Post by The Blade's Shadow on Jan 1, 2014 18:06:31 GMT -5
The familiar crack sounds and their bodies spring into action, dancing around and across one another with nothing but the screech of steel on steel to give away their tireless activity. Left meets right and a misplaced foot, even if only by a millimeter, gives away a weakness. Muscle memory computes every single twitch either of them make while they both look for that one hole, that one slip to let this vicious dance come to an end.
And they've done this all before, hour after agonizing hour until one of the two slips ahead and they can stop this maddening, sickening, dance of assured destruction. A flying dagger skitters around a head, deflected mid-step as they both take a moment to breathe. They're ragged, countless hours lost under the strict tutelage of a man who expects no less than perfection from them.
The two halves of this whole meet and part with dangerous fluidity, each of them knowing the other ten and twenty steps ahead and down thirty different paths. The ground is nothing more than a resting place for them both, spending more of their time moving over it, no more a hardwood floor then a simple admission of defeat. Every moment spent on it is checked.
The spray of sparks and sweat rise and fall like some madman's symphony, written in the numbing tones of disharmonious, groaning metal and punctuated by the occasional grunt or exhalation that proves to their teacher just how utterly exhausted they both are. Footsteps come heavier to them, pounding on the unyielding flooring below as they finally come to rest from their aerial perch.
Gasping for breath, their blades cross once more and stay there, long enough to share a feverish look while the ground dampens from their sweat. They both hear the word to part but neither will back down. One hand holds pride, a steady meal and a sense of worth while the other clutches a need to prove their skill and a fearless sense of superiority. Words are exchanged in a growled whisper between the two as their ideals clash ferociously, hissed at a volume that defies audibility for the other to just let go.
The word comes again, this time with nothing more than disappointment for their warring pride. Still, they remain locked in heated combat, trading markedly sloppy blows due to their fatigue. The blades meet and scream out at one another louder than any threat or boast ever could, until finally, the larger of the two falters the tiniest bit. The sudden flash of liquid red gives the failing a definite permanence, the tiniest of flinches caused by the crimson spray that matched the victor's fiery locks.
Both of them know what the otherwise superficial cut means but neither move, both flush, one with victory and the other with shame. The word came again and it was only then that the pair finally managed to complete the request, though the sizzle of pain as the shortblade left the man's chest filled the room with an all-too-audible hiss of irritation.
"I guess he really doesn't have it in him, father." Whispers the victor. The words burn while the blood trickling floor-bound cools the body in its own way. Everything had come to this and it was yet another in a growing line of disappointments. Another notch in a belt that was not meant for him. It was a monster that grew larger and more malevolent with every off-handed remark the red-headed woman made.
Defeated, he returns to his quarters and dresses the slim cut across his chest without so much as a second glance, washing the exertion away when his ministrations are done. As he raises a bucket of water over his head and unceremoniously douses his frame to wash away the soap, he gives a quiet sigh, the first noise he's made since he left the training hall. There was never a need to steal soap before, hardly even to bathe with regularity. This whole home was a foreign concept to him.
The bucket meets the ground with the lack of grace he was so accustomed to. Fingers crisscross his chest swiftly, then his arms and shoulders, recounting every faint line he'd accrued since he came into this opulent home, each of them from that woman. He had sworn servitude but to be nothing more than a conveniently mobile training dummy was an insult to everything he had made himself before this.
Somewhere below the roiling spite at his new station, he knew his anger at her was unfounded. Just as he did, she too wanted to prove herself more capable. That did not stop the mire of unpleasantness from following him to the meal they would all share later that day. It kept his mouth shut even then, as he watched the family before him converse as though he did not even exist. It suited him fine.
Once his meal had finished and he had dealt with his mess, making absolutely certain to clean it himself, waving away any intrepid servants seeking to gain favor. From there, he returned immediately to the training hall and flung himself back into his routine. Time was lost on him while he tore through each mechanical process, desperate for the tiniest bit of progress. Each step was sloppier than the last, each miss made his irritation swell.
Hours passed that way, until he was doing nothing more than sitting with his back to the wall, sucking air in desperately, lungs burning and body dripping with sweat. There he sat until his lungs stopped begging for air, interrupted by the sound of a door swinging open. His gaze hurried up from the floor and landed on the object of his ire, though his outward reaction was muted from exhaustion.
"Talon?" Came her question, though hearing her questioning him burned, as if she were asking what he was doing here, practicing. His tired form stood and brandished his weapon, sliding snugly into the armbands and gripping the handle as a lifeline. Her question came again, met with an immediate, snarling request. He was going to right this or die, just like it should have always been.
She wisely obliged; she wouldn't have really been given a chance, the fire of hatred burning hot enough to force her hand. With blades in hand, they began anew, the same dance from the day before. He discarded with the pretense of being gentle or of practicing, attacking her with the ferocity of a cornered animal.
The metal screeched in agony between them every strike, the red-headed woman bring driven back by the deadly intensity of the man. She demanded he calm down though it only served to make him angrier. She dispensed with pleasantries and with words out of necessity, the number of barely deflected blows beginning to add up, blood marring their attire and the floor, more of it hers than his.
They escalated back and forth, the both of them now tired but unflinching, neither of them willing to back down even an inch. The rest of the world was distant and lost to them, the constant roaring adrenaline in their bodies their only concern anymore. He'd never felt more alive than now, with everything on the line, testing himself, testing everything he was and had ever been.
It all happened quicker than most could've followed. Another wound marred the man's body, this one far more dangerous than the last, the broad dagger sinking point-first into his shoulder without so much as a noise. To her, it was victory, a chance to relax, they weren't enemies. This was all that was necessary.
Not for him. A few steps covered the distance between them both and the wall, unrestrained rage obvious on the man's shadowed face. Bleeding from another of her blades, this time his stomach, he didn't relent, restraining her against the wall as he bled. He put words to the fury on his face, nose to nose with the woman, the point of his armblade threatening to steal her breath away with no more than a twitch.
"This is my life. This is everything I am. Each failure I endure should see me dead, just as yours now should see you bleeding out in a gutter." He rasped, eyes attempting to burn through hers. He didn't see fear in them, but understanding. Quiet, resolved understanding. He wanted to say more, wanted to tear her down, rip the woman's very life apart, but that look of understanding spoke volumes, quieted him. It was all he wanted.
His weapon lowered but he didn't release her, savoring that look for as long as he could. She was the first person he had taken to the verge of death and not simply killed. It was liberating, enlightening. The only noise that punctuated their closeness was the soft pattering of his blood falling to the floor and the quiet panting that passed between them.
Memories beyond that disappeared into a fog of crushing fatigue, the intensity of their training in combination with blood loss stealing away whatever happened next from being etched into his mind. It was enough that she knew, even if he couldn't. He had gained something from all of this. A rival? A friend? Something else, something more? They were all ideas that while understood, were foreign and uncomfortable, at face value. Confusion to sort through with another dance, on another date.
And they've done this all before, hour after agonizing hour until one of the two slips ahead and they can stop this maddening, sickening, dance of assured destruction. A flying dagger skitters around a head, deflected mid-step as they both take a moment to breathe. They're ragged, countless hours lost under the strict tutelage of a man who expects no less than perfection from them.
The two halves of this whole meet and part with dangerous fluidity, each of them knowing the other ten and twenty steps ahead and down thirty different paths. The ground is nothing more than a resting place for them both, spending more of their time moving over it, no more a hardwood floor then a simple admission of defeat. Every moment spent on it is checked.
The spray of sparks and sweat rise and fall like some madman's symphony, written in the numbing tones of disharmonious, groaning metal and punctuated by the occasional grunt or exhalation that proves to their teacher just how utterly exhausted they both are. Footsteps come heavier to them, pounding on the unyielding flooring below as they finally come to rest from their aerial perch.
Gasping for breath, their blades cross once more and stay there, long enough to share a feverish look while the ground dampens from their sweat. They both hear the word to part but neither will back down. One hand holds pride, a steady meal and a sense of worth while the other clutches a need to prove their skill and a fearless sense of superiority. Words are exchanged in a growled whisper between the two as their ideals clash ferociously, hissed at a volume that defies audibility for the other to just let go.
The word comes again, this time with nothing more than disappointment for their warring pride. Still, they remain locked in heated combat, trading markedly sloppy blows due to their fatigue. The blades meet and scream out at one another louder than any threat or boast ever could, until finally, the larger of the two falters the tiniest bit. The sudden flash of liquid red gives the failing a definite permanence, the tiniest of flinches caused by the crimson spray that matched the victor's fiery locks.
Both of them know what the otherwise superficial cut means but neither move, both flush, one with victory and the other with shame. The word came again and it was only then that the pair finally managed to complete the request, though the sizzle of pain as the shortblade left the man's chest filled the room with an all-too-audible hiss of irritation.
"I guess he really doesn't have it in him, father." Whispers the victor. The words burn while the blood trickling floor-bound cools the body in its own way. Everything had come to this and it was yet another in a growing line of disappointments. Another notch in a belt that was not meant for him. It was a monster that grew larger and more malevolent with every off-handed remark the red-headed woman made.
Defeated, he returns to his quarters and dresses the slim cut across his chest without so much as a second glance, washing the exertion away when his ministrations are done. As he raises a bucket of water over his head and unceremoniously douses his frame to wash away the soap, he gives a quiet sigh, the first noise he's made since he left the training hall. There was never a need to steal soap before, hardly even to bathe with regularity. This whole home was a foreign concept to him.
The bucket meets the ground with the lack of grace he was so accustomed to. Fingers crisscross his chest swiftly, then his arms and shoulders, recounting every faint line he'd accrued since he came into this opulent home, each of them from that woman. He had sworn servitude but to be nothing more than a conveniently mobile training dummy was an insult to everything he had made himself before this.
Somewhere below the roiling spite at his new station, he knew his anger at her was unfounded. Just as he did, she too wanted to prove herself more capable. That did not stop the mire of unpleasantness from following him to the meal they would all share later that day. It kept his mouth shut even then, as he watched the family before him converse as though he did not even exist. It suited him fine.
Once his meal had finished and he had dealt with his mess, making absolutely certain to clean it himself, waving away any intrepid servants seeking to gain favor. From there, he returned immediately to the training hall and flung himself back into his routine. Time was lost on him while he tore through each mechanical process, desperate for the tiniest bit of progress. Each step was sloppier than the last, each miss made his irritation swell.
Hours passed that way, until he was doing nothing more than sitting with his back to the wall, sucking air in desperately, lungs burning and body dripping with sweat. There he sat until his lungs stopped begging for air, interrupted by the sound of a door swinging open. His gaze hurried up from the floor and landed on the object of his ire, though his outward reaction was muted from exhaustion.
"Talon?" Came her question, though hearing her questioning him burned, as if she were asking what he was doing here, practicing. His tired form stood and brandished his weapon, sliding snugly into the armbands and gripping the handle as a lifeline. Her question came again, met with an immediate, snarling request. He was going to right this or die, just like it should have always been.
She wisely obliged; she wouldn't have really been given a chance, the fire of hatred burning hot enough to force her hand. With blades in hand, they began anew, the same dance from the day before. He discarded with the pretense of being gentle or of practicing, attacking her with the ferocity of a cornered animal.
The metal screeched in agony between them every strike, the red-headed woman bring driven back by the deadly intensity of the man. She demanded he calm down though it only served to make him angrier. She dispensed with pleasantries and with words out of necessity, the number of barely deflected blows beginning to add up, blood marring their attire and the floor, more of it hers than his.
They escalated back and forth, the both of them now tired but unflinching, neither of them willing to back down even an inch. The rest of the world was distant and lost to them, the constant roaring adrenaline in their bodies their only concern anymore. He'd never felt more alive than now, with everything on the line, testing himself, testing everything he was and had ever been.
It all happened quicker than most could've followed. Another wound marred the man's body, this one far more dangerous than the last, the broad dagger sinking point-first into his shoulder without so much as a noise. To her, it was victory, a chance to relax, they weren't enemies. This was all that was necessary.
Not for him. A few steps covered the distance between them both and the wall, unrestrained rage obvious on the man's shadowed face. Bleeding from another of her blades, this time his stomach, he didn't relent, restraining her against the wall as he bled. He put words to the fury on his face, nose to nose with the woman, the point of his armblade threatening to steal her breath away with no more than a twitch.
"This is my life. This is everything I am. Each failure I endure should see me dead, just as yours now should see you bleeding out in a gutter." He rasped, eyes attempting to burn through hers. He didn't see fear in them, but understanding. Quiet, resolved understanding. He wanted to say more, wanted to tear her down, rip the woman's very life apart, but that look of understanding spoke volumes, quieted him. It was all he wanted.
His weapon lowered but he didn't release her, savoring that look for as long as he could. She was the first person he had taken to the verge of death and not simply killed. It was liberating, enlightening. The only noise that punctuated their closeness was the soft pattering of his blood falling to the floor and the quiet panting that passed between them.
Memories beyond that disappeared into a fog of crushing fatigue, the intensity of their training in combination with blood loss stealing away whatever happened next from being etched into his mind. It was enough that she knew, even if he couldn't. He had gained something from all of this. A rival? A friend? Something else, something more? They were all ideas that while understood, were foreign and uncomfortable, at face value. Confusion to sort through with another dance, on another date.
