Solo Blade, Globe and Rodent

[Belugnir]

Summer 58th, Noon, Several Dozen Paces Outside of the North Outpost's Southern Gate:

"The cock do you think you're playin' at?'', Einar turned his head at a sudden douse of pain upon his nape... a ragged, half a fist-sized ball of wool and cloth, dyed in red, rolled about the ground beside his feet... and the mercenary's gaze quickly went up from the thing that struck him in the head to the fellow who tossed it.

The other fellow, stood in the meadow of men's making behind him, seemed a good half a dozen years younger than him, finely shaved across both the chin and the head, wearing a plain garb, dark cloth in all tunic, trouser and boots, beneath a sleeved vest of chain mail, with a sizable satchel upon the side of his one hip and a thick-looking long sword hanging from the other.

''It seemed the most adequate way to attract a smelly outsider's attention.'', the young man grinned back.

Summer was nearing its end, and with that in mind, Einar figured he wouldn't wait for Fall to ass halfway by before he had begun to prepare for the Winter. Thus, earlier that morning, he'd relieved the forests surrounding the outpost of two conveniently sized trees, tall and slim, which he'd been turning into firewood across the last couple bells. He would keep some firewood for his own supply, he could sell a handful of timber to earn a silver or two from the Stryfers, and he would get some considerable exercise from the ordeal... especially as he'd undertook it while wearing nearly his full suit of armor, excepting in this particular case his pauldrons and the metal fitting of his gauntlets, opting instead for a plain pair of leathery gloves, for his own convenience... Frankly, he'd worked a right and proper bitch of an ache all across his lower and middle back, as that'd been where his least developed muscles resided... though at this point he'd taught himself an abstract idea of cherishing any pain endured as a step toward building himself into something greater than he was. It was a convenient way of looking at things, anyway.

Having turned a good three paces of tree-trunk into firewood, Ein was considerably winded by this point, glistening with sweat and likely producing a more than formidable odor. And while he could care less for the wayfaring insults the privileged twats of Ravok threw his way, it was more the attitude with which this little bastard approached him than the truthfulness of his insult that irked Einar. The cock-sure attitude that would have one bear witness to an assumption that the slim prick owned every acre of ground he might walk on... a sight that quickly bred horribly irresistible urges to chuck the hatched in his hand straight at the bastard's pretty face in Einar's mind... yet he was far beyond the petulant child whose temper got him into daily trouble... or so he liked to tell himself.

[Belugnir]

''And why might the young master want my attention? Hm?'', he sized the lad up... by all sense, this one would have to be some smug nobleman's son, probably sent to the outpost 'cause their da's had enough of them for a season... and even with such an assumption, Einar would proceed to speak in a manner as reckless as outright hurling the hatchet at the little princeling would vouch. ''I'd be hard-pressed to assume a pompous twat such as yourself is tired of life?'', he spoke up, a twitch in both his eye squinting eyes and the hand that grasped the wooden shaft, visibly inclined to ferocity.

There was a pause of uncertainty... but ultimately the assumed noble troublemaker gave Einar naught but the smuggest of amused glances...

''My... I do wonder how one was suffered to live in Ravok for so long when they fancy such a foul tone.'', the boy hissed back a subtle threat of his own, and it seemed as though he'd have more to say, just as Einar had, though before either of them spoke up a third, far older voice, intervened... a good thing too, as the younger of two men had a hand already resting atop the throat of his scabbard, likely a breath away from drawing his sword... and Einar's posture was no less threatening.

''Motred, that's quite enough. This man stood several paces to the side of the troublemaker, or sat rather, atop the stump of a tree Einar had cut down that morning. This one was dressed in ragged brown, and wore a ragged gambeson and a set of paddled boots and gloves, a long, heavy staff, its tips studded with iron, rested laid in his lap. He was bald and sported a groomed, graying beard... as well as a weathered, faded blindfold, under which the corners of horrible facial scars were still visible... apparently this old man had some sort of authority over the hissing young man, as Motred swiftly placed his tongue 'hind his teeth at the old man's command... though none of this horseshite made any sense to Einar... there wasn't another soul in sight across the cleared acres before the outpost, they were obviously not here to enjoy the sights and sounds of a grunting mercenary hacking away at wood...

''I don't care for the egos of spoiled twats, and I don't care for whatever you might have to peddle, old man. So if you two don't fancy a brawl you'll sod off and let me keep at my work.'', to say Ein was grumpy would be... a sort of appropriate understatement.

[Belugnir]

Surprisingly enough, it seemed as the two considered listening to the mercenary for an instant, though that instant passed by swiftly, and Motred seemed as though he was about to keep on his bickering, but the old man was the quicker one to speak up.

''I trust nobody appreciates having their work interrupted... and I would have to ask you to excuse my squire's behavior, however I've a request for you... young master?''

It was horrid. Einar could have sworn he'd heard his late foster fathers speaking as an echo to this old man's calm and respectful tone... and on the outset, it appeared as though that was all it took to calm him down.

''Name's Einar.'', he nearly snorted, though his posture was relaxed at this point. ''If you've a mind to beg or rob a silver off of me, you'll either have to seek a greener pasture or wait 'till I'm done hauling this lumber to the black ones.''

The old man quirked a brow. ''Black ones? Is that what you call the Ebonstryfe?''

''If the pricks wore purple I'd have a different name for 'em. I don't fancy fancier words, old man. Now what the cock is it you want?''

Now the old man appeared amused, though without malice, rather, his amusement was of an endearing nature, fond of the spirit presented in this easily aggravated man.

''See, I am a Stryfer myself. A black one, as you say... and Motred here is an aspirant himself... I had a simple request in mind, to ask if you'd be willing to spar an ounce with my squire. You appear to be of similar spirit... though I'd have preferred if he'd let me speak to you first, instead of conducting such poor-mannered introduction as he did.''

At any comparison of himself to that overconfident little bastard, Einar openly spat in the old man's direction.

''I'll be petched right in the eyes if there's a thing between me and your squire worth comparing.'', Ein's angrily squinting gaze went from the old man to the younger bloke, mocking and taunting. ''What gives you the impression that I'd be any good for a spar anyways?'', he quickly returned his attention to the old man, as it appeared Motred had been well and properly hushed for the time being by the ongoing conversation... oddly enough, considering his first impression.

Ein very rarely tended to keep his weapon of choice out of reach, and as such, the old man gestured toward the pauldrons, gauntlets and the poleaxe that were laid beside where the mercenary had stacked up his cut firewood... which, naturally, folded Einar's frown into a pair of brows risen in confusion.

''I don't suppose you'd bear such arms if you hadn't an idea of how to use them... and you appear to work with the poise of one who aspires to refine the strength that hides within them. Frankly, I thought you'd welcome the proposal.'', the old man retained his casual tone. There was no enforced cryptic tone, no impression that he thought himself better than Einar, even though his words would have him assuming so... though that was not Ein's primary concern at this point.

[Belugnir]

''What I wanna know is why the blind man act if ye can see just proper, old sack? You take a giggle out of confusing folk?''

At this the old man gave a quiet breath of laughter, hooking a thumb under his blindfold and lifting the thing to his forehead. Underneath he revealed two gaping holes where his eyes ought to have been, surrounded by horrid scars of long since singed flesh... It was a morbid sight, and as sturdy as he thought himself to be, Einar felt a chill pass him by as the old man returned his blindfold into place.

''Trust me, lad, I am properly blind... but that was not what we were discussing... As I said, I would be thankful if you'd give my squire a... run for his money.'', as the mention of money left his lips, the old man produced a smirk, along with a small sack from which the clink of silver was aptly heard.

Now he had Einar's honest attention... albeit still skeptical. ''So you'll pay me to get beaten up by your brat? That it?''

''Why, not in the slightest, good fellow... Truthfully, I would say you are closer to me than my young master is, but I would prefer neither of you to take no offence from such assumptions. I shall pay you good coin to serve as a lesion for my young master, fight him as you would any other foe, though should you make an attempt at his life, I fear you'll be seeing no coin, and I would have to intervene... what am I saying, you seem a reasonable man, I shouldn't explain why it's a poor idea to injure the nobles of this city... anyway, do we have a deal?''

''And am I to not defend myself should that prick openly try to kill me?'', Einar had common sense to him, as often as it was overshadowed by an overwhelming anger... but he still wasn't sold on this idea, as much as he wished to have a chance at roughening up Motred.

The old man paused, turning his blind gaze toward his apprentice for a moment, before nodding to himself.

''Should the young master make attempt at your life, I shall vouch that you'll suffer no consequence should you injure him... or worse, in retaliation.''

At this, it was Einar's turn to conjure an overly amused, smug grin, and crack a proper laugh... something to which Motred could no longer abide, and so the noble rose his voice at his older master.

''Just who do you think you are, you stupid sla--'', he was aptly hushed by a graceful, silent, yet frighteningly purposeful swing of the old man's staff, one that came to rest the weapon's blunt end just in front of the young man's nose.

''Your father has sent me here to either break your temper into place or keep you away from sight for good, young master. You are well aware of the freedom I have in that regard. Should you attack a man mortally, you should be prepared to suffer the same fate at their hand. If you cannot learn that, then there is no point in either me, your father, or master Einar to waste our time with you. Now, brace up and mind yourself.''

Apparently Ravok housed more than arrogant pricks and spoiled brats... Einar's laughter was suspended with disbelief at the speed with which this loud and proud young bastard was brought to heel by an old, blind man... and he couldn't help but conjure a sense of respect for the old fart... as much as parts of him despised the memory of his foster fathers and self-assumed wise men... this one bald, bearded prick did seem to hold some greater purpose at heart. And it was inspiring, even though Einar wasn't properly aware of the thoughts swirling within his mind at that very moment...

''Alright, old man, you've bought me. I'll give your... young master a trashing.'', the odd mixture of amusement, suspense and irritation gave Einar's voice quite the peculiar and confusing tone... and one with which Motred wasn't happy with, though at this point it was apparent that the young man had very little choice in this matter... and it was even more apparent that he was hardly used to not having a say in matters.

[Belugnir]

The old man seemed horribly satisfied with how this whole ordeal was turning out, and was apparently not intimidated in the slightest by the young noble's supposed status, of which he'd known far more than Einar... The cock do I care anyway... Ein had left his hatchet to retrieve his poleaxe. His disdain for nobility and folk raised in houses of plenty was present, but cooled and quenched... so instead of frustration being guide and motive, it would only be fuel for what was to come.

Ein was for once placed in the seat of predator, at least so it seemed to him, and from his seat up high, he eyed a glaring weakness within the noble which he could exploit. The mercenary reached down for the chewed-down ball of cloth beside his feet, before tossing it over to the old man, who caught the thing as though he had proper eyes set on it the entire time... An odd bugger indeed, regardless, he would take the elderly staff-bearer off of his mind for the time being, his attention would now rest with the man's squire.

Motred was considerably younger than him, in the autumn of his teens... and if there was one thing that came with the fading of careless youth, it was uncertainty, fear, and a desperate need to hide them... Arrogant bravado was one of the extremes furthest from being openly aware of one's own weakness, and Motred seemed to fester with such a facade. Now, Ein was far from the most perceptive man alive, but as he watched the nobleman's posture while fitting on his gauntlets, he could conclude as much for one reason alone... because hiding fear and weakness behind a crude facade, a tough nut act, was something he'd done his entire life... I'll be petched, the old man was right.... at that point he found amusement in the fact, sooner than irritation.

It was a long while since Einar was allowed to gear up properly and mentally ready himself for a fight... the last occasion, if memory serves, was his last meeting with Rastmo, nearly two years back, while he still dwelt on Sahova... And as he did back then, he would use more than his armaments and weapons alone in combat.

As he fitted his first shoulder guard on, still eyeing Motred, who'd been forced to await him as he prepared, Einar also began to conjure the image of man-shaped flame within his mind, and banish the rest of his thoughts into the shadows it'd cast. And as his mind slowly cleansed itself of trivial thoughts lurking at the back of it, it would come to be a better catalyst for the energy that made the backbone of Einar's being, and so he would pull it to flow through, once more taking helm of the unrefined, abstract idea of one's soul and being partially converted into excessive weight and force within the world of matter. And so, as he'd finished strapping his last piece of armor over his right shoulder, he would also come to lay the usual, modest amount of djed within his lower body, mostly the calves of his legs, and the joints that bound them to his feet...

''Alright then, young master.'', the mercenary sneered cockily. ''Let us begin.''

[Belugnir]

Motred was considerably bewildered and it showed, for, unlike Einar, he had never had cause to learn and take command of his own frustration and channel them into purpose, as everything in his life until a recent point had been provided to him on a whim... Yet another weakness to exploit. He would easily succumb to an overwhelming assault, as any resistance he'd put up would be misguided and out of proper control... An opponent who felt endangered and uncertain of their own ability was indeed easy to simply charge and overthrow with merciless assault, and any delay would be more time for them to gain focus. So Ein took the initiative, more on instinct than observation.

Using the flux of djed within his legs for a single, decisive movement, Einar would extort the minor enhancement to the strength of his lower body to spring forward and add additional momentum as he'd charged from where he'd stood, several dozen paces away from his bracing opponent. After that initial boost, the laughable remnants of djed gathered within his legs would be allowed to disperse throughout his body as they'd normally flow, however Einar wouldn't loose hold of it, rather, as a shade of his mind became occupied by the matter of breathing out whenever the next leap in his charge was produced, another shade came to concern itself with collecting a new, watered down mist of djed into the general area of his torso, reaching lightly into his hips and shoulders as well. He was winded already from his errand of woodcutting, certainly, but that also meant his body was heated, responsive, made ready for a confrontation, even if his stamina had been considerably chipped by that time.

The nobleman, stood with both hands gripping his extended sword outward, appeared ever more uncertain, his stance shaken at the mercenary's nearly booming approach, as any a man's would be, when a bloke in a formidable suit of armor would come charging at them, baring the pike of a heavy poleaxe...

Seeing the apparent wavering in his opponent only encouraged Ein’s blundering advance. As he approached striking range, he would come to halt his charge whilst rotating and propelling his upper body forward, extorting the secondary minor burst of djed he'd gathered within his torso to enhance the impact behind extending his arms, which led a formidable thrust of his poleaxe forth. And though the execution of Einar's intent was far from masterful, the chaining of his movements being clunky and lacking composure, he had a considerable distance of ground and the minor aid of his Flux to build up momentum behind his charge and the thrust that it would build into, even as he somewhat awkwardly stopped to execute and discharge the force behind his assault...

Frankly, an experienced foe could have easily recognized all the glaring weaknesses of Einar's attack, for when one forced all their resources into such a careless offense, it would have been horribly easy to simply side-step the piercing charge and line up a counter-attack as Einar inevitably exposed himself to such due to not being able to stop his charge on time to change tactics... But against an inexperienced, and a foe inconvenienced by their own attitude toward the circumstances of the fight, it would be a devastating strategy, as Motred indeed froze in place, with a clumsy attempt at parrying the forceful thrust of Einar's poleaxe with his nimbler weapon...

[Belugnir]

The hammer end of Eein's poleaxe caught onto the young lord's blade as it came through, and with a frightful shove, Motred managed to guide the crude weapon and the force behind it aside, away from his shoulder where the pike of Ein's weapon would have otherwise struck, however, with poor footing and shoddily placed weight of his own body, Motred left himself off balance and with both of his hands clasping the handle of his own weapon, and such being displaced in the wake of Einar's passing poleaxe, there was nothing left between the stumbling Motred and the clunkily but formidably grounded Einar.

And so the mercenary revived his halted momentum by springing forward again, without any sort of inconvenience to bar his way as he'd moved to shove his right shoulder into Motred's chest, causing his weaker opponent to let go of his weapon and swiftly begin to stagger backwards with a promise of falling flat on his back, yet rather than let this happen, Einar instinctively attempted to hook his foe around the back with his weapon by swinging it around from its misplaced position so that the middle of its shaft struck bluntly at Motred's upper arm, and then Ein would pull his weapon toward him, hooking the side of the noble's torso along the way, guiding his staggered frame to come crumbling forward... and more importantly guiding his forehead clean into being struck by Einar's own, as the mercenary leaned in to headbutt his stunned opponent.

Indeed, if there were a single thing in which Einar stood above other men, it was the horrid thickness of his skull, in more ways than one... And so it was that Motred let out a painful yelp, as his vision was taken from him in a flash of pain that shot through his face and then through the rest of his body... at that point, a simple sideways shove of Einar's weapon and a light kick to the side of his knee was all it took to cause Motred to stumble and fall down helplessly and clumsily upon his side, holding both hands to his pained forehead.

[Belugnir]

What Einar had performed was no masterful feat of combat, but plainly acting on an advantage in sheer physical strength and combat experience that it was painfully obvious he had in comparison to the lad who hadn't two full decades in him yet. Ein pushed this advantage to the brim through sheer impulse and instinct, and yes, a touch of personal magic, for it was plain for even blind men to see, that no matter how much Motred might have 'studied' the blade from fancy texts, manuals and target practice, he'd never been forced to draw his sword on one capable of defending themselves...

Still, overly satisfied and horribly unaware of the lines he was crossing, Einar was far too satisfied with his stunning success to keep his mouth shut, and on top of this, he figured he'd give the little charlatan a taste of his own medicine, and so, circling his felled foe with his polearm in a relaxed one-handed grip, leaned upon his shoulder, with his free hand placed upon his hip in utter dismissal, Ein spoke up.

''My, one must come to wonder how long would a fellow be able to last anywhere outside of their ma's little palace, especially when they fancy sporting such utter incompetence...'', his tone was the best parody of dignified arrogance that he could produce... and he would push it so far as to turn his back on his beaten opponent, planning to put several paces of distance between them before readying up for another round, as he'd expected Motred will have more fight in him as soon as he'd stopped wailing from the smack he'd received on the noggin'... What Einar, of all people, did not expect, or rather severely underestimated, was the sudden strength and fierce drive that anger could produce... and anger was the only thing his taunting birthed from Motred's pain... and so with a ferocity that the mercenary should, by all means have at least expected, yet completely abandoned the care for, the bruised noble stood up on his feet, took hold of his discarded weapon, and came charging at Einar...

One wrathful grunt and the shudder of swift movement under chain mail was all the warning Einar received, and he'd barely had a breath of time to react, he turned around just in time to place the steel vambrace upon his left forearm in the way of Motred's wildly flung blade that would otherwise have landed clean across his cheek. The edge alignment would have been horribly off, still, a strike to the head by a sheet of steel would have been a potentially lethal thing, once again, Ein was saved from a moment of carelessness by an union of luck and solid reflex.

[Belugnir]

Reflex alone, however, would hardly save him from the maddened onslaught that Motred presented now. And having been caught off guard thanks to his moment of idiotic carelessness, Ein could just barely find the soundness of mind to place either a solid plate of steel upon his arms or the sturdy shaft of his poleaxe in front of Motred’s wildly flung sword… adding to this the fact that both men had poor footing and were unable to adjust it to achieve any sort of stance from which they could begin a thoughtful retaliation, the clumsy exchange of hatefully thrown sword strikes and awkwardly placed, almost panicked parries would ensue until finally Ein got struck on the inside of the fist that clutched his weapon… Had he not worn his full gauntlet for his swiftly heating spar, he’d have been a handful of fingers short now… instead what he would come to suffer was a horrible pain, swiftly growing into utter numbness, shooting throughout his right hand, and so his poleaxe was unhanded, and his frame exposed to assault, with a painful echo of his crude voice cracking across the meadow.

For the first time in his life, Motred would come to exploit the opening given to him by an exposed enemy, and, having swung his own weapon back for another zealous strike, he would swing just as Einar’s unhanded weapon was halfway through falling unto the ground, and so Motred’s sword came crashing into the mercenary’s undefended side… Undefended by intent, naturally, for there was still a coat of plates and the paddling beneath it in the way, so once again, what would otherwise had been a horrible, if not outright lethal injury, was reduced to a moderate, considerably painful inconvenience… and a potentially fractured rib… Though, now, as the spark of Motred’s pained anger began to wane, Einar’s had only been coaxed from slumber, nourished by the frustration of sudden powerlessness before a weaker opponent and the horrible pain the younger fellow had dished out to him.

[Belugnir]

With a guttural growl, more befitting of wounded hounds than of the throats of men, Einar brought his left arm down beside his body, encasing the blade that had struck him between his coat of plates and the thick paddling on the inner side of his arm, and would have gone so far as to maniacally grab hold of Motred’s sword just above the weapon’s guard, keeping the sword in place firmly, for with his own fit of rage paling before the one that now took wind of Einar, the nobleman had frozen yet again, it seemed to him as though the infuriated mercenary towered over him, and the fact that the man had mindlessly grabbed hold of his bladed weapon to keep him from swinging it any further only added to his reinvigorated fright… For whatever anger drove Motred a second ago, it was easily comparable to that of a petulant child, whereas Einar’s was something… deeper, overbearing, and though it would not have brought him any good against a sensible, versed opponent, the sight and proximity of it turned Motred as cold as stone, stopping the lad in his tracks.

Even as painful as it had been, Einar clasped a numb fist of his right hand, failing in his fit of anger, in the intent of conjuring any djed forth to accompany the punch that he’d shove into the stunned noble’s belly… the pain proceeded from his hand into his forearm, and all the way to the elbow, though Motred, on the receiving end of the punch, likely had it worse, his breathing was horribly off already thanks to his mindless flailing beforehand, and now, with one meaningful punch to the gut, the air had been pushed clear out of him, and he bent over like a cheap whore, letting go of his weapon yet again, both of his hands came together at his belly, allowing Einar to shove his own weight onto the blade he’d wrested from the lad, and shove the guard of Motred’s sword into the fellow’s side, practically using the sword as a lever with which he swung the freshly helpless man’s body around, hurling it, almost, to fall upon the ground.

Ein knew from his fathers’ preaching that one could grip the blade of a sword, especially one that wasn’t horribly sharpened, without outright getting yourself sliced up. Notably, the thick paddling of his glove and armor and the furiously firm grip that Ein got on the thing helped eliminate any fraction that might have occurred as he’d leveraged Motred around with the sword, though Ein hadn’t pondered any of it at the moment, frankly, the realization that he suffered no injury from manhandling an opponent’s sword so recklessly only fed into the sense of righteousness that came with barely bound anger in the midst of fighting… however, before he could properly acknowledge himself a victor and step forcefully on Motred’s side to keep him on the ground decisively, Ein would be met with a new hazard.