35th of Summer, 517AV
As the sword whistled through the air towards Orin’s face, the chef desperately tried to bring the two daggers clutched in his fists up in an interlocking pattern to catch the descending blade. But it wasn't working. Orin, for whatever reason, seemed entirely incapable of raising his arms at the same time. One would start and the other would stop. The result was that his right hand alone was high enough to impact against the sword. The left one followed just a few ticks too lack.
Davrah, Orin’s trainer, disengaged the sword with a disgusted grunt. The Akalak stood head and shoulders above the human, and when Davrah glared at Orin like the trainer was doing now, Orin couldn't help but feel an involuntary shiver of fear. Akalaks were intimidating even when they weren't trying to be, so when they actively asserted their physical superiority, they could become downright terrifying. Even Orin, slightly acclimatized to the sight of the giant, dark-skinned race, was affected. Davrah brought his sword into a ready position and Orin instinctively sank into his own. “Again. Slower,” Davrah commanded, before launching into another overhead arc with the sword.
This time, Orin focused on bringing both blades up in tandem, and he was successful. Davrah, though, wasn't satisfied. “Again. Faster.” And again, Orin managed to catch Davrah’s wooden blade between his own. “Again. Full speed.” Desperately, Orin willed his arms into motion. They flew into the space above his head, and this time Orin actually managed to stop Davrah’s attack, although his form felt incredibly sloppy. Davrah grunted, and nodded. “Good enough.” Even that small compliment was enough to fill Orin with pride. The Akalak was sparing in his praise and harsh in his criticisms. But Orin knew that it came from a place in Davrah’s heart.
Davrah pointed to the weapons racks and both of them put their respectively blades away. Then Davrah picked up two iron staves, handing one to Orin. The chef hated the staff with a burning passion, especially these heavier versions, but seeing as he'd been asked to be taught the weapon, he couldn't complain. He'd decided that his skill with daggers wasn't enough and he should have the ability to wield a weapon that he could use to keep an opponent at a distance. It just grated on Orin’s nerves that after all the hard work he'd put into honing his combat abilities, he was forced back to basics simply because the staff was new to him.
Davrah squared off again Orin and Orin braced himself for what was sure to be the most difficult part of his training today. Seeing as Orin could barely lift the heavy version of the staff, training with it was nearly impossible. Still, the chef gamely kept at it, knowing one day it would be worth it. Davrah gave Orin instructions in a deep baritone. “Standard block pattern. Overhead, left, right, bottom, repeat.” Orin nodded, already dreading this whole endeavor. Davrah, of course, had no trouble hefting his weapon, but as soon as Orin lifted it off the ground, he could feel the pain in his arms.
Davrah swung his own staff and Orin, with a grunt of effort, pushed his whole body into motion to raise his own weapon above his head. The two colluded in the dull thunk of iron hitting iron. Orin, barely able to keep from dropping the staff, managed to bring it down to its normal level, but he was so focused on controlling it and trying to ignore the pain in his arms that he realized too late that he’d blocked right instead of left.
THWACK! Orin’s entire vision exploded with white as pain exploded in his chest. He almost dropped his staff, but remembering lessons of the past, which drilled into him the importance of never losing control of a weapon, caused him to simply lower it until it touched the floor. When he could see again, and his other sense came back as well, Orin found that he was leaning heavily on the staff, and Davrah was hovering over Orin, the Akalak looking alternatively horrified and pissed. Orin’s ribs were on fire, and Davrah took the staff and led Orin over to a bench, sitting Orin down before placing the weapon away.
Coming back, the Akalak knelt and felt at Orin’s ribs, and the chef bit his lip to keep from crying out. Satisfied, Davrah leaned back. “I don’t think they’re broken, just severely bruised. I pulled the blow at the last second when I saw what you did. Or didn’t do, rather. Stupid! Stupid, stupid human, blocking the wrong way. Still, I suppose you’ve learned your lesson now.” Peering at Orin uncertainly, Davrah asked, “Do you need help getting to the medical center? You need a doctor. I can take you.”
Orin waved away the assistance, standing up with a wince. “I got it. I can make it there on my own.” Orin had never been to the Gilia Medical Center, but he passed it often and knew it was only a short walk from his current location. So he started limping, since every step caused a jolt of pain to shoot up the left side of his body, and while it took him a while, eventually he arrived at the hospital. Entering, Orin hobbled to the front desk.
An attendant shoved a book at him as he approached the front desk. “Write your name, and deposit any weapons. Don’t worry, you’ll get them back.” Orin must’ve looked suspicious, to warrant that remark, but the chef imagined that if they tried to permanently take weapons from Akalaks, there would be a riot. So he did as instructed, and another attendant came to lead him through a series of hallways, stopping at a door that was identical in every way to the ones around it.
Opening the door, the attendant gestured for Orin to take a seat on the cot that was in the corner. “The doctor will be with you shortly,” the attendant informed him, before closing the door and leaving Orin alone The chef sank down gratefully, and closed his eyes, awaiting further developments and trying not to pass out from the pain.