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redford
06-28-15, 10:16 PM
“Again!”

John held the sword at the ready, beads of sweat trailing down his face, dripping from his nose onto the cobbled stone below. The sun, which was just beginning to descend, smote upon him continuously as the commander yelled at him further. The other soldiers began to notice.

“How am I gonna use you if you can’t swing a damned sword? You already showed me you can’t hit anything with a bow! You told me you were a swordsman!”

John had been swinging at this target for the last three hours in the heat of the courtyard. It was sweltering, and not even a wind blew over the walls around the pavilion. The captain's yelling grated at his nerves, and he contemplated turning the sword on him instead before swinging at the wooden dummy again. He swung hard, coming down at one of it's arms. It was a forceful, angry strike, more an attempt at relieving his growing frustration at being harassed by the captain and not being able to land an effective hit on the dummy.

The blow glanced off once again, leaving the construct largely unharmed. He gripped the sword tightly, his anger burning against the sword. The captain continued to scream, but John did not hear the words he spoke, only the disdain that was his intention.

The next few moments were a blur as he threw the sword down, growling as he spun, clenching a gauntleted hand and shoving it into the man’s face. He fell to the ground, clutching an already bleeding nose as one of the other soldiers leapt on him at the defense of his commander. John was much larger, and threw the man off as the other five that were practicing advanced on him.

Twenty seconds later, after a flurry of blows and curses, the six men, commander included, were on the ground moaning, grabbing broken faces and arms. John’s anger burned hot as he looked down to the gauntlets that had been his bane since this had started three months ago. He held a sword by it’s blade, gripping it so tightly that it quivered. It briefly struck him as odd that he had never been able to fight hand to hand effectively before he tossed the sword aside, already walking towards the exit of the courtyard as the sword clattered to the ground.

John walked out of the wide stone arch into Knife’s Edge proper and tried to calm his breathing. He looked down at the gauntlets, seeing that they now bore sharp two-inch claws at the end of each finger. He looked down, and with concentrated effort, managed to shrink the claws until they were no more. Though the gauntlets looked normal now, he continued to stare. He couldn’t very well chop his own hands off, and swordplay was now out of the question. Perhaps it was time to find answers. He recalled a time when his father, a ruling lord to the north, sent him to the Citadel to test his sword skills. Two of the opponents had apparently not finished their business in the citadel, and tried to fight in the courtyard. John had never seen such speed and grace than in that moment. In a half second, ONE monk had disarmed both of them and knocked them prone.

Maybe the monks of Ai’Bron had answers to his questions.

redford
06-29-15, 01:38 PM
In the basement of a tavern in Ettermire, a chorus of shouts and grunts filled the stuffy air. There was almost as much beer on the ground as there were in tankards as John traded blows with a large, brutish man, small crowds cheering the both of them on. He was almost more ogre than man, John thought as he took another strike from him. His vision shook and he took a step back as the crowd roared, half to congradulate his opponent, and half to goad John on. He brought his head down, looking through a swollen eye at his opponent standing in the small circle. They were playing one of the more common but less accepted barroom games, which involved standing in a small circle, and trading blows one by one until someone either was knocked out, or stumbled out of the circle. This was John’s third opponent of the evening, and his focus was beginning to waver, nearly as much due to the beer as the strikes he received. He spat, and his side of the crowd cheered him on. His opponent straightened himself, there was no defending in this game, you took your opponent’s strikes until you passed out.

John aimed a strike up at the man’s jaw, and heard a bone break as he dropped to a knee. Another roar from the crowd, cheering for John and yelling curses at his opponent, trying to get him up. He managed to get off his knee and stand, barely, and gave John a look he knew well. John almost smiled as the ogre’s vacant expression turned upward as he fainted. He fell to the wooden floor with a thump, and instantly cheers and moans alike erupted from the crowd.

The next few minutes were a blur as people clapped him on the shoulder and congratulated him. He approached a bench, the left side of his face swollen and red with scratches, and grabbed a large bag of coins, thinking that his winnings would easily get him to the Citadel, where he could learn from the monks of Ai’Bron.

John walked up the stairs into the bar proper, where a couple of people drank, most choosing simply to ignore the racket going on downstairs. He sat down at one of the empty stools and flipped a few coins on the bartop.

"Room,"

The barkeep grunted toward a small boy, who grabbed a sheet and pillow from behind the bar and scurried up a small flight of stairs. He followed. A good night's sleep sounded wonderful.