Out of Character:
The wind touched the treetops of the great forest Concordia, pushing boughs in gentle circles, whistling through insect hollowed trunks, rattling skeletal branches. It eddied and swirled against the brick buildings of Underwood, moaned and growled in chimneys, fanning the flames of morning fires ignited by early risers. The wind gained power as it regrouped outside the city proper, lancing through the forest of tents and wooden outbuildings that housed the ever-growing ranks of the Watch. Past the defensive military ring and into the forest, the wind drifted lazily along a root strewn path until it ruffled the mane of a short gelding. The horse awoke from its slumber and whinnied softly, standing beneath a canvas awning which hung from the lower branches of a tall yew tree.
Lifting one iron-shod hoof, the gelding swiped gently at the small leather tent which shared its awning, shaking the spindly structure.
"Hold your hooves, Gunner!" The occupant called to his steed, rustling the tent from within. "Can't a man get a moments lie-in?" A slim long-fingered hand showing swordsman's calluses crept out the canvas flap and unhooked several clasps. The flap fell away, and Jacob Narmolanya unfolded his lanky frame from within, wearing only a pair of brown sifan breeches. The youth stood only as tall as Gunner's shoulders, and Gunner was not a large horse by any standard, but a recent growth spurt had increased the length and power of Jacob's limbs considerably. He reached up and slid several heavy woolen blankets off the gelding's back, draping them across some low hanging branches and doing several deep squats to loosen his legs. Finishing with the blankets, he remained crouched and reached into the tent, producing a small iron pot and a handful of kindling. Building a grid in the shallow pit he’d dug several nights earlier, Jake thrust a handful of tinder amidst the thin branches, and ignited it with a snap of his fingers. The flames sprang into being for him as fast as thought. Banking several heavier branches around the merry little blaze, he patted Gunner on the snout. “You guard the camp, right?” Jake said, then turned and trotted toward the nearest stream, wire handled pot rattling in one hand.
The grass and moss massaged the soles of his feet, sore from days of practicing hard with the sword, and conditioning in the forest. It was the first day without a frost on the ground, the first day he did not wear his boots on the morning water run. Jake had a jug in his tent, but he preferred fresh water and the walk gave him a chance to loosen up. Always exercising, always being warm and ready to run or fight, was paramount in Joshua Cronen’s training program. The legendary martial artist had accepted Jacob as one of his closest students, brutal but effective teaching methods accelerating the youth’s fighting ability with the sword as well as with hands and feet. Jake knelt on a mattress of brown and green next to the burbling stream’s edge, filled his pot and drank deeply. Breaker, as many of Cronen’s younger students referred to him, had told Jake that on the first day of the ground’s thaw he would meet a true test of his mettle in the Dansdel. The water cleansed his mouth and throat with its frigid purity. He refilled the pot and padded back towards the camp, squinting in the first golden rays of morning sun. Somehow, the soreness of daily training was gone today, and he stepped quickly with an extra spring, green eyes sparkling like dew on fresh new leaves.
*
Jake led Gunner along the outskirts of Underwood, past the dusty foundations of the town’s growing protective wall, and through the sea of tents and outbuildings that made up the Watch’s barracks. He wore a cheeky grin, calling familiarly to many of the soldiers and workers and winking at every woman he spotted, even if she wasn’t looking. It stood to reason that if Jake could become a better fighter using practice weapons, he could improve his proficiency with the maidens through repetition as well. The young half elf still clutched his wire handled iron pot, which now emitted minty vapor and warmed the palm of his hand. Rose Vasston was the woman who had turned him onto drinking tea alongside his usual breakfast of dried fruit and root vegetables, and thinking of her made Jake tug at the collar of his laced green sifan shirt and readjust the broad belt holding up his loose brown breeches. Rather than a sword, the belt had a blue liviol tonfa hanging through it’s loop, and Jake’s left hand rested casually on the crosspiece as nonchalantly as any grand swordsman petting his gilded hilt.
The sun made the boy and his horse’s shadows twice their actual length as they approached the familiar grouping of stone rings and wooden bleachers. As his pointed ears embraced the sound of wooden weapons clacking, crowds gasping, and warriors roaring that made up the Dansdel, an Akashiman youth named Rafael separated from the crowd watching a stave-duel and ran over. Jake raised a hand in greeting and opened his mouth to jest with his friend, but Rafael’s almond eyes glowed with tangible nervous excitement.
“Jake!” the copper-skinned boy said, forcibly keeping his voice calm, “I was at the Silver Pub first thing... do you wish to visit Haide so soon?” Seeing the blank look in his friend’s usually sharp green eyes, Rafael continued, “Jake, you’re slated to fight Sir Resator Caedmon O'Caariel an hour before noon!” Jake’s pupil’s dilated, outstretched hand snapping back and tugging at the black silken scarf he always wore around his neck as his nostrils flared, sucking in air. He leaned against Gunner, seeking support, staring into the depths of Concordia as if he could find his wit there. For once, Jacob Narmolanya was speechless.
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