The Learning Twist

[The Sweetest Thing]

"Three times this past week I reminded you! told you I would be taking my day off!" Stacia all but shouted, standing in the steaming kitchens of the Peaceful Promenade with fists planted firmly on slim hips. The girl had brushed her hair and worn her best cloak for the occasion, and the humid atmosphere was curling her blonde locks by the second. Cheeks flushed to the shade of the cherry streaks in her hair, she looked down her nose at her employer.

Matron Silter scoffed, patting flour into a loaf of dough and kneading it against the counter. "The inn is full of scholars in town for the discourse on Haidian Demonology," the rotund cook said in a bored tone, intent on her baking. "They take their breakfast with the morning lectures at Ravenheart Academy, but they'll be back by noon and wanting a stout dinner. And clean dishes to eat it off, mind." Silter nodded her double chins at a sink piled high with pans greasy from the previous night's roast.

Stacia sniffed, keeping her hands folded behind her back. The smells made her stomach growl, but she had more pressing business than breakfast. "I told you I'd be off today." She drew on her mittens and edged toward the loading door, reaching for the handle. "Hannah should be in shortly."

"Hannah has been ill since-" a gust of wind swallowed the Matron's words, and Stacia let the door bang behind her.

The air was crisp enough to pinch her bottom and straighten her spine. Frost coated the mucky streets of Underwood and the slim walkways built over them for winter months. Only Watch Patrols and the occasional tradesmen braved the streets on such days, when the cold made everything slippery and dangerous, and the wind whipped silt and ice in your face no matter how you tugged at your hood.

Anastacia Alliendra spat muddy grit to the frozen ground and skipped nimbly from one plankway to the next. She gave wide berth to an overloaded hay cart which had slipped off the wooden rails and sunken slightly in the mire.

Two farm boys with one hand each on the bridle of their carthorse stood shouting at each other over the poor beast's back. The topic of the argument altered frequently, from whose fault the accident had been to which was preventing the other from successfully dislodging the wheels. As the slim girl with shimmering hair swayed past the lads left off arguing long enough to chase her with their eyes. Moments later a more personal, muttered argument sprang up.

Stacia felt their eyes and sighed. She could scarcely reduce the roll of her hips as she tightrope-walked the centre of the plankway, both mittenned hands holding her hood against the driving wind. A few months ago she would have gladly distracted them both from their troubles awhile with excellent company, and taken most of their coin in exchange. She was attempting to travel a new path in life, however, and it would not make much of a start to relapse while on her way to meet her teacher.

A seedling of doubt blossomed in her heart, and she shooed it away, smoothing her deerskin cloak down her flat stomach with both hands. Hard to think of a man she had bedded - and more particularly, a man she’d loved - as an instructor. It had been years since they last spoke though, and she knew of his presence in Underwood only by reputation. He had been more than willing to teach her all those seasons ago, but he had improved his place in Corone considerably since then. Sheriff of Underwood, they called him, and stories circulated of the night he had fought a wraithlike assassin across the rooftops of the city, driving the enemy away and saving dozens of lives. Would the fabled freedom fighter Joshua Cronen be as interested in a reformed prostitute as the young man called Breaker who she’d once known? Seldom had a question caused Stacia such trepidation.

The makeshift boardwalk gave way to frozen hardpack as the ground slanted upwards, and the wind grew stronger as she rounded a log cabin on the outskirts of town. Frost crackled beneath her soft boots as she followed the sounds of heavy breathing and flesh slapping on flesh.

Men are absolutely mad.

A half dozen of them were wrestling in pairs, slamming one another to the ground only to grapple for moments before struggling to their feet and repeating the process. A pair of elves gracefully flowing elves, a half-elf matched with a lanky human, and a half-orc struggling against a man who looked more like a young ogre. All young males, they wore a colourful mixture of tattoos and scars - but not a one of them was wearing a shirt! A seventh figure stood with his back to her. Dressed in light black clothing and familiar metal boots, he watched all of his students at once, calling advice and congratulations by turn.

Stacia tried not to imagine what the wind must feel like on bare skin and took a deep, steadying breath. Wearing the sliest hint of a smile but keeping her hood up to shield eyes and hair, she called out in a firm voice.

“My Breaker... would you not rather teach me than these men? I do believe you owe me a lesson or four, as it stands.”

[Breaker]

The fighters were six of the toughest in the Underwood Watch. Ignoring the harsh wind and biting chill, they clinched and threw one another with as much energy as when they’d started thirty minutes earlier. They fought as naturally as trees sway and fall in the wind, like a part of the deep forest all around. Each came from a different part of Althanas, but they might have been brothers for the similarities in upbringing. Poverty, pain, and above all else resistance to authority. They had been among the top ten duellists in sparring, and among the worst students in their combative classes. And as it turned out, they made an ideal group for testing extreme training. They’d spent the past half hour learning twelve throws and counter-throws from a standing clinch. And they surpassed all expectations in stamina and tolerance for the cold. While Ulric the half-orc was certainly built for such conditions, the skinny dark skinned Fallien native should have been a shivering wreck. Even so Royler matched Torrence the half-elf hold for hold, steady breath steaming in the wind.

Cronen was about to call a halt and demonstrate a new series of techniques when a familiar female voice hailed him. Memories of Anastacia Alliendra flickered through his mind. The way her face matched the cherry streaks in her hair when she got mad. The passion she had for each moment of life. The warmth of her naked body in bed. He almost wished he’d removed his shirt while exercising earlier, and smiled wryly in spite of himself. She certainly made a lasting impression.

“Run the full dozen six times each, three to a side. At half speed mind - show me flawless technique!” Josh called, ensuring they followed the command before pivoting. The adverse conditions had transformed the guardsmen's usual defiance into an absolute refusal to quit first. Josh stood side on so he could keep one eye on the warriors, and addressed Stacia with a smile.

“You’re a welcome sight for tired eyes, milady. Does Underwood like you well?" He broke off and called a correction to Ulric, who finally succeeded at pushing the stove-bellied Gannon onto his back. "How long since you joined our growing community?” He kept his voice soft and scratched at the Y-shaped scar beneath the stubble on his cheek. The girl took a step forward, leaning as if she had trouble hearing him. “I’ll gladly give you a lesson once I finish this training session,” he added, “but I’m sure you won’t mind waiting a little. These are the heroes who defend our walls, after all.” All he could see were her ruby lips and the outline of her figure beneath the tanned cloak, but she didn’t seem to have changed at all. Josh breathed in, smile expanding with his lungs. She still smelled like desire.

[The Sweetest Thing]

Stacia felt as if she’d been sleepwalking and awakened suddenly in a strange place.

Cronen looked the same as he always had. Hair a bit longer, a little more muscular perhaps - if that was possible! - but the same man, to be sure. From the Y-shaped scar down to his enchanted boots he resembled the man she’d met in the mountaintop town of Pagration. His voice even sounded the same - low, calm, reassuring - but...

Stacia felt her face flushing and forced the flustered feeling down. She would get what she wanted from the man, even if she could not decide exactly what that was. Was he mocking her with his courtly manner? Two years prior he’d spoken like a dock boy or a street tough - only as necessary, and never with the gallantry of a gentleman. Now all of a sudden he was loquacious as a poet. That’s all it is then, Stacia told herself, he’s been tutored in proper manners, probably to help secure his election as Sheriff. Leave it to man to make common decency a commodity! She smoothed the deerskin cloak down her belly again and lowered her hood, shaking her long golden locks out. The wind rippled her hair like a banner, displaying the cherry streaks that set her aside from nearly every other blonde on Althanas.

“As you say, Lord Sheriff,” she curtsied and bowed her head like a serving girl waiting on the Queen of Scara Brae. “Far be it from a girl like me to distract men away from their important affairs. I only hope your guardsmen don’t take ill from running about losing their shirts in the winter. That happens, you’ll have to train me to patrol in their place.” She made her voice loud and girlish, so it carried over the whistling wind and grunting combatants.

Josh chuckled, but beyond him one of the bare-chested warriors turned from his sparring partner, sending her a leer and a wink.

“Why doncha’ come keep me warm then, girlie? Thataways, everyone’ll be happy!” The man had a strong chin, shoulder length raven hair and a musculature to match Cronen’s. Ordinarily she might not have minded sharing such a man’s sheets, but today he was a pawn on the chessboard, not a tool for the bedroom.

Schooling her features to look hurt and horrified, Stacia pouted her lower lip and cast her eyes expectantly to Josh.

[Breaker]

Standing like a porcelain-skinned mannequin, hair flared in the wind, she looked somehow more than human. Her unblemished face drawn up, the very picture of indignation. Her lithe limbs turned inward and her hips angled away, as if she could not bear to face the guardsman’s comment. Even on such a grey day, her eyes shone like prevalida coins.

Josh felt himself hooked by her charm, tempted to clout the dark-haired fighter for offending the lady. The wind helped, cutting through his thin sifan clothing, pebbling is skin. Josh let himself feel the cold down to his bones, the way she must feel it. He took two paces back toward Underwood, putting himself downind of Stacia and inhaling deeply. She had proven herself an expert of body language and facial cues in the past, but her scent would not lie. She smelled of flowers and soap, determination and confidence, with just a hint of trepidation. Josh’s smile grew wider and then vanished, his mouth becoming a stern line.

“Back to barracks at a double-trot,” he barked at the men, who left off wrestling and jogged toward Underwood, pausing only long enough to salute with fist to chest. “And send Jacob to me!” Josh called after them.

The sun split through two banks of grey cloud, flooding the clearing and making Stacia’s hair sparkle. She took full advantage of the moment, tossing her red-streaked mane and striding toward him so smoothly, it would have seemed a glide if not for the crunch of frost beneath her boots. She came to a halt so close her wind-driven hair nearly tickled his chin.

“There now,” Josh said, unmoving as a statue, “you have my full attention. Shall we move in out of the wind?” He indicated the ramshackle outbuilding with the flapping thatch. “We’ve a training facility here, it may not look like much but it’s a good place to learn.” Cronen barely kept himself from laughing at the way she frowned, and went on as if not noticing her disappointment. “After a short assessment, I should be able to get you enrolled in some classes at the Academy. And I would truly like to sit down and hear of your life since we last met. Do you drink tea?"

[The Sweetest Thing]

Tea?!

Stacia bit her tongue and locked her hips to stop from cursing Cronen and kicking his shins. Or something rather higher! Her fingers bunched the back of her pale leather cloak as she selected the best words to lash him with. When last they’d met, he’d dedicated entire days to teaching her individual techniques, adjusting and polishing until she’d perfected the move and its variants, and only then moving on to the next. Have you risen so high so fast that you’d thrust me into the ranks with the rest of your louts?

The wind tugged at her hair incessantly, forcing her to waver while Joshua stayed still, an oak towering over a supple yew. The banks of grey cloud overhead rolled ever open, light without warmth bathing the clearing. As the flapping of the loose thatch grew louder and more frequent, the rumble of horseshoes on hardpack overcame it, and a dappled gelding rounded the outbuilding, steam gusting from its nostrils before being scattered by the wind. The wiry rider rolled from the saddle with his mount still in motion, landing in a bow fit for a courtroom amidst a cloud of dust.

“You called, Josh?” The young half-elf wore earth tones and a smarmy grin, his steed bearing a cased recurve bow and liviol tonfa on the side of its saddle. Coming out of the bow and clapping his floppy cloth cap over sun-darkened blond locks, Jake Narmolanya approached the pair as if walking on air.

Stacia had drawn her hood to protect her eyes from the silt the boy’s mount kicked up, fighting for composure. She knew Jacob mostly by reputation - he entertained himself and villagers by challenging stronger, much more experienced guardsmen to duels and making them look like fools. On her first day in Underwood she’d witnessed one such event, and watched most of it with her heart pounding and her fingers in her mouth. Jake - then a stranger, just a slim pointy-eared boy with a blue fighting stick - had dodged around his opponent’s longsword as if it were wielded by a scholar’s newborn daughter, not a renowned mercenary captain. Meanwhile, the teen had dented the man’s armor in so many places that smiths had to cut him out. A few minutes flirting with the right off-duty guards had taught Stacia that Jake apprenticed under Joshua Cronen more closely than any of the other Watchmen. Some were even willing to admit that six months prior, Jacob had been a sub-standard swordsman at best, known only for his prowess in archery. That was the kind of training Stacia desired.