… and that was nearly a full season ago. He hardly considered his exchanges with the talking tin cans conversation as those were but a couple words at a time, exchanged with a thing that was far from living, and mostly concerning food or some other mundane necessity that he was willing to spend coin on.

Striking lazy thought from mind, feet took place of arse on the ground, eyes turning from their idly gawk at the knives he toyed with to prying through his inner self in search of Djed and its flow. There was naught to do on this sodding island but train and labor for coin until he got a chance to leave, certainly no brothel or tavern to visit, so he would work and hone himself, a much better pastime than looking for trouble by consorting with the rotten bone-bags that considered themselves immortal. The meditation was brief, briefer than most he had to go through beforehand and he made it worthwhile with a good fifteen chimes of light footed unarmed combat exercise across the beach. He recently grew to realize that his maximum Flux output wasn’t as hazardous nor as dangerous to himself as he originally believed it to be, and in turn, he wasn’t as obsessed with completely restraining his power, for it was not much to begin with. He could still only vaguely conjure up a bit of extra strength and speed in the general area of either his upper or lower body, and would take uncomfortably long to shift the Djed’s positioning, but the freedom of his minor revelation allowed his movements to become more fluent and a lot less clumsy, enough so that he often began adding low and mid-height kicks to his originally blunt, somewhat predictable style of delivering punches and elbow shoves only. As with all his exercises, he repeated this one several times over, with brief rests in between, sometimes practicing on a training dummy, sometimes across a more open space. A roar of thunder called his mind away from meditating initiation into his fourth session of pairing unarmed combat with Flux.

[Belugnir]

‘’Ploughin’ idiot.’’, the man rebuked himself for being so dense as to forget glancing bloody upward across the whole of an afternoon. collecting clothing and equipment from the beach. Rain hadn’t started pouring, but it could have any moment, and besides, what little daylight came from beyond heavy clouds was coming to its end, meaning it was high time he went and searched his broom closet of a room to see if he had anything edible left.

Though on his way up to the citadel, thoughts came to him of a couple ways in which he could improve his training sessions further, namely by trying to slightly modify the dummies. The next time he walks down to the beach, he’ll be sure to bring a hatched with him, possibly some wooden poles too, ones not half as thick as his waist… wiping a line of sweat from his forehead, the man concluded he’ll need to remember to bring a towel or some other piece of cloth when he next goes to train. Disoriented plans of training soon gave way to attempts of recalling if there was a golem in that buggering Citadel that he could pay for the sake of being provided a bath.

[Languish]

Your grades have been summoned
________________

Belugnir

■ Endurance +2
■ Body Building +1
■ Acrobatics +1
■ Running +1
■ Weapon: Poleaxe +1
■ Flux +1
■ Observation +2
■ Planning +1

Lores

Lore of Acrobatics: Always Warm Up
Lore of Body Building: Carrying Shoulder Weights for Muscle
Lore of Combat: Training Control by Stopping Short

Additional Information

None.

________________

Comments:

I kinda wanna play some Rocky training montage music while I grade these.

Don't forget to delete your post in the grading queue. If you have any questions or concerns, feel free to PM me about your grade.

template by Orakan