Training Day....[Closed spar]

[Elthas_Belthasar]

"You sure about this?" Elthas was reading the document that the monk handed him. Elthas knew the monk from his small, failed stint in The Leagues event. The monk was named Jarrod Crane, he was in his mid-thirties and had stark Human/Elven features. Elthas wondered if the man was a halfling, but he knew better than to pry in his contact's personal affairs. Elthas currently was reading the dossier report on a potential hire on to The Trading Company's roster. The fellow was a formerly living a life of indentured servitude, and was probably considerably traumatized. Jarrod was the first who suggested the terms of the sparring battle.

"I am. A spar would benefit the both of you and get him focused on obtaining a new life. My suggestion would be to include an official The Trading Company contract as a prize." Jarrod said very seriously.

Elthas considered the proposition. He didn't have much success in The Citadel's bracketed leagues before. But he owed Jarrod a favor or two from before. Elthas rubbed his chin very thoughtfully, considering what was being proposed and what was being said. Elthas was a man who acted ONLY in the best interest of The Trading Company, further more, he acted in the interests (If true or not) of the common man. Here was a worker who needed a home, and all workers would be welcome within the work force of The Trading Company. Elthas suddenly looked up at Jarrod after his consideration of the situation. "Understand one thing. I am doing this favor for you to repay my debts to you. When I participated in The Citadel Leagues, it was largely your efforts that kept me alive. I don't know why you risked your neck to save someone like me, who was pretty worthless at the time." Elthas paused for a moment thinking back to his horrid defeat in the official League tournament. He shivered physically. Then he continued to talk. "You want me to put the contract on the line correct? I will put something together for the lad before we meet in The Citadel." Elthas knew that the request for recruitment had to be OFFICIALLY done. The legal affairs in Radasanth were shambles, but The Trading Company was a worker's union. They obeyed the law traditionally followed in Radasanth even with The Empire intact. Elthas tapped his desk once. Jarrod had come on official The Citadel business three days earlier to visit with Elthas and Invetisto.

Invetisto had given Elthas the go ahead.

Elthas eyed the dossier report for a moment. "He is a clean slate for a Hume. According to his dossier report, he is eager to learn various skill sets, which would make him an adequate worker for The Trading Company." Elthas said. Then he agreed to Jarrod's suggestion. "I am agreeing because I owe you. Don't forget that Jarrod. But I do have ONE request." Elthas's mind was already working out the tactical details of a potential battle.

"Name it." Jarrod said in exchange.

"Give the kid some standard issue The Trading Company knives as weapons or the deal's off. I want to fight someone capable of reacting and thinking on the fly." Elthas said calmly. He continued to speak. "I can get you a pair of basic knives from one of the blacksmiths. My compatriot named Hendreich. He will gladly part with standard issue equipment. And basic ranking information for the kid, I will deal with myself." Elthas was a ranking officer of The Trading Company. And one of it's most active prospects...

"Good. I am glad you agree with the terms. I will have the lad ready by the time you make your way to Radasanth and The Citadel." Jarrod said.

***
The prepared Citadel chamber was a section of Concordia Forest. Ruild. Home. Elthas looked around at the various sturdy oak trees. He could hear the sounds of various insects and bird calls, a few predatory beasts. A wind came in from the south, the breeze carried with it a sense of promise and hope. It refreshed Elthas to be back home, he was so busy with The Trading Company duties, that he barely got a chance to step back in his ancestral home of Ruild. Elthas was wearing a casual suit. Cut in standard Radasanthian style, the style of Radasanth's upper elite work force. Elthas's keepsake piece in his outfit had become the simple but highly stylish fedora he wore almost at all times. The fedora was tilted at a slight forty-five degree angle. Elthas knew his opponent would enter the clearing very soon. He'd placed Jarrod in charged of seeing to it that his opponent found his way to him. Elthas would take care of the rest. As he listened to the various animal calls, he began to sing in standard Ruildian. The language of The Forest Elves. It was a mellow song, but with a slightly upbeat tone. He stood in place as his leather trench coat flowed with the breeze. He carried ONLY his daggers, and had made it perfectly clear that it would be a knife-battle. He wanted to teach his opponent the basics of knives combat.

Elthas sang as he waited, the wind carrying the folds of his elegant clothing with it.

He held a serious expression on his face.

His chest moved up and down with each breath he took.

It was a good day to for battle.

[SteelVoltage]

With magic, anything is possible.

Leslot padded through the brush, stepping carefully, with the sure foot of an experienced woodsman. HIs mouth hung agape, his fingers falling to his hip, where the knife the monk had given him protruded out of his hempen belt. His calloused tips traced the cool metal of the pommel and the rigid leather of the grip. Was the knife real? They had given it to him before he entered.

Dried leaves covered the forest floor. The occasional stick or dead branch reached up, like the fingers of the dead from their graves. Light filtered through the leaves, creating a scattering array of shadows. In some places the light pooled, and there shoots of grass, brush, and saplings stretched their limbs, soaking in every ounce of the light. Fake light. Yet, it all seemed so true.

The bark of the trees even felt real. The sweet fragrance of flowering plants and musty scent of wet woods filled his nostrils. His head buzzed with the sights and sounds.

The trees sighed as a gentle breeze passed through them, tickling his face and causing gooseflesh to rise on his naked forearms. The forest reminded him of home, of Salvar, where he'd grown up. But, that was only because it was a forest. The truth was, this place was quite different. Salvar's forests were filled with soldier pines, airy meadows atop high hills, and steep ravines. This forest was mostly flat land, a gentle slope, one covered with the bushy trees of the southern lands, where the summers were longer and the air was warmer. He spotted oak, ash, and elms--all good wood, valuable wood. He wondered if he were to chop down a tree, in this make-believe forest, if he could bring the wood outside. Part of him told him it wasn't possible, that it would be like trying to carry a tree out of his dream.

With magic, anything is possible.

He wouldn't write it off so soon. Then again, he had far more important things to do than sight see. Apparently a man awaited him in this forest, one would test his worth. The monks sheltered him for months, gave him a place to rest. They set him to all sorts of tasks. Most the tasks were simple things, such as cleaning, pouring their ale at dinner, and helping sort their magical tomes. Other times they sent him all around Radasanth, with a list and a bag of silver. The fact that they trusted him, meant a lot. The thought crossed his mind to betray them, but he decided against it. The monks practice magic, and if he were to ever learn magic, or any other sort of art, he needed to earn their trust.

The monk named Master Crane had been the one to look after him. He was a cordial man, but very quiet. Each night he brought dinner, after Leslot had cleared the tables and cleaned up after the rest of the monks. He sat with Leslot, reading from a dusty old book, asking him questions about his day. Leslot had been glad for the company. He couldn't remember the last time anyone asked how he felt. His slave masters were never interested in what he felt. Not that he blamed them. He never recalled his father talking to their horses or cattle and asking how they felt, either.

"Those marks will haunt you," Master Crane had said, pointing to the red tattoos on the right side of his face. "I would recommend seeing if they can be removed. We could burn your flesh and melt them out. A scar would make you look formidable and erase the fact that you were another man's property."

The tip had been a sound one. In fact, it had crossed Leslot's mind to do the same. But, he chose not to. They were apart of him now, a part of his past. Sure, if the right people saw them it would draw trouble. A slave returned to his rightful master would earn good coin. Even if the master couldn't be found, an ex-slave could be sold back into slavery and earn even more.

He resolved to break free of his bindings and had done so. Now, he set out to prove worth, determined to gain the power necessary that no man could enslave him again. Only then would he be safe.

A crow landed on the bough of an oak in front of him. It titled its head and squawked. Leslot noticed it was looking past him, somewhere beyond. He whirled around, freeing the dagger from his belt. He turned it, holding it black-handed, like his father had taught him.

He still remembered the lesson, "A knife isn't a sword, nor is it a dagger, or even a dirk. It doesn't have the reach, but it has speed. Hold it like this, that'll give you more speed and strength behind your stabs. Get in close to your opponent, but beware if they have a weapon that out-reaches yours. You'll almost always lose. But, if you can catch them unawares, a swift knife-hand can punch a dozen holes in a man within a few beats of a heart."

The man sat a good ways away, behind a large tree. A soft sound, a singing voice, murmured through the woods. The words were foreign, and but the melody was nice. Leslot moved from tree to tree, until he was close, any further and it would give away his position. Maybe he could stab the man in the back, end it quick. Maybe not.

The stranger's features came into view. Sharp ears, green hair, and a sharp looking hat, titled ever so slightly. The clothes he bore didn't look like anything Leslot would imagine an elf wearing. The style was right out of Radasanth's merchant houses. He'd dealt with a few men wearing the suits, men who valued money, above all else. This one was a strange elf, with careful looking eyes.

Leslot's threadbare clothes, covered in soot and grime made him look like a dirty street beggar. It was to be the beggar versus the coin-monger.

"You're the one I'm to fight?" Leslot said, stepping out from behind the tree. "I'm Leslot Drakkei. A man should know the name of his enemy, especially when he's going to be defeated by him."

[Elthas_Belthasar]

Elthas's sharp ears heard it before he physically reacted.

He opened his eyes slowing, revealing the blue irsis. His eyes had a sharp, intelligent gaze about them. Then, he heard his potential recruit speak. You can learn a lot about an opponent in The Citadel. You can measure the value of a man through their worth in battle. Sometimes, a battle was the only true way to measure someone. Elthas thought to himself as he looked at Leslot Drakkei. The man had introduced himself, and the description of the fellow was every bit the way that the dossier information read. Elthad half-bowed with polite respect. He continued to sing for a bit longer. He was a bard, and a blade dancer after all. After he bowed, his singing came to a slow stop. The song was deliberately chosen, in the tongue of his people. The Forest Elves of Ruild. Elthas had the distinct features of a pure Forest Elf. Forest folk were different from the Raiaera, or even Alerar breed. They were a humble, nature-loving lot. Once Elthas was done bowing, he tipped his hat slightly to the fellow. The man looked dirty, but that didn't mean much to Elthas. What meant EVERYTHING was the intelligence he saw in Leslot's eyes. Leslot had an interesting name, it sounded Salvarn as far as Elthas could reckon.

Each culture's nomenclature processes were different. Elthas made it a point to know about such matters. Elthas's eyes narrowed as he looked at Leslot, taking the man in. He looked slightly malnourished, but that's something that a good hot meal could cure in a jiffy. Elthas stood up straight and looked Leslot right in the eye. Elthas was a man who was capable of seeing someone's worth. Actions oft spoke louder than words. Elthas decided to introduce himself to his potential client. "My name is Elthas Belthasar. I am an Officer of The Trading Company." Elthas said carefully, lo and behold, he did have markings of Quest Monitor for The Trading Company on his trench coat. The wind carried the leather of his coat with it. "I am certain that Jarrod Crane explained the nature of this situation to you? If he hasn't allow me a moment to. I have in my possession, a contract for a new hire on to The Trading Company. My people have been following your progress for some time now. It is my business TO KNOW. Once this sparring match is over, after I feel you have learned an adequate amount, I will offer you a business proposal. My colleagues are always interested in potential new recruit. You have shown worth in your actions, allow me the chance to prove your worth." Elthas said carefully. It was a long proposal as he laid out the basic guidelines of their meeting. But, he wanted Leslot to understand one matter...ELTHAS WAS NOT HIS ENEMY.

Quite the contrary, Elthas hoped that the two could become allies.

"If Crane performed his duties correct you should have been issued a set of daggers. They are standard issue daggers from my organization." Elthas rubbed his chin. He saw that the daggers were attached to Leslot's belt. "Good. I am here to train you in their effective use, later their maintenance." Quickly, with his agility, Elthas suddenly drew his own steel daggers. He took a basic combat stance, not one of his own higher tiered combat stances. He didn't want to overwhelm the Salvarn too soon. The basic combat stance was simplistic, easy to be shifted into. "Blade Dancers are not like the heavy sword users. We are about our finesse and style. Quick, precise strikes, you understand, Leslot? Move into combat position, just like I just did. Then hit me, if you can. If you pass this test you will be allowed into The Trading Company." Elthas said calmly and he began to circle softly around Leslot. He remained in his combat position but did not strike. The goal was not to overwhelm, but to get Leslot to REACT. Elthas observed every single movement that Leslot made, and he took it into his mind. In that sense, he was already building up strategy, and tactics.

[SteelVoltage]

The elf didn't seem in any hurry to end his song. Even after Leslot introduced himself, he continued on. Leslot almost would have enjoyed the song, if not for the fluttering of his gut, the anticipation of a fight. Once finished, the elf stood and gave a short bow. Leslot nodded in return, a sign of respect. He had no reason to hate this man, but he wasn't about to allow him to catch him unawares. He squeezed the handle of the dagger in his hand and took a few, cautious, steps forward.

The elf tipped his hat. Leslot turned sideways, letting the dagger fall to his hip, but still clenched tight and at the ready. Caution was a fighter's best tool, that and a healthy serving of fear. His father told him not to be ashamed of fear, that it would keep him alive more so than bravery would. The brave ones were often the first ones to die.

"My name is Elthas Belthasar. I am an Officer of The Trading Company," the elf said. "I am certain that Jarrod Crane explained the nature of this situation to you? If he hasn't allow me a moment to. I have in my possession, a contract for a new hire on to The Trading Company. My people have been following your progress for some time now. It is my business TO KNOW. Once this sparring match is over, after I feel you have learned an adequate amount, I will offer you a business proposal. My colleagues are always interested in potential new recruit. You have shown worth in your actions, allow me the chance to prove your worth."

Leslot gulped. That was a lot to take in right then. But, he couldn't help but feel a flutter of excitement in his gut. This was a test. He had the prospect of real work, of the good kind of work. The Trading Company, despite their generic name, were a big name. From what he heard, the whispers on the streets, they were new in Radasanth, but had brought a lot of hope to the impoverished imperials who lived there. Leslot didn't know much, if anything about the history of Corone, but he knew enough from listening that Radasanth and the rest of the country were divided. It left the city to fair on its own, and that wasn't always the most desirable position to be in. With little resources, any and all trade was precious.

It surprised him that Master Crane had been the secret organizer of this meeting. He tried to figure out just what Master Crane saw in him. Surely, there was obedience, maybe a bit of desperation. So far, he'd done nothing to prove that he had mercantile skill, nor even the skill of a body guard. Never the less, so long as he was employed that meant he was a freeman. He wasn't about to let this opportunity slip by.

"If Crane performed his duties correct you should have been issued a set of daggers. They are standard issue daggers from my organization." Master Belthasar said and rubbed his chin. "Good. I am here to train you in their effective use, later their maintenance."

Leslot noticed that Master Belthasar had daggers of his own drawn. He didn't remember seeing him draw them. Then the elf assumed a fighting stance. It seemed well balanced, similar to the sword stance his father taught him, but a bit more open due to having two weapons rather than one. "Blade Dancers are not like the heavy sword users. We are about our finesse and style. Quick, precise strikes, you understand, Leslot? Move into combat position, just like I just did. Then hit me, if you can. If you pass this test you will be allowed into The Trading Company."

Leslot still had the second dagger in his belt. He preferred to fight with one weapon, and would have loved to have a shield, but that wasn't what this was about. It seemed Master Belthasar wanted to teach him about knife fighting, or blade dancing, whatever that was. He assumed the stance, mimicking it to the best of his ability.

"I just have to hit you?" Leslot said. "I can manage that.'

A good six or seven yards separated them. Such distance proved to be horrible in a knife fight, or even in a standard fight. Launching an attack from this far left his opponent plenty of time to study his maneuvers and plot a counter attack. Leslot moved closer, leg over leg, in a wide arc. As he circled, he approached, slower at an angle until he was only three yards away, nearly at Elthas's flank.

Then he dashed, leaves spraying up behind him. The gap was closed within a heartbeat, and he swung his left dagger up. A shaft of sunlight caught it, the blade shimmering bright. He brought it down in a sweeping motion, stopping halfway. If he had a sword, he would have followed through, using the leverage of his arm, but knives offered no such advantage. Swift, precise movements, would win the day. At the end of his cutting motion, he stepped inward, lunging with a stab aimed low. Meanwhile, his right hand swept around in a high cut. The two strikes were delivered, one right after the other, only enough time to blink between them. He just hoped it would be enough to land his single blow on Master Belthasar.

[Elthas_Belthasar]

It was subtle, in fact.

The light that shimmered off Leslot's dagger was the only thing that gave the intent away.

Though blade dancers were about finesse and style, intent was equally important. He is taking this very seriously. He intends to cut me and end this quickly. That is solid improvisation... When Elthas saw the blade reflect light out of the corner of his eye, he smiled. He held a calm expression on his face. Always looking forward, hew knew a wandering eye in combat could give away the intent. Elthas also realized that Leslot had talent, but raw talent would not be enough to wind the day. Elthas had size and weight on Leslot, however those advantages would be insignificant in time. He realized that Leslot was probably very malnourished and had not eating a good, solid meal in a long time. Leslot was fairly tall, Elthas noticed that too. He only had a couple of inches on Leslot, so his height wouldn't be too much of an advantage. Despite his better impulse, he resisted the urge to use his natural reflexes. Instead, he would solely rely on his own skill.

Elthas had learned a lot since his failure at The Citadel Leagues event.

He'd grown powerful.

He knew, that Leslot would grow equally powerful. And the double pronged attack came in. In his stance, Elthas was able to react quickly and precisely. He saw the boy coming at him very quickly with his intent. Intent fueled by a passion that would someday change the very world they lived on. Elthas suddenly reacted. It was impulse really, he intercepted the upward strike with a sudden clash of steel against iron. Sparks flew from the metallic contact. Elthas ignored the second strike, taking a risk, BUT he reacted an entirely different way. He suddenly lashed out with a powerful, swift kick. It was a basic technique to be sure, nothing fancy at all, but Elthas was attempting to teach the basics of blade dancer. A blade dancer used everything at his disposal to survive. ESPECIALLY his legs and feet. Elthas thrusted forward, moving against Leslot's twin pronged strike. Elthas's boot would likely hurt Leslot...a lot. But he was still within reach of the second of Leslot's attacks.

The second attack DID in fact connect and pierce past Elthas's feeble clothing.

Elthas never wore armor, he simply wore stylish attire.

When the blade sliced across Elthas's abdomen, he barely felt it.

But his body reacted and blue blood trickled down from the clean incision. There was a rip in Elthas's fancy shirt where Leslot had cut him. Elthas closed his eyes as he kicked. He felt a pang of red-hot pain across his chiseled core. He was not like most Elves. He was built tall and strong. The blue blood quickly stained his white dress shirt. Elthas waited to see if his boot would connect with Leslot, only time would tell.

[SteelVoltage]

Knife bit into knife, sparks flew.

Belthasar proved his dexterity in that moment, when his dagger met Leslot's own. The deflection jarred him, his arm jolted back and he felt as though his shoulder were about to pop out of its socket. The block had been a stern one, that of a practiced fighter. Just enough force to stop the impact, and to also throw his opponent back a step. The grimace that soured Leslot's calm expression proved to be a forbearer of the swift kick that followed.

The boot met his chest with a heavy force and sent him reeling backwards. All semblance of stance worthiness, of holding his ground, of all the things his father taught him were erased in that single moment. The pain wasn't so bad, not as bad as the embarrassment that caught him in the back of the throat. It tasted like bile mixed with the oaten porridge he had shoveled down for breakfast.

His arse met the ground and he felt he air drove from his lungs, escaping in a low wheeze. The landing was awkward to say the least, his knees slapped against his chest, folding him over. The strength left him and he slumped back. A long moment passed as he struggled not to wretch. No doubt, Belthasar would see his flesh go pallid, the bulge in his throat working up and down, as he tried to force the rising bile back.

He failed. Not wanting to vomit all over himself, her rolled over and let the chunks pour from his mouth. They splattered on the damp forest floor, a milky white sludge. Using the back of his knife hand, he wiped his mouth and clamored to his feet. The world swam around him and he staggered, swaying on rubbery legs.

Leslot glanced at his opponent, and his eyes widened. Belthasar stood fast, a single line cut in his shirt, where a stain of sticky inhuman blue blood was already starting to spread and coagulate.

"You wanted me to hit you," Leslot said, his voice weak and coarse. He let the daggers drop in front of him, onto the forest floor. Already he'd done enough. The last thing he wanted was to cut Belthasar again, or to suffer another kick like that. There had been nothing fancy about it, but it hurt enough. He was still fighting back the queasy feeling in his stomach.

"I hit you. Does that mean you'll give me a job?"