Blades(Open to all BT-members)

[DhaiMon]

Wind, shouts, the woods, a limp body, "some tavern wench and a lame drunkard did it", accusing eyes, accusing faces, accusing stares, Jos, Sandr, eyes, glazed, dead eyes-

Panting, Simmen woke, throwing his blanket off him. It was still mostly dark, and it seemed that Simmen had produced enough noise to wake up one of his neighbors. Through the darkness, that one glowered sullenly at Simmen, no doubt wanting to know why in the Light he had robbed him of his sound sleep and dreams.

Simmen did not really know himself. Ever since fleeing Horn's End, his dreams had been decidedly dark and murky, if he could remember them at all after waking up. Ofttimes he couldn't. He did not know whether to be thankful for that, or to be frightened.

Muttering angrily, the other fellow buried himself into his blankets again, trying to get some more sleep before the day fully began. Yesterday had been quite hard a day indeed.

 

Shortly after he had been done with his bath and had just finished putting on his new clothes- which seemed too wide for him -, the Attack Leader returned to take him to the inn. "Don't forget your belongings", he added, "You'll be shown to your place in the barracks right after that."

After hurrying to the inn- the downpour seemed to go on and rise in intensity endlessly -Arath took his leave, saying, "Need to be gone now. Your meal should be ready, just say your name and they'll bring it. After you're done, someone else will take care of you." He patted Simmen's shoulder. "Don't worry, lad, you'll do fine." With that, the Asha'man turned and was gone.

How can someone that stares pure death and is fated to go mad be so...friendly? Simmen still did not know the answer to that. Ladies take me, maybe I'm already mad myself to think him that...He shivered at that.

Going into the inn, he told one of the tavern maids his name and promptly received his meal. It wasn't too much, and usually would have been called barely lukewarm- for Simmen, though, who had had to feast on raw flesh and cold, shrunk fruit for Old Duke knew how long it was hot, delicious, a feast.

Right after he was done, he flinched when someone suddenly tapped him on the arm. He was too oblivious in cleaning up the plate and emptying the mug of barely warm tea in front of him to notice much else. Turning around, another black-coat stood there, small of size but broad. He did not wear any pins, just the same as Simmen.

"There you are, then", the man said in a brisk, faster-than-usual way. "Name's Simmen, right? Go get your things and follow me, I'll show you to your spot."

Taking up his possessions, Simmen followed the man through the winter storm. Their destination was a huge pile of a building, which had to be one of these "barracks". Inside, the barracks was one huge room, with beds against the walls and in front of those chests, doubtless meant for storing things away. Beds and chests, they did not fit together at all: Some of the beds were two-storied, some broad and somewhat elaborate, some so worn and old it was unlikely that they still would offer any comfort at all. Much the same went for the chests: some seemed to have been spirited away from a well-to-do merchant, others were a pile of rust and half-rotten wood.

The man pointed Simmen to one of those beds, telling him to leave his things there for the time being. "It's drilling time now, Soldier. Come along."

After some time, Simmen found himself on a wide, empty field, usually a pasture he guessed, which now was covered with ice and snow. The steady torrent of snowflakes still would not waver. He stood in line with other men-in-black, all without pins. Some of them he knew from the recruits that had arrived together with himself, at least as far as looks went. On the whole, it seemed that men from every end of the world were gathered there: Some were tall, others stunted, some dark, black-haired, others bright and blond. They all were stirring in one way or another- some doubtless worrying what would come next, yet others seemed to be...anticipating something- whatever that "something" was.

Finally, a man-in-black as broad as he was tall came out of the never-ending torrent and strode past the lot of them. As far as Simmen could see, he only had a sword-pin at his throat. Passing him, he thought he heard him mutter something along the lines of, "So that do be the replacements?" That in tones of wonder and...resignation? Replacements for what?, Simmen half thought to ask before he could rein in himself.

After Silver-Sword was done with his inspection, he planted himself in front of them, and let his instructions pour over them: They "do be the lousiest lot he did ever see", and were it for him, they all would be sent on their way home. "Since you do be all I got to work with, though", he continued in a somewhat soothing tone, "let me see what you do be made of. Run around the Farm a half a hundred times, and do return to the spot here."

For a long time, it went on like that, even though the snow still fell and the light started to fail. Simmen thought that after that long a run he would collapse and not be capable of anything else that day. There came more, though. He ordered the lot of them to sprint from one end of the field to the other and back, demanded them to contort themselves into every which kind of absurd position, and finally ordered them to line up in formation. Finally, when they were arranged in some sort of order, Simmen truly did feel ready to fall over in a heap right where he stood, to be embraced by snow and Creator-blessed sleep right there. Vaguely, he saw that others did not fare too much better, but there were those that still seemed as steady as before. Beyond that, Simmen wasn't capable of too much thought.

The instructor, from somewhere south, Simmen thought, judging by his tone, strode past the lines of "Soldiers"- he had always addressed them as such, and Simmen did notice the "S" in that -once more, either just nodding in approval, shaking his head or talking to one of his charges in low tones.

When Silver-Sword passed Simmen, he stopped for a while, silent. Then, he said: "Lad, do know, you do have potential, I do see that. You ever did take up some weapon?"

Simmen's lungs felt leaden and he had to struggle to breathe. Still, Simmen managed to reply- somehow. "B-bow, sir...as...child..." Coughing and sneezing at the same time, Simmen couldn't stand straight anymore and doubled over. Silver-Sword caught him.

"Bow, that do be it? Anywhere else, I would have put you behind a pike, lad." He barked a laugh, and told the other "Soldiers" to go, and that they would be receiving their swords on the morrow. Finishing that, he grabbed Simmen by the shoulders and let heat flood through Simmen, so hot in all the cold that it came as a shock. As quick as that, it ended, and Simmen felt numbness and the cold all the more. Despite that, he didn't have to constantly fight down a sneeze anymore, at least.

"Fortune prick me, you will no be dying of a cold with me here, lad.", Silver-Sword said. "You do be dismissed for today, feel free to either go get yourself some drink, or do get some sleep if you want. Tomorrow, you do be going to receive your blade and practice in it from some Soldier, Martyn Stonebridge do be the name. You do be getting directions once the Creed and Morning Directives do be done. Do hurry up now, before I need to Heal you again." The instructor barked another laugh, and with that pushed Simmen on his way.

 

So now, Simmen lay awake, not able to sleep although he wanted to, staring at the ceiling above him. When finally a door opened and some three black-coats, two without pins, one with a sword-pin, strode in to rouse the bone-weary Soldiers, Simmen immediately got up and dressed. During the Creed, again something about "losses" was mentioned, and guidance asked of the Light to let "disaster never happen again". Simmen started to have a foreboding feeling as to what was meant by "losses". He could not dwell too long on it, though. The Morning Directives were curt and quickly done: Simmen as well as other "new" Soldiers were told to follow Martyn Stonebridge, a man as tall as Simmen in his middle years, with a build that spoke of strength. He did not waste too much time and strode away to where he was supposed to hand out swords to them. While he turned around, Simmen caught a short glimpse of his eyes.

Something was odd about them. Although he couldn't put his finger down on what exactly that was.

[Jehaine]

Martyn looked at the latest recruits, taking a deep breath while replaying the events that had gotten him in this position. There had been the battle in Shienar, a battle he himself had fought in. Casualties were high after no less than two of the Forsaken had joined in, and as a result the Black Tower now had a shortage in teachers. Thus, having previous experience leading troops, he was ordered to lend a hand and see if the new recruits were any good with a weapon.

 

- "Right. I am Martyn Stonebridge, and i will be teaching you about weapons today. You will all pick a weapon that feels right to you, that emphasizes your strengths -- and more importantly makes up for your weaknesses. It is said that you can tell a lot about a man based on the weapon he carries, and i can assure you there is truth in this. Now, let us begin."

 

From the way he stood, it was hard to deny his military background, his voice sounding used to giving orders. He had trained the militia in Kore Springs for roughly ten years in much the same way, turning them from farmboys into a properly trained and organised militia that stood ready mere minutes after an alarm was given. It felt good training recruits again, it brought up memories of before that accursed battle, when his main concern had simply been hiding his tracks from his family.

 

But still, memories were memories, and he dismissed that train of thought in favor of concentrating on the latest bunch of recruits in front of him. Some had held a weapon before, others hadn't, and he did his best to guide those that needed it to a weapon he believed to be a decent choice. If he would be wrong, well, there would be plenty of time left to switch to another weapon before the introductionary classes were over.

 

 

Martyn

Just like old times...

[DhaiMon]

OOC: Feel free to post anything you like, people, whether it is merely noticing the troupe of Soldiers marching past, pointing out what sort of greenhorns the lot of them are or watching them or one of them in particular train.  ;)

 

IC:Through the "Farm", which bustled as much as any fully-fledged village- Simmen was startled to actually see women and children; who had brought them here? -now that yesterday's winter storm had ended, Stonebridge brought them to what looked like an armory, and as he had promised, all sorts of weapons were arrayed there on racks, not only swords, but from clubs to warhammers, from short swords to two-handers, from hatchets to battle-axes, quarterstaffs to broad-headed spears about anything could be found there. The state of these were just as varied as the weapons themselves were different from each other.

Some of the Soldiers went straight for one weapon or another. Most chose the sword, and drew the blade with something that at times very much looked like awe- and pride. Simmen had heard the talk among some of his fellow "Soldiers"; some dreamed about glory, about making "da' " and "the Lord Dragon" proud by slaying the Father of the Night himself, fancied themselves to be the heroes of the legends told in ages to come.

Simmen was disgusted by these: They actually chose to come here for fame? They abandoned their homes, their families, their former lives to come here and go mad on their own accord? That instead of trying to seclude themselves to some spot where they couldn't harm anyone?

It was different for Simmen. He knew very well why he had come here, knew that there was no home to turn back to- he cut off that thought before he reached too dangerous ground there. He also knew that he owed Horn's End at least something more than to just crawl into a hole and die. He owed his parents, wherever they might be, whether they were alive or dead. He owed the world.

Not all of the recruits were such obvious goats. A precious few, mostly older fellows, went straight for this and that weapon of choice, immediately starting into what seemed an elaborate dance to Simmen. Whereas some of the younger fools clashed and dashed every which way, those men knew what they were about. They did what they did with something akin to...order, as if following the rhythm of some music only they could hear. In a way, it fascinated Simmen. Somehow, he thought it useless, though.

With the ability to channel, why did they need to bother with this? What by the Old Duke is the point?

Suddenly, Simmen realized that he was about the last one left to not have taken up any weapon. He knew all too well why: Beyond his miniature short bow (if that even counted), he had never touched any other weapon in his life, barring a hunting bow that one of the huntsmen of his village would let him try and shoot with, and that he couldn't manage to even draw. He eyed one of the swords, one that was worse for wear, covered with rust. He couldn't make himself take it up, though. He felt lost.

[Jehaine]

Martyn watched as the recruits picked their weapons. Most picked swords, it seemed that hadn't changed much over the past couple of decades. Resisting the urge to smirk, he remembered that the weapon he had chosen at the time had been a sword as well. He had been sixteen at the time, it felt like half an Age had passed since that time...

 

Still, he shook himself out of his reminiscence, there would be plenty of time for recalling ancient memories later. Right now, he had a class to teach, and it seemed some of the Soldiers were having a bit of trouble trying to pick a good one. He stepped forward, helping some of them pick a weapon that felt right to them for reasons other than 'me da used to have one too'. And so, he ended up standing next to Simmen, one of the newer recruits if he read that lost look correctly.

 

- "So... Need help picking a weapon, or are you just a bit lost on where to start?"

 

He smiled, guessing the reason Simmon was unable to pick a weapon was simple inexperience. Back in his day, the sheer amount of weapons he was supposed to pick one from had seemed almost overwhelming if he hadn't already gotten some sword training from his father at the time. To someone that hadn't, he could understand how it could seem a little intimidating, it wouldn't have been the first time he had seen it happen.

 

 

Martyn

Not a psychiatrist

[DhaiMon]

Thoughts were still whirling inside Simmen's skull; potential madman cursed with the power to break the world he might be, but certainly those that were his superiors now had a very sensible reason for this exercise.

Or did they?

There were many stories of men doomed to channel, madmen thinking themselves powerful enough to carve out their own kingdoms, to proclaim themselves the Dragon returned, or stark raving mad enough to destroy all around them for no apparent reason, to even fight once the Ladies came over them as a storm would, to scour them from the face of the earth. Even then some of those fought, according to the stories, with blade and bare hands-

"So... Need help picking a weapon, or are you just a bit lost on where to start?"

Simmen flinched at that, unaware of his instructor stopping next to him at first. You're a soldier now, the realization came to him then. Soldiers don't do the thinking.

"Might be, good sir", he replied, stiffly formal, at the same time grabbing the blade he had eyed. Casually touching the edge, he saw that it was as blunt as any rusted razor. As sharp. Despite being quite short and slender, it did possess quite some weight, which seemed almost ludicrous to Simmen as he eyed the swift motions of some of the more seasoned Soldiers going through their motions and stances.

"...Instructor..." He paused, fixing the worn edge of the blade once more. "It's best if you show me how to make use of this, I...don't know how to meself..."

[Jehaine]

Martyn nodded, saying nothing as he let Simmen pick a weapon. He noticed him looking in the direction of some of the more seasoned Soldiers that were already going through some forms they had picked up Light knows where, and guessed what was the source of the man's reluctance even before he voiced his thoughts.

 

- "Don't worry about it, it's what i'm here for. Wouldn't be much of a class if everyone here knew how to hold a sword after all, now would it?"

 

He smiled again, looking at the blade he was holding. It was covered in rust, and likely hadn't seen a whetstone in several months, having him make a mental note to talk about how to treat their weapons outside of combat later on, at the end of their lesson. As there would be no Trollocs showing up here in Andor, it wouldn't matter much for this lesson. He walked back to the middle of the grounds, raising his voice to speak after a greeting that was meant to have them quiet down.

 

- "Greetings, Soldiers of the Black Tower. ... I know most of you are wondering why you are here training in regular weapons when you came here to learn how to channel. The reason is actually quite simple. What we aim to train is your concentration, your ability to stay focused while still paying attention to your surroundings. Some may recall this as being the Flame and the Void, but it's no shame if you haven't. Also, should you ever get stuck in a situation where channeling isn't an option, you will be glad you had these lessons. Now, each of you will come to me and try to hit me, and i will divide you into one of three groups based on your skill."

 

As he spoke those last words, he slowly drew his own katana from its sheath. The weapon was old, it had been his when he became a soldier making it over a century old, but good care had kept it in good shape. The haft and handle had of course been replaced due to wear several times already in the past seventy years or so, but the blade itself remained the same one he had started his soldiering career with.

 

He waited for the first student to approach, the smirk on his face tempting them to try to hit him. It hadn't been the first time he had used this little trick, it had become a sort of hazing ritual to new militia recruits who thought they were good with a blade. It would be interesting to see how well these people fared...

 

 

Martyn

Ran out of bubble gum

[DhaiMon]

"Don't worry about it, it's what i'm here for. Wouldn't be much of a class if everyone here knew how to hold a sword after all, now would it?"

Simmen slowly looked up, his level with Stonebridge's eyes for a moment. The look the man gave spoke of mirth, and...somehow, they had a familiar depth to them. They reminded him of Sandr's, in an odd way.

As quick as that, he let his thoughts shift again, was fully aware of the sword's weight dragging his arm down.

 

... I know most of you are wondering why you are here training in regular weapons when you came here to learn how to channel. The reason is actually quite simple. ...

So he knows about the little use of this, Simmen thought, while listening to the instructor's speech.

... Some may recall this as being the Flame and the Void, but it's no shame if you haven't. ...

What by the Duke is the "Flame and Void", now? Whatever it was, he was still strangely familiar with its results...Aim, draw, loose...It did sound familiar, for a wonder. He guessed the man was right about the usefulness of it all as well, in the end. But why would the man let his charges hit him?

 

Whatever the reason, many of the other trainees launched themselves at him after he'd given his instructions. Others had mind enough to wait. They foolishly charged at him, like some fool bull, and didn't get anywhere with it. Stonebridge used his slighty curved sword with expert skill, easily parrying the boys' strokes with his blade or simply dodging them. The greater fools would continue in this manner, trying to run Stonebridge over as if the man would stay still before them. Quite quickly, they were panting from the exertion. Others had more sense, and learned, slowly probing the instructor's defense after their first attempts.

Lastly, Simmen decided that it would be his turn when none of those around him would step forward. Carefully lifting his one-handed blade, he cautiously stepped forward, slowly, circling Stonebridge. His teacher did not seem to be too exhausted, and his weapon had a greater reach, Simmen could clearly see that.

There's no other way, Simmen thought, resigned. Sighing, he launched himself at the man, as if trying to strike straight ahead. His "plan", if it even was one, was to cut sideways at the very last instant. He did not think it would take him aback. He hoped that it would count for something, though.

 

OOC: Minor corrections. I "though" too much. :S

[Jehaine]

As the number of students that were not yet divided into groups started to dwindle, Martyn suppressed the urge to grin. Though he hadn't mentioned it, the true purpose of the exercise was convince his students that they weren't half as good as they thought they were, and filter out the ones that were aware of this fact from the group. They would help him with the other students later on.

 

The next person stepped up, and in the Void he recalled the man mentioning he had been inexperienced with a blade. The thought of going easy on him didn't even occur to him however. The man was a student like everyone else, and there would be nothing to gain from playing favorites. He watched Simmen try to circle him, making mental notes about his stance, tactics and movements. He had a good eye for weapons however, judging by how he picked his tactics. There were quite a few students who had simply stormed in without properly assessing their chances already, and Simmen showed some potential in that area despite his inexperience, making him a welcome change. Reading his feint correctly, Simmen's charge was dodged and easily countered with a trip that sent the man hitting the ground.

 

- "Group one. You have a good eye for this though."

 

The words came out a bit emotionless as all things did in while he was wrapped in the Void. He was simply assessing every student for potential and skill, nothing more, nothing less. After a while, the last student ended up with a blade at his throat and walked towards the group he had been assigned to. Martyn turned around, looking at the results. Not many people in the third group today, it seemed, though it would be enough.

 

- "Right. On the tables there are wooden lathes for training. I want everyone to get a lathe matching the weapon they picked, after which the people of Group three will spar each other while groups one and two are watching. Try to learn from what you're seeing people, it really does help to have an idea of what you're training to become."

 

After the sparring battles, where every student in the third group fought three matches, he moved on to the second stage of his class. Two of the most skilled students from group three would assist himself in teaching the second group, while the other students from group three would be teaching the first group the basics of combat. Martyn would of course be keeping an eye on the first group as well, but having other students help him meant he didn't need to spread his attention to everyone at once, enabling him to increase the effectiveness of class.

 

 

Martyn

Sparring time people!

[DhaiMon]

Into the dirt Simmen went. Been clear as hens' eggs...Simmen tried to struggle from the ground again, trying to wipe away the grimy, white slosh covering his coat.

"Group one. You have a good eye for this though."

The tone of that...utterly cold, colder than the winter air. Simmen turned to the instructor, wiping away the last of the less notorious snow mud. Had death had a face, Stonebridge's it would have been. Emotionless, distant, blade-arm casually at his side. The same knowing eyes were set into that face- knowledgeable of life? Of dealing death? Both?

 

Old Duke...Simmen shuddered, and obeyed the order. Good, Ol' Duke..., the thought numbly went through his head when he saw the blade at the last student's throat again. He shivered again. Not for the cold.

 

"Right. On the tables there are wooden lathes for training. I want everyone to get a lathe matching the weapon they picked, after which the people of Group three will spar each other while groups one and two are watching. Try to learn from what you're seeing people, it really does help to have an idea of what you're training to become."

Simmen replaced his sword on the rack- holding the thing had begun to ache in earnest, and Simmen thought that likely he would have a fine nice cramp from it. On top of all those that he had had the day before when he finally dropped into bed.

He took one of the sticks that more or less equaled the shortsword in size, and waited attentively, thankful for the light weight of the wooden weapon, nearly empty of thought, watching one sparring duel or the other.

 

Likely most of them could send me to the ground like some fool goat getting ripped by a wolf as easily as the instructor did.

 

Some of...Group 3?...came to his group, as was directed by Stonebridge.

Let them have their fun with me, then, I guess. With that, Simmen sighed, waiting for one of those to approach him.

 

OOC: Keep 'em coming, Jehaine. :) Else, I think this would be a nice possibility to join in now for y'all others, y'hear? *nods*

 

;)

 

EDIT: Deleted the quote-box in the post for more aesthetic look...I need to go to bed. Take a shower first. *grumbles* signed January ninth, 2009

 

EDIT THE SECOND: Added some further content when pointed out by Jehaine. :D signed January 12th, 2009(yes, it's a new day, in the middle of the night...)