Captain on the Wind
08-08-12, 05:34 PM
Second part to Stick the Landing
Pallotan spent three days preparing an appropriate stage for Gale’s training. Setting up practice dummies and obstacle courses was just the ground work. Physical fitness would only take the drifter so far, although it was something desperately needed. Once Faust was feeling better, the drifter left his friends to join Pall at the offshore cave. The two left Faust in the capable hands of Gloria and Therk who worked tirelessly to restore the burnt down tavern. Gale and Pall brought the weapons cache recovered from the exchange with Regal from its hiding place to the new training grounds.
Dozens of long, intricate, connecting tunnels riddled the perimeter of the huge cave. The mushroom shape of the main chamber and the form of the walls gave the illusion the place was twice its actual size.
Reflecting the color of the sea, the walls of the cave were dark green. The stones glistened from the spray of the sea carried by the wind. The melody of waves crashing against the rocks outside the cave played throughout the days and nights.
Light shone in from the entrance and through several openings in the walls and ceiling during the day. When the moon was bright enough, the sparing ring in the center was bathed in a serene milky glow.
A narrow path along the bottom of the cliff was the only path to the small arched entrance, which expanded exponentially to the training hall. Every part of the cave was riddled with candles, from the entrance to the tunnels. Opposite the entrance stood a tall weapon rack, filled completely with all kinds of weapons, most of which Gale had never seen before. Directly to the right of the entrance was a row of targets meant for long range practice. In front of the weapon rack, stood six wooden practice dummies in a small circle behind the practice ring. They had been worn down from years of use, but still stood sturdy as the day they were set up. In the middle of the hall was a large raised plane. The circle had an outline along the perimeter, making it look like a large halo. Between all of the practice areas was a plethora of interconnecting tunnels. Each tunnel had a different kind of obstacle course to be run one after the other.
The only people who spent time in the cave were Pall and Gale. Roland, a ghost, watched the drifter from afar. During the rare times the two were not training and the drifter slept, Roland came in to cleanse him of corruption. The drifter was descendant of a warrior tribe, the Akhetamika, who could see such souls. In time, the souls of these people grow dark with corruption. Those Akhetamika who have been trained to, are able to look inside themselves, go into their souls and destroy any corruption. Gale was not one. But to his salvation, Roland had the unique, vampiric, ability to feast on corruption and remove it completely.
Roland did not see fit to tell the drifter about his role in Gale's sustained life.
Pall remembered his encounter with Gale, using that as a measure for the kind of training the young man needed. He took a sword from the weapon rack and tossed it to the drifter. The jack-of-all-trades caught the blade reluctantly, he was never very good with close handed weapons. He held it awkwardly, observing the way it moved as he swung it. Pallotan knew this would not be easy.
“Let us begin,” the old knight said with some force, taking a sword for himself. “I will attack and you will defend." The two men stood in the middle of the large central stage. Pall moved towards the drifter, his motion swift and masterful. He swung his blade with no wasted movement and the full force of his attack met the blade Gale held up in defense. The sword flew across the room from the drifter's hand.
Was he always that strong? Gale thought to himself, wide eyed and amazed at the ease with which Pall disarmed him. Thinking back to their first encounter, he knew Pall was a knight of great prowess, certainly not what his age would have anyone believe. But the difference in strength between then and now was like a bottomless chasm. The drifter cringed when he thought the old man went easy on him.
His cane? the drifter thought, approaching his tossed blade. Did he get stronger because now, he’s using a sword? Gale could not believe that to be the reason. No, I just wasn’t ready. This time I’ll hold him off for sure, he thought, getting back to position.
Once more Pall charged, his movements a blur and once more the weapon was flung out of Gale’s hands.
“Did you think you were going to block me if you tried harder?” Pall said, as if reading the drifter’s mind. “When real masters attack holding a weapon they know, a novice cannot stand against him,” the old man said definitively.
“I will teach you to hold a blade. I will teach you proper form, the way of the sword used by the Red Halo. Techniques I had created myself, for the purpose of striking down an enemy with precise, calculated efficiency,” Pall continued as Gale once again picked up his sword. “Ready your mind, your body and your metal, here I come!” Breathed the Red Halo, moving with his usual blinding speed and precision.
The drifter's sword was in the air before the he could blink.
And so the days went by, with rigorous training under the strict eye of the Red Halo. Gale had never been worked so ragged before in his life. Not even surviving the harsh desert put so much strain on his body. He could move through the obstacle course well enough, clumsily getting through each stage. But endurance is not developed over night, Gale knew. He never stopped, not even bruised and bleeding, even at the suggestion of Pallotan, the drifter pushed himself over the edge and back again.
As time went on and the two talked, Gale began thinking less of vengeance. Faust visited him, on occasion, sitting in on a couple of sessions. The drifter began to realize what was at stake. Pall would often tell tales of his youth, of the land he grew up in. The drifter thought back to his own land, the scorching deserts of Fallien. He thought back to the militia he grew up with. He shuddered at the punishment a traitor could receive, something he wrongfully experienced firsthand. The drifter understood the pride one could take in a legacy, the pride he took in his father.
He did not want to let Pallotan down. As time went on, the training only seemed to get harder, but the drifter's determination increased with it.
Pallotan spent three days preparing an appropriate stage for Gale’s training. Setting up practice dummies and obstacle courses was just the ground work. Physical fitness would only take the drifter so far, although it was something desperately needed. Once Faust was feeling better, the drifter left his friends to join Pall at the offshore cave. The two left Faust in the capable hands of Gloria and Therk who worked tirelessly to restore the burnt down tavern. Gale and Pall brought the weapons cache recovered from the exchange with Regal from its hiding place to the new training grounds.
Dozens of long, intricate, connecting tunnels riddled the perimeter of the huge cave. The mushroom shape of the main chamber and the form of the walls gave the illusion the place was twice its actual size.
Reflecting the color of the sea, the walls of the cave were dark green. The stones glistened from the spray of the sea carried by the wind. The melody of waves crashing against the rocks outside the cave played throughout the days and nights.
Light shone in from the entrance and through several openings in the walls and ceiling during the day. When the moon was bright enough, the sparing ring in the center was bathed in a serene milky glow.
A narrow path along the bottom of the cliff was the only path to the small arched entrance, which expanded exponentially to the training hall. Every part of the cave was riddled with candles, from the entrance to the tunnels. Opposite the entrance stood a tall weapon rack, filled completely with all kinds of weapons, most of which Gale had never seen before. Directly to the right of the entrance was a row of targets meant for long range practice. In front of the weapon rack, stood six wooden practice dummies in a small circle behind the practice ring. They had been worn down from years of use, but still stood sturdy as the day they were set up. In the middle of the hall was a large raised plane. The circle had an outline along the perimeter, making it look like a large halo. Between all of the practice areas was a plethora of interconnecting tunnels. Each tunnel had a different kind of obstacle course to be run one after the other.
The only people who spent time in the cave were Pall and Gale. Roland, a ghost, watched the drifter from afar. During the rare times the two were not training and the drifter slept, Roland came in to cleanse him of corruption. The drifter was descendant of a warrior tribe, the Akhetamika, who could see such souls. In time, the souls of these people grow dark with corruption. Those Akhetamika who have been trained to, are able to look inside themselves, go into their souls and destroy any corruption. Gale was not one. But to his salvation, Roland had the unique, vampiric, ability to feast on corruption and remove it completely.
Roland did not see fit to tell the drifter about his role in Gale's sustained life.
Pall remembered his encounter with Gale, using that as a measure for the kind of training the young man needed. He took a sword from the weapon rack and tossed it to the drifter. The jack-of-all-trades caught the blade reluctantly, he was never very good with close handed weapons. He held it awkwardly, observing the way it moved as he swung it. Pallotan knew this would not be easy.
“Let us begin,” the old knight said with some force, taking a sword for himself. “I will attack and you will defend." The two men stood in the middle of the large central stage. Pall moved towards the drifter, his motion swift and masterful. He swung his blade with no wasted movement and the full force of his attack met the blade Gale held up in defense. The sword flew across the room from the drifter's hand.
Was he always that strong? Gale thought to himself, wide eyed and amazed at the ease with which Pall disarmed him. Thinking back to their first encounter, he knew Pall was a knight of great prowess, certainly not what his age would have anyone believe. But the difference in strength between then and now was like a bottomless chasm. The drifter cringed when he thought the old man went easy on him.
His cane? the drifter thought, approaching his tossed blade. Did he get stronger because now, he’s using a sword? Gale could not believe that to be the reason. No, I just wasn’t ready. This time I’ll hold him off for sure, he thought, getting back to position.
Once more Pall charged, his movements a blur and once more the weapon was flung out of Gale’s hands.
“Did you think you were going to block me if you tried harder?” Pall said, as if reading the drifter’s mind. “When real masters attack holding a weapon they know, a novice cannot stand against him,” the old man said definitively.
“I will teach you to hold a blade. I will teach you proper form, the way of the sword used by the Red Halo. Techniques I had created myself, for the purpose of striking down an enemy with precise, calculated efficiency,” Pall continued as Gale once again picked up his sword. “Ready your mind, your body and your metal, here I come!” Breathed the Red Halo, moving with his usual blinding speed and precision.
The drifter's sword was in the air before the he could blink.
And so the days went by, with rigorous training under the strict eye of the Red Halo. Gale had never been worked so ragged before in his life. Not even surviving the harsh desert put so much strain on his body. He could move through the obstacle course well enough, clumsily getting through each stage. But endurance is not developed over night, Gale knew. He never stopped, not even bruised and bleeding, even at the suggestion of Pallotan, the drifter pushed himself over the edge and back again.
As time went on and the two talked, Gale began thinking less of vengeance. Faust visited him, on occasion, sitting in on a couple of sessions. The drifter began to realize what was at stake. Pall would often tell tales of his youth, of the land he grew up in. The drifter thought back to his own land, the scorching deserts of Fallien. He thought back to the militia he grew up with. He shuddered at the punishment a traitor could receive, something he wrongfully experienced firsthand. The drifter understood the pride one could take in a legacy, the pride he took in his father.
He did not want to let Pallotan down. As time went on, the training only seemed to get harder, but the drifter's determination increased with it.