Goblin Heads

[Alister]

(Closed to Darion, Jack, and Cade.)


The suns overbearing grin was enough to de-motivate even the strongest of wills, but when combined with the humid ocean mist and the constant bustle of the cobbled streets, Scara Brae was almost unbearable. It made the hobbling wizard wonder why he had ever returned to the island. With each well timed, rhythmic tap of his glass cane he pondered if joining the city guard was even worth it. Sure it would make the hospital, one of the finest in all of Althanas, available and very cost efficient for his empty pockets, but there were very few other reasons he would help the city prosper.

Tap... Tap...

Every other step Alister Cain made resounded with a hollowed tap of glass on stone. It had been that way for three long fruitless years, needless to say the limp wasn't exactly a turn on. Most women turned away laughing at his hampered approach, like smearing salt on a fresh wound. Maybe being part of the city guard would act as a pheromone, so to say.

Tap... Tap...

The mage passed a crowded courtyard, filled with children playing. It reminded him of the innocence that littered the homely city. If that wasn't worth the toil ahead, than nothing was.

Tap...

Finally he had arrived. The sign hanging loosely from the brick building read, 'Scara Brae City Guard.'

The polished oak door creaked open to reveal a one room reception area. The cubic main room was lit by the natural light that climbed through the two large windows. In the heart of the room was a single table and at it sat a large human. He looked like he could have been from Baravar, brawny son of a bitch. His face was painted with a series of pits and deep scars, showing that he hadn't always been a paper pushing desk drone.

"If you have a complaint to file, you've come to the wrong place." The man hardly looked up from his paperwork, but had already noticed Alister's handicap, "this here is a recruitment office. The main office is located in the Market District, just two blocks south of the hospital."

"A complaint?!" Alister fought hard to hide the fact that he had been very insulted. "Well until now I have reserved my right to complain, but suddenly the idea is sounding rather appealing."

The broad shouldered man removed his eyes from the papers and looked up to the slender mage, a grin appeared under a thicket of mustache hair. "Well what the hell do you want then, we don't take goblin fodder in the queen's army."

"Well as you bluntly stated earlier, this is a recruitment office," Alister paused and tapped his glass cane on the man's desk. "And I simply wish to enlist. I'm sure you can find a use for me."

"I can find a use for this pen," the brute scoffed, 'but that doesn't mean I want to fight along side it. Do you have any experience? References? Anything?"

"Oh, I do have this." From the pocket of his ebony robe, the wizard removed a crumpled parcel of paper. It was a letter of recommendation from Sir Pallotan, one of the few people to ever trek the Windlancer Mountains. Recently Alister had managed to retrieve an orb from the mountains for the man, making them very close friends. "Hopefully that'll do!"

The brute took a moment to scan it over and then looked at the wizard with disbelief. "Well I think we can surely find something for you, now if you'd just fill out a couple of forms, and we can be underway!"

[Jack]

Two days ago

The moon sat low in a sky looking to have the consistency of year old ink, the big white ball looking more like it was made of some sort of fuzzy material, rather than cheese. Fuzzy or cheese, it still cast a great deal of light onto the pale cobblestones of the warehouse district of Scara Brae port region. Light, for the bloodshot eyed Jack Winters, was the last thing on his list of things worth wanting. In fact, the only thing worth wanting at that particular moment...

"...is another round of this cheap booze," he said sourly in response to his own mulled train of thought. "Fuck," he slurred loudly, throwing the empty jug of what had once been cheap, local liquor, into the night. "Can't get noth - " The jug hit something with a loud crash, causing Jack to jump and gracelessly unseat himself from his precarious perch atop a short stack of barrels. "God! Fuc-khaa!" The words he had been about to say, he didn't, having been cut dramatically short by an abrupt and rather unscheduled meeting of back to ground.

"Fffffffhuuuuccccck," he finally managed after a few long moments of gaping like a fish fresh out of water. Inhaling sharply he rolled onto his stomach and, oblivious to the sudden onset of merry-go-round syndrome, closed his eyes while slowly pounding his forehead lightly against the rough stones of the street. "Not my night," he mumbled. "Not. My. Fucking. Night."

Groaning, louder than was necessary for his condition, Jack pushed himself to his feet and stood on shaky legs. After a few moments of steadying himself on his uncooperative legs, Jack pushed himself away from the barrel he had been holding for support and stumbled out into the night. "Gotta find another bottle..."

Yesterday

His eyes popped open and he screamed, snapping them shut just as quick as they had opened. Rolling over onto his chest, he buried his face into something soft and scratchy, his hands snaking up from out of his pants the wrap his face up like a shield. "Fuck," he yelled into the soft material. "Who's the asshole who opened the curtains!?" He groaned, a long, loud, angry sound and lifted his head to slam it into the soft material. It wasn't nearly soft enough and his head hit with a loud, hollow thump and he groaned again, softer and shorter this time. "Oww..."

Something jabbed him painfully in the side and he cringed away from it, grunting this time instead of groaning and he batted at it with one hand. "Go away, fucker!" He swatted a second time before reassuming his prone, hand covering face position. "Leave me to die in peace," he mumbled a moment later. The jab came a second time, this time a little harder and he once again swatted at the badgering object. He said nothing that time, settling for another groan and a few moments later a third jab came.

Having exhausted all his patience for the persistent jabs, Jack sat up suddenly and twisted himself to give the jabber a solid piece of his hungover mind - but stopped dead when he instead found himself staring up the long shiny blade of a highly polished longsword. His eyes widened almost to the point of bulging and he slowly let his eyes slide up the blade to the hand, arm, shoulder and then face of the person standing in front of him.

"Heh," he said around a sheepish smile. "My apologies officer, I'll be moving along now!" His wild attempt to scramble away was cut abruptly short when a leather clad hand clamped down on his trousers and hauled him up off the ground.

"I dun think'sa, boi," a rough, loud and rather irritated voice said behind him. Jack tried to escape, once, but when a steel shod boot heel took him solidly in the gut, expelling more air than he thought possible to even hold, he quickly surrendered the idea to the winds-of-bad-ideas. Instead he merely settled for crossing his arms across his stomach and twisting his head around to glare at his captor.

"Well," he said after he had regained his breath; he also couldn't remember the last time he had cotton mouth quite as bad as that particular moment. "You mind letting me go-kahmph!" He hit the ground face first, having been released almost the instead he started to say the word 'letting.' He coughed and pushed himself to his feet and finally got a good look at his captor. It was probably a good thing he hadn't tried to escape a second time, the guardsman looked like a thousand year old oak tree. Jack sniffed, wiped his nose and then gestured toward the entrance of the alley he was in. "That way?"

The guardsman simply responded by clipping Jack across the face with the back of his hand. "Ow, fuck!" The cry fell on deaf ears as Jack was forced out of the alley and into the arms of another three waiting guardsman. It was then that he was slapped into irons and chains and hauled away down the street.

"This isn't my day either..." That earned him another cuff, to which he said nothing, except a mumbled 'Fuck you too!'

Today

He awoke to a loud rattling sound and he sat up in his bed like it had just caught fire. His head made a loud, hollowing clang against the low hanging bunk above him and he immediately flopped back down into his bed, his hands pressed tightly against his forehead. "...Aaaaah..." he managed after a few moments, his mouth open and body drawn up into a fetal position. "Ffffuck that hurt!" The loud rattling sound came again and he twisted around quickly, eyes darting wildly in an attempt to locate the source.

He found it, in the form of the guardsman who had captured him the morning before, standing at the steel bars that served as the door to his cell. The thick man had a wicked smile on his face and Jack couldn't help himself. "What do you want fuck face?"

It was surprising how much a tin cup thrown at something close to the speed of fuck could hurt when it connected with the soft flesh of ones forehead. Jack was left speechless for a few longs moments, his mouth opening and closing in rapid succession as he tried to regain his suddenly scattered senses. When clarity finally returned he rolled himself into a seated position, feet dangling over the edge of the bed with his head cradled in his hands.

"Ya gonna talk wit' sum civility?" The guardsman asked after a moment. "If nagh', I goht a few moa - "

"I will," Jack nearly shouted, cutting the guardsman off mid-sentence. "Just," he waved vaguely toward the tin cup projectile. "Just, don't throw anything else." Jack heard the guardsman chuckle and he almost snapped but thankfully held his tongue in check, instead settling for a long drawn out sigh. "What did you want, really?" He asked after a moment.

"Gah a job fer ya, if ya wil'in," the guardsman said. "Git yeh out'a dis 'ere cell fo' a spel'."

Jack was up and moving before the guardsman had even finished his fifth word and had himself pressed against the bars of his cell door an instant later. That guardsman had moved back a step, his hand going to his longsword in caution, and he stood watching Jack after he had finished talking.

"I'll do it," Jack said almost gleefully. "Tell me where to sign, and I'm your man."

The guardsman tilted his head, now obviously confused. "Ya ain't gon'a ask whut dis is abo't?"

Jack shook his head quickly. "Nope, just tell me where to sign and I'll be out of your hair." He hoped his smile looked genuine; it wasn't, but perhaps the guardsman didn't know that.

Turns out he didn't, or else he did and just chose not to show it, but regardless of the truth, Jack didn't care. He had found a ticket out of jail and dammit, he was going to take it and run.

"This might be my day..." Something clanged loudly against the bars of his cell and Jack ducked just in time to avoid a flying tea cup bullet, thrown from the second guardsman standing near the entrance of the cell block. "Ha!" Jack cried. "Missed!"

He didn't see the second cup until it slammed into his face.

'Pologies on the length, had a lot to say. =)

[Cade_Smith]

“You’d think, for a place with such stuck up people standing at the gate, there would be something a little more enjoyable about the place.” Cade sighed as he walked around the small training grounds. Soldiers were sitting in the shade, sipping at water, or up and about doing what they did. Mindless brutes with nothing but fighting on the mind. They swung at each other with dulled swords, axes, and spears. That was, only if they were experienced and trusted enough not to do any real damage to each other using the metal weapons. Others, younger recruits with determined faces and clenched mouths, were swinging wooden weapons at one another as if it was a battle for their lives. Cade just watched the boring display of Scara Brae’s finest with meager interest. “Or at least, something worth taking or seeing.”

One of the guards who had been stationed to train with the young Cade was seated close by. The sorcerer looked at the older man and smiled politely, but it seemed his words had been overheard. Scraggily and old, that was what he was. Bert was a man of few words. He tended to let his sword to display any words he would have said otherwise. The sorcerer knew it firsthand. “Might wanna hold tha’ there tongue of yours before I gives ya ‘nother lashing in the ring.” The guard rose from his seat, placing the crust of the bread on the table. In the two days that Cade had been in the training grounds of the Scara Brae guard, he had been treated like a recruit. The boy rubbed at his arms and massaged the slowly fading welt from his first day. “Not a lo’ of pe’ple getta get in thi’ ‘ere area. Yer lucky to ge’ tha free trainin’.”

Cade stood from his shaded alcove and stretched his arms. He popped his lower back and waited for the larger guard to get closer. Bert was not as much a dedicated training partner for Cade, as he was a lapdog of the guardsmen meant to keep watch over those not immediately tied to the city. The sorcerer was unhappy with the watchful eye of the guard. But there was little he could do but accept the man’s scrutinizing eye. The Milieus Cordeaux had given him leave in his emphatic desire to make his name, practice his magic, and protect the city. Cade, being a mere student of magic, was happy to take on anything that would keep him from a watchful eye. If he had known it would put him under a sharper, more ruthless eye than that of the Cordeaux, he might not have taken up work with the guard.

“I enjoy the training, I really do, but do you have to be so rough about it? These bruises are going to be yellow still in a week.” The larger man laughed and clapped his hand on the shoulder of the boy at his side. Cade wanted to laugh, wanted to join the man, but could not figure out what was so funny. The big hand of the man was heavy and always seemed to find the perfect spot belonging to the freshest bruise. He looked at the thick leather glove that had wrapped around his small shoulders with disgust. “I know what you’re going to say, goblins are going to do a lot more damage than a wooden spear. But I don’t think that they’d do such long lasting damage, day in and day out. And I’m sure I’d be able to beat at least one of them… unlike you and the others here.”

Cade was used to structure, he was used to having his freedoms removed. It was just like how he had grown up. He had living in an outpost, in the countryside of the massive island Corone. Life had been structured there too. Wake up, start reading any books that he had not finished yet or new ones that his parents had recently traded to get for him, and spend the rest of the day tilling the garden and tending to the animals. It was almost as if he had asked for his life to be controlled by another person at all times, as if the way he was raised was the only way he knew and the only thing he would accept. Milieus Cordeaux, now the city guard and their missions against the goblins, it felt like he would never be free of it. Deep down, it felt like he sought the sort of life he lived day to day. As if it was the only way he had ever lived, and the only way he ever wanted to live.

[Darion Ragnar]

The Previous Evening

“I’m gunn’ t’shpit yer gullet,” spat the words through the thug’s rotten teeth, accenting his threat with the wavering knife’s tip, “An’ yore gunn’ like et, yeh!”

Darion’s brow knit, viridian eyes watching the slowly circling brigand with an unblinking gaze. Torch light flickered down the alleyway, tossing shadowy caricatures of the blacksmith and his assailant far down the cobbled way – that same fire’s glow glinting off the dancing blade. It was close to the witching hour, the taverns loud and the full moon lucid in its heavenly seat. The son of Aaron had been waylayed by a man who, by the virtue of his breath, had spent a bit too much time in one of the aforementioned pubs; and within his drunken mind’s wanderings had decided to try his hand at robbery.

“You don’t wanna’ do that, mate,” spoke the swordsman, his voice confident in its conviction and calm in its countenance. “Go home. Sleep it off.”

“I’ll shleep you[i] off, yeh!” came the drunken retort, blinking his eyes in a manner that lacked unison. He stabbed the air between them, grimacing as fearsomely as a man could who had been wearing the same clothes for the past seven years. Pallid flesh combined with clumps of missing hair and a rolled-back eye gave the miscreant the distinctive appearance of a man halfway to being a spot-on undead. Darion never took his eyes off of him.

[i]Poor, mangy bastard.

Compared to his assailant Darion was a veritable giant, a behemoth of a man with the constitution of a stone wall: solid, chiseled, and unmovable. Even with two pints in him the mercenary’s peridot gaze was unfailing, lacking nothing in the way of focus or clarity. Leather boots shoulder width apart and tree-trunk arms relaxed at his sides, the blacksmith slowly flexed his right hand within its leather gauntlet; clenching and relaxing his digits in wary rhythm. A sword taller than a man hung across his broad shoulders and the hilt of a shortsword protruded from the top of his boot. The eventual victor of this conflict was obvious.

“Now gimme’ yore coinsh, shoddin’… err…” slurred the drunkard, “Shod!”

Having traded any patience he had possessed earlier in the night for liquid courage the street-thug took his chance, lunging at the warrior with his stolen kitchen knife. His attack, however, was foiled in two parts: first, by his drunken footwork; and second, by a straight jab to his nose.

Even with the extra few inches the weapon had given the unsavory fellow, Darion’s reach was long enough to meet him before his inebriated wavering could ever have a hope of making its way to the swordsman. Crumpled against the far wall of the alley the almost-criminal sat cradling his face, sobbing a mixture of blood, snot, and tears through his fingers.

Darion shook his head, his brow still furrowed – now moreso out of pity than the concentration from before – and knelt, watching the drunk. Should’ve listened, he thought to himself, even as he extended a heavy leather glove across the way. His attacker cringed, and the native Scarabrian tsk’d and moved to pull him onto his feet.

“I know it hurts, mate. Sorry. Still – you can’t go drinkin’ like a fish if you aren’t prepared to swim with sharks every once an’ again,” spoke the blacksmith in a gruffly consoling tone. He laced the broken man’s arm over his broad shoulders and walked him out of the alleyway, down the street, and on to the guardhouse.


At Present

Darion Ragnar was a blacksmith and a mercenary, not a city guard. He had grown up in the often-forgotten fishing village of Durhn, across the Windlacers and on the northwestern coast of Scara Brae – not in any sort of walled city or proper town. In reality, the son of Aaron had no business being there, standing in the midst of the watch’s training grounds. He was a wanderer, an outsider in this place. Apparently resolving what the guard had dubbed “delinquency matters” was warrant enough to be given work in Scara Brae; it was something impressive. Darion, on the other hand, was thoroughly unimpressed: not simply with the so-called “good deed” he’d done but with the willingness of the guard to hire outside help. It seemed weak to him, and the blacksmith couldn’t abide by much weakness in men that were supposed to be warriors in their own right. Regardless, it was an opportunity for him to get paid, and at that point he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

He snugged his scabbard’s belt down across his breastplate before running a gauntleted hand back through auburn hair, his green gaze perusing the area. Wooden swords clattered, combatants grunted with the force of their blows, and the odd soldier huffed and wheezed as he bent over his knees, attempting to pull air back into his lungs. Oaken men – practice dummies – stood as sentinels amidst the courtyard, and a few guardsmen had at them with dulled blades and great fervor. It was loud, but it didn’t bother him. He was too busy eyeing the figure seated across the yard -- the youth in the black cape who carried a staff. The lad was probably just another mercenary, Darion figured, but he looked to be some sort of magus; and if that was the case, Darion wanted to know what sort of errand he was really being sent on. The heavily-built warrior began to make his way across the grounds and to the shaded area where the boy sat.

“Gerrouta’ th’way, y’sod!” came the spittle-marked cry, its bare-chested origin having contorted his face into furious disgust.

Darion halted, glancing from the shirtless guardsman to his other side – where an equally upset gentleman stood. Both wielded wooden longswords, and suddenly the blacksmith realized that he’d walked right into the middle of a practice duel. He gave a brief sniff and a callous lift of a gauntlet – something akin to an apology – and attempted to continue on.

“Yah, tha’s roight – tuck et an’ walk,” muttered the angry guard, spitting off to the side before flexing his chest and swinging a heavy blow at his opponent.

Ear perked, the son of Aaron’s steps halted, slowly looking over his shoulder and back at the sparring duo.

This is gonna’ end up bad.

[Alister]

There were few things in the middle aged wizard's life he could mentally picture with flawless detail, but the sight within the training courtyard was certainly unforgettable. What was suppose to be a day of practice and sparring, had quickly turned into a strong man competition. A sea of brawny and shirtless men, sweating, flexing, and practically throwing their backs out trying to impress each other. It was more a display of who could heave a practice sword with more power, than training at all.

Amongst the bustle of the 'proving grounds,' Alister was resting under canopy of a tree, taking a moment to catch up on his fluid intake. Sweat beads streaming down his wrinkled face, dripping onto the grass below. The momentarily rest gave the wizard a chance to gather his thoughts and prepare for another spar. This time with a short balding man named Gyro.

"So, are you ready yet, because I got a few moves I wanna' try out." Gyro spoke with a voice stricken with determination.

"Give me a few man. You know, this old man isn't exactly what he used to be." The wither of time had surely taken its toll on the mage. Not only did he have a hampered leg, but his stamina in a sword fight was rather stunted. Alister knew if he planned on lasting a day in the guard, he would have to get off his pity pot.

A mixture of clashing blades and colliding wood alerted the wizard that while he was resting, almost everyone else was still hard at work. To the far edge of the courtyard were practice dummies, makeshift targets that provided the men with a torrent for their anger and rage. In the middle was several groups of men, heaving dull blades and wooden weapons at each other. Near Alister were the weak-bodies, people who needed rest and haven from the humid heat that was eating away at their stamina.

"Alright pal, I'm ready but I get to use magic this time." Alister finally spoke up.

"Ain't happening Alister. You know magic is frowned upon within the city limits, not to mention this training is in place to sharpen our melee abilities."

What the hell. No magic? The sudden realization was a little much for the wizard to take in. He wasn't a sword wielding maniac, he was a mage, not to mention his agility was harshly stunted by his leg injury.

"Well in that case Gyro, I'm going to sit out a bit more. I'm not quite ready to have my ass handed to me again." The statement was met with a frown and hint of disappointment.

"Suit yourself, but you're never going to improve without practice." With that Gyro started towards the practice dummies, leaving Alister to bask in the shade.

In the middle of the courtyard Alister spotted a large man, towering by Scara Brae standards. He was being addressed by two rough looking training partners and something alerted Alister that things could get nasty between the group. He leaned back, taking a sip from his canteen, to watch the events unfold before him.

[Jack]

After reconvening his scattered thoughts and brain cells from the floor of his cell for a brief systems check, Jack quickly slapped his name down onto the single sheet of paper that was proffered to him concerning the aforementioned job. It didn't occur to him to find it funny that the piece of paper had only two written lines on it, two lines for signing names and a very official looking seal embedded into the bottom. Of course, he might not have found it funny anyway, so the observation was stored swiftly away into his 'see and forget' cabinet and promptly was.

"All right," the guardsman who had handed him the sheet said, whilst pouring sand over the still wet ink. "Now the fun begins." Funny, his smile suddenly made Jack wonder if this 'job' was just any old 'job'.

One hour later

"You have anything less, umm, sword like?" Jack felt the fool for having asked the question, but he couldn't help himself, as he felt it a personal right at this point.

It had been a rather quick process, yanking him from the jail cell, into the recruiters office to give an official oath (where he lied, sorta), slapping some crude linens onto his person and then shoving him out into the fray that was the training court. It had been a brutal first few minutes, but once he had convinced the other recruits that he could take a punch, and avoid a great deal more, he was quickly left to his own devices. It was apparently no fun picking on someone who could avoid just as well as take a hit, so they moved onto easier meat. Most were now focused on a runtish looking fellow, all bone and sinew, and gray wisps of thinning hair, near the far side of the training court. "Which is all fine and dandy by me," Jack said under his breath as the recipient of his question mulled it over in his thick skull.

And thick it was; the man looked to have been carved from solid oak and then aged a hundred years in a mixture of molten metal and acidic acid. Hard lines and harder muscles were the bulk of his build but a surprisingly soft smile, if you subtracted the four teeth he had, made for the majority of his persona. It didn't help any that he spoke like a dimwit fresh out of retard school.

"Uhhh, whot yuu meen, sir?" The beast asked slowly, chewing his words to a mashed pulp before finally letting them out of his mouth. Jack sighed and palmed his forehead, wiping sweat from his face in the process. He then gestured toward the wooden rack ladened with about half a dozen different types of swords.

"Something, not, like, what, is, right, there!" He made sure to speak slowly, and loudly, so that the beast could adequately understand him. The beast followed his finger tips to where the wooden stand stood, blinked and then returned his gaze to Jack.

"I dunno," he said with a shrug. "Yuu whont udder tiepp uv swoard?" This time he pointed toward another rack, a bit further to the left of the first. Jack couldn't help but slap his face a second time and he stood silent for a moment, staring through the cracks in his fingers at the ground.

"What's your name?" Jack asked after a moment.

"Carl," the beast said after a moment. Jack chuckled, under his breath and quite in audibly, lest the beast hear him and take offense.

"Well," Jack said after a moment, taking his hand away from his face. "Carl, I'm Jack. Let me explain to you what I want." Taking a few steps toward Carl, Jack reached up and place a hand against the big mans forearm. It was the easiest place to reach without straining and it scared Jack shitless but he fought his momentary fear down and forced a smile. "I don't want a sword, far to cliche, if you understand the word." Carl nodded vigorously but Jack didn't notice. Instead he held up his free hand, placing it face down about eye level with himself and in a position that Carl could see it easily. "I want a stick, about yeay high, and about yeay thick." He pressed his index finger into his thumb, forming a circle and held it up for Carl to study. "Do you know what I'm talking about?"

Carl, for all the world more competent than a half retarded squirrel, stared at Jack for a few long moments, completely silent. Jack, fearing the worst and having very little patience for the rest of humanity, was on the verge of getting truly frustrated when Carl smiled and laughed. "Shtick," he said suddenly, and clearer than any other word Jack had heard up until that point. "I know," the beast said with a sudden clarity that Jack almost took a step back in surprise. "Jack hold on, Carl be back."

And then, just like that, Jack was left standing by himself, twisting this way and that, wondering how in the hell a man of Carl's size could disappear like a ghost in a strong breeze.

"Shit," Jack said aloud. "That boy can move."

"You're telling me," a voice said from behind him, startling Jack enough to cause him to jump. The voice laughed and as Jack spun around it materialized into a skinnyish looking recruit in a breastplate and greaves.

"What?" Jack asked after a moment, letting the other get the laughs out of his system.

"I said you're telling me," the other said, pointing in the direction Carl had apparently gone. Jack followed the pointing finger and saw Carl shifting through a large pile of what appeared to be scrape lumber. Shit... "Poor guy," the other said a moment later.

"Come again," Jack asked absently, still staring at the beast frantically picking up and discarding pieces of wood. Some of which were thick than Jacks torso, and taller than he was. And he's throwing those around like kindling...

"Said poor guy, you don't listen very well do you?"

Jack sneered and rounded on the other with his finger upraised. "I don't listen because people like you get on my nerves. Now, what did you mean by 'poor guy'?"

The other merely blinked at Jacks threat, smiled and then shrugged. "Nothing much, 'cept that he's been here for his whole life. Dropped here by some cunt of a whore a number of years ago. Does shit jobs mostly, heavy lifting, that sort of thing. No one never really gives him a chance, think he's too stupid." The other shifted his gaze to Carl, the smile turning into a devilish grin. "Personally I'd think he'd make a great front line soldier, all muscle, no brains. Follows orders to the letter, and quick like, but no one else thinks that way."

Jack stopped paying attention half-way through, instead returning to his study of Carl as the beast continued to shift through the lumbar pile. He was engrossed in a close study of a couple pieces of timber, of diameter and height as Jack had asked for, obviously taking his job very seriously.

"Yeah," Jack said after a moment, flicking his hand toward the other recruit. "Go bug someone else now," he said as he started toward the beast.

"Abandoned as a child..." Somewhere across the square someone started shouting but Jack didn't hear it, all of his attention fixated on perhaps the only person he'd be able to connect with on the entire planet.

[Cade_Smith]

The sun was beating down on the training grounds, soaking what little clothes that masculine men training had left. It dripped from their chiseled bodies, dropping like a light rain onto the dirt. Greedily the dusty grounds absorbed the liquid, trying to soak up as much as it could before the heat of the day caused it to evaporate. No matter how much was demanded by the dirt practice arena, it was never fast enough to beat out the sun’s brutal rays. Cade was quickly feeling the heat rise as the sun grew higher in the sky, his shadowed alcove quickly being eaten away inches at a time. The humidity was causing sweat to bead on his forehead, soak through his shirt and pants, and cause him to look as if he was fighting with the rest of the gathered men.

Cade swung the wooden sword at his side, trying to get a feel for it. No matter what he did, the weapon felt awkward and he felt more and more than he would never be able to use one. Instead of giving up, under the eyes of the ever watchful Bert, the sorcerer continued to swing the wooden blade. The weight was light, but despite that he had no inkling of how to begin using it. “Ya needa poin’ that en’ at them.” It was the only words of encouragement that Cade had gotten.

Quietly, he removed himself from the lessening shadows on the edge of the training ground and brought his sword with him. He lifted it to the only stance he knew how to take, more by watching others than by learning it himself. Bert walked over and tapped the underside of his arm. Cade looked at him with a turn of his head. The flat of the metal felt like a brand when it touched his exposed skin, but he understood at least a little of what was expected. Cade’s arms were raised, and the blade was brought up higher.

Swing lightly, don’t throw your entire weight into it. The reminder did little to make the sorcerer more adept with the weapon. He brought it up, arched it downwards towards the target dummy’s head, and missed completely. The brown eyes of the undetermined would-be warrior looked at the burlap sack face of the condescending dummy. “Swing lightly,” he muttered. The sword was brought back around, slowly. It connected with the head and shoulder of the human effigy. He repeated the blow, over and over.

Time would pass quickly, but he was busy concentrating on where the wooden sword landed and not the passage of the sun. Training, he realized, was not going to be as useful in real life as it was touted to be. Cade had fought in the Citadel, against many different people. Never once had an opponent stood still, with their arms out straight, waiting for the well aimed blow to barely tap against them. He had used his staff in those circumstances, but as Bert said, unless it had a metal blade on the end and called a spear a staff was more useless than magic. Cade’s true power, his true strength, was in his ability to learn spells quickly and effectively, not by attacking a stick figure with a wooden sword.