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DRAGONMOUNT

A WHEEL OF TIME COMMUNITY

Sword training for Drakky boy!


Sam

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Captain Redpath had arisen early as always. With clement conditions the twilight hours before dawn gave The Merry Pauper a surreal aspect. It drifted amid hidden currents beneath the mist, or, on a morning such as this where the stars and moon were clearly reflected upon the low swells, he sailed amongst the stars, and he was free.

 

He was dressed as always in clean somber tones, nothing leather about his person that would ruin with the sea air. A navy blue tunic, black over tunic, black slacks; his feet were bare. He wore no ornamentation, his hair and moustache were neatly trimmed and when he stood, even at ease, he stood a man who understood the importance of discipline and command.

 

Drak appeared early, deferential and respectful as he had been taught, possibly attempting to beat Bobby to the main mast as so many of his students had before. Many tried, none so far succeeded. It was good that the dread lord moved with haste, it meant more time for training before the day officially began.

 

Drak had asked for additional tutelage. Bobby would have refused were it not for Mr. Sweeper’s silent assent. He was ready. Despite his dread lord nature he was capable when not calling upon his power, and was becoming more so each day. He could scale the shrouds easily, and his balance was naturally shifting with the movements of the vessel, which would improve his footwork.

 

Leaning against the main course were two ornate sheaths, and efficiently, yet without haste, he sat his tea down on deck, raised one of the sheaths and handed it to his “student.” Curved, single edged swords, examples of expert craftsmanship and lethal purpose, why they had been the requested weapon Bobby did not know. He disliked the weapon, personally, but he was proficient in many, and this model numbered amongst them.

 

They would use naked blades, a training technique not often advised, but it would teach Drak control over his weapon, especially as this particular sword could cleave a man in twain, armoured or not, which he quite bluntly told him. If Drak’s skills were substandard enough to injure his own self, Redpath would happily toss him into the sea … in as many pieces as there were.

 

The first order of the day would be to teach the basics of use. One could use the weapon with a two handed forward grip, or a single handed reverse, the former being the focus of the exercises. The reverse grip was stronger, but less flexible; then position and the rudimentary slash and feint.

 

With neither pomp nor ceremony, Bobby began the lesson.

 

 

 

 

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Drak woke early, as he was wont to do, but despite the early hour the Captain was already up, fully dressed, and sipping tea. As he always was, no matter the hour anyone rose. No one ever woke up before the Captain was on deck. Drak had lost track of the times he’d wondered if the Captain ever slept, but as he always did, he shoved the question aside and focused on more immediate things.

 

He was adding another session to his morning ritual today. Normally, the young Dreadlord climbed the rigging upon awakening, as he had vowed to do after his first shipside morning’s lesson, but the Captain had agreed to instruct him personally on the use of the sword, and so his daily climb to the ratlines would have to wait.

 

Despite the early morning chill, Drak went barefoot, as did most all the sailors on board, and wore only black trousers, held up with a black sash. Clothes tended to bind up when climbing, especially if they got wet, and of late the weather had been plenty warm to not need extra layers. His were carefully packed away in a chest beneath his bunk.

 

Since his arrival, his body had grown both stronger and leaner, his muscles had grown more defined and become harder, his body had taken on a slender, hungry look. Like a sword blade was slender. Like a wolf was hungry.

 

After giving the proper salute, he took the sword the Captain handed him and the lesson began. Upon first grasping the weapon, he knew something was different about it. The sword he owned was accounted to be a fine piece of craftsmanship, but alongside this one it might as well have been a club. Drak knew little about the making of swords, but the one he handled this morning felt alive in his hands.

 

The Captain began the session by making sure he knew the proper way to hold his weapon, inspecting his grip and finding it to be correct. Then, the Captain demonstrated the proper manner in which to draw the sword from its sheath. Drak rapidly progressed from that, as well. Both lessons had been well learned from previous instructors. The rest of the lesson, though, proved as challenging as it was enlightening.

 

The Captain focused on the proper footwork and technique of sword handling to a degree the young Dreadlord had never known before. Drak had been around swords most of his life, and he knew that a blademaster didn’t use the dramatic swings and exaggerated movements a gleeman might recount in his tales, but under the expert eye of the Captain every little detail was sharply corrected. Each movement subtly led into the next. But the need for perfection was paramount, and the Captain made sure to correct each mistake at once, no matter how small. And Drak made plenty.

 

The feet had to be just so. The strike had to be just so. The various movements were demonstrated and repeated, with the pupil struggling mightily to replicate the practiced elegance of the master. Each lunge, strike, or parry requiring the proper positioning of the feet, the proper angle of the blade, the necessary flick of the wrists. And of course, balance. Balance was key.

 

Soon, Drak was dripping with moisture as if he had fallen into the sea, and his breathing as labored as if he had sprinted ten miles, but the Captain had not even a sheen of sweat on his brow. Looking very much as he had when he had been sipping tea a few minutes before, he was still the poised essence of cool command.

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A week passed.

 

It was cold, bitterly cold; almost cold enough to freeze. Icicles formed on the rigging, the railings, bow and stern. It was a unique sight that very few of his crew members ever saw. Bobby did not often travel this far from the warm waters, but this time he had decided to for no other reason than to enjoy the early-morning chill.

 

His men could hardly be expected to jump into the ice cluttered ocean; that would display bad form. He would have the channellers on board put to good use warming water, clearing ice from their path, the men would get clean, but it would be a far more strenuous exercise than normal.

 

And why did he insist on cleanliness? Well why not. He was a pirate captain, this was true, but he was also a military man by nature if not career. The decks of his ship would always remain clean, he would always be dressed in spotless attire, and his crew members would always wash themselves whether they felt like it or not.

 

He drank tea, as always. The warm cup heating his body through even as it warmed his fingers. This morning another cup of tea sat on the tiller, secure enough in their easy drift. Drak was progressing well, and the cold was likely to hit him hard, whether her admitted it or not, if he was unused to the temperatures. Bobby himself would have found it uncomfortable if not for his tea. Oh, how he loved tea! If he expected Drak to function at all he would at least give him a moment to warm himself before beginning the exercises. He was not about to let any man with frozen-numb fingers handle a very sharp weapon. That was the sort of idea his first mate would go for.

 

The student appeared, and Bobby pointed him towards the tea, a warning glance suggesting better of any thought to speak. If Drak was to be privileged enough to witness the early morning hoar, he would do so in silence. For however many years Bobby had enjoyed early morning tea drinking in silence, and he would continue to do so, or Drak would find himself swimming.

 

 

The Captain sat his empty cup down upon the plank and handed Drak the ornamental sheath, as he had done so every day since beginning. He showed promise. Perhaps he would never be a blade master, but he would certainly come to match Bobby himself, which was just as well, really. The skill of a professional soldier should be more than enough for anyone, and Bobby possessed that, if nothing else.

 

“You have done well so far. I will show you your next lesson, then you will perform the previous to warm yourself up, I believe you familiar enough with it now that I need not correct any of your movements.” The last was not so much a reassurance as a warning.

 

The Captain motioned for Drak to stand back. The sword sheathe he tucked into his belt on the left side, the hilt in a firm grip with the right. He spaced his legs evenly. “Pay attention,” he mouthed before whipping the sword from its sheath: Unfolding the Fan.

 

Arc of the moon became The courtier tips his fan, which flowed precisely into Humming Bird kisses the honey rose, to Parting the silk; The kingfisher takes the silverback. The Grapevine twines, the tip of his sword rotating in a dizzying circle, smooth and controlled. Next, The falcon stoops; Folding the fan; Unfolding the fan. The sword was sheathed and unsheathed with a hiss like steam. Immediately he assumed Heron wading in the rushes. He held the position as he spoke again, explaining each form and its purpose.

 

“Most would consider it more prudent to perform Heron wading through the rushes before sheathing the sword. I believe it takes more skill to flow into the position while unsheathing your weapon. Always remember this position is for practise only. It will teach you muscle control and aid in balancing. There are times when it can be used in battle, but I would not get my hopes up.” He sheathed the weapon, “Now, your turn. Take your time, and I will talk you through it.”

 

 

OOC: Mahaha!

 

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He had awakened that morning to the freezing chill of these northern seas, but it was a welcomed difference from the heat of his native Tear. He had dressed appropriately for the weather, although his hands and feet were still bare. You couldn’t work properly on board otherwise. The icy chill was at first welcomed, but quickly his hands and feet grew miserably uncomfortable. He didn’t know if he would even be able to feel the sword in his hands, at this rate. It was an unexpected, but pleasant surprise when the Captain offered him a hot cup of tea, but Drak savored the shared peaceful moment as much as the warmth in his hands.

 

It would have been easy to distance himself from the cold, but the young Dreadlord had come to this boat with a purpose, and he had fully immersed himself into the task. Much like you couldn’t learn to swim without getting wet, he doubted that one could come to master the physical fighting art he was here to learn without getting tired, cold, sore. The full gambit of physical agony was as much a part of the training as was the weapon he wielded, and as such he didn’t wrap himself in the Void. He prepared himself in the now, embracing the pain, because who knew what might happen on the morrow? Certainly not me, he thought with a sardonic grin. It paid to be prepared.

 

After the tea was finished the Captain handed Drak his sheathed sword, as he had every morning since their sessions had begun. Listening attentively to the Captain’s every word, the young pupil nodded when appropriate but was otherwise silent. Now was not the time for quips or inane questions. Now was only for focus.

 

“Pay attention,” the Captain said finally, punctuating the need once again to give his all to the lesson.

 

The Captain rapidly burst into action, each explosively fast movement exquisitely controlled, each motion precise. The forms Drak knew by heart by now, having had them drilled into his mind over the last week’s lessons. But the Captain performed them blindingly fast, unlike with previous demonstrations, while his technique remained flawless. It made Drak realize for the thousandth time how foolish, and futile, his attempt to kill the Captain with a sword would have been, as he had momentarily considered his first day on the vessel.

 

Unfolding the Fan began the routine, the Captain drawing the sword and striking in one smooth, swift motion. Arc of the Moon swiftly followed, the slash starting in the guard position and arcing up to cut off an adversary’s head before returning to the guard. It was followed by The Courtier Tips his Fan, the overhead strike cleaving an invisible foe’s head, then flowed swiftly into Hummingbird Kisses the Honey Rose, the sword blade thrusting at an opponent’s face from shoulder height, like a snake’s tongue thrusting the air. Next it was on to Parting the Silk, a precision slash to an enemy’s stomach; The Kingfisher Takes the Silverback, a downward, angled strike to a foe’s abdomen or thigh, then The Grapevine Twines, the tip of his sword spinning swiftly to disarm his enemy. Each movement precise. Smooth. Controlled, despite the speed. Then it was The Falcon Stoops, a quick overhand thrust; Folding the Fan, the proper, swift sheathing of the sword in one fluid motion, then Unfolding the Fan again.

 

The sound of the sword being drawn from its sheath was the hiss of violence in the otherwise quiet morning. Immediately, the Captain posed in Heron Wading in the Rushes, standing and pivoting on one foot as he slashed with surgical precision. Finishing the routine, the Captain once again admonished him concerning Heron Wading in the Rushes and then urged him to begin.

 

The bitter cold in his fingers made holding the sword difficult, but as he focused on his warm-up exercises, his blood warmed, and soon the cold was forgotten.

 

All that mattered was the sword, his balance, and the Captain’s voice calmly giving direction, correcting his myriad mistakes. Time was lost to him. His world was just the sword, his body, and the voice. Fluid motion, exquisite control, and the voice… until the world came to an end.

 

Then it was back to business as usual, climbing the rigging and then ship’s chores with his name on them.

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This morning Captain Redpath decided to do things a little differently. Not too differently, as many had been trained in this manner, but very few were offered an insentive to do so. Drak was attentive in his studies, and an industrious student, what's more he had not attempted--as of yet--to stab Bobby and take his captaincy, which in his eyes added a few feet to the height of his estimation. It was amazing how many of his recruits attempted to dispose of him, but then that's what you expected when dealing with the forces of "evil".

 

Several of his crew were right now working on putting a raft, the raft, together for the next lesson. Normally it was house piecemeal within the cargo hold, each log small enough to be moved between the hatches. A raft was not required often, but his crew could lash it together in minimal time, a well rehearsed play in case of emergency. This was not an emergency, as such.

 

The raft was lowered into the icy water, and Drak was placed upon it with naught but his clothing and a sword, and then the raft was slowly wound out until it was a good twenty feet behind the stern. The risk to Drak was small, he was to tie himself to the raft so that even if he slipped into the waves he would be able to climb back, so long as he was quick enough.

 

The goal was simple: Drak would perform the forms as shown ten times without stumbling off, it was fine if he lost his footing or slipped, providing he remained above water. At least, he would attempt to do this. If he succeeded his shield would be lowered and he would walk free aboard the vessel for the rest of his stay. If he failed he would get wet and very cold.

 

The sails of The Merry Pauperspread into life at the beckoning of a harsh command, sailors ran two and fro across the decks, and the channelling contingent set about managing the sails for optimum speed. Drak had not been told about that part, but hey, what was life without surprises.

 

 

 

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The days and weeks flew by for Drak as he trained with the Captain.

 

Not only was his body becoming used to the rigors of his duties on board and the cold of these northern seas, under the expert tutelage of the Captain he was rapidly improving his skill with the sword. The forms were becoming second nature to him now, almost reflexive. He didn’t have anywhere near the speed that the Captain had and he still had to improve many areas of his technique, but he had gotten to the point where his balance a strength. And the errors he made now were more about refining his technique than learning the basic skills.

 

Perhaps his excitement had gotten carried away, because the Captain’s next session definitely shook up the routine. Doing the Forms on a raft? It sounded incredibly difficult, but the wager made the challenge even more intense.

 

The weather had been fairly calm over the last several days, but that was on board the Merry Pauper. The raft was much smaller and as such would be affected more dramatically by every wave, not to mention his movements. Still, having his shield removed would be a dream come true. He had grown more than tired of it. But a good hunter was patient, and in many ways that was exactly the position he was in.

 

He lowered himself to the raft, and tied himself to it as some of the crewmembers played out the rope so the raft could drift loosely. The raft itself was plenty large enough for him to move around on without worrying about tipping over or falling off, and he was beginning to feel really good about his wager, when the ship JERKED the slack out of the rope.

 

He was flung to his back and only his grip on his sword and quick reflexes kept him and it from being dumped into the icy ocean. He felt weaves emanating from the ship and knew that the Captain had added a few chips to their bet.

 

Once the motion of the raft stabilized, Drak found the rhythm and began the forms. He found the Void, and it allowed him to forget all the distractions. He was at one with the raft, the waves, the wind, his sword. He felt the smoothness of the planks as if he were rubbing them with a delicate finger. He rode the waves like a well-trained horse. The cold was punctuation to his every breath, the icy wind slicing his exposed skin as he sliced it with his sword.

 

He flowed from stance to stance, never minding the raft’s movements. His time on board the pirate ship had given him sea legs, and the Void made him one with it. He went through the routine once, twice, three times. He was relaxed, he was balanced, he was the sword.

 

Four times he finished. He was so intent on the forms he didn’t notice the gathering numbers of ice flows that the raft was sailing through. Five times he finished. Most of the floating ice was small enough to be nothing more than a distant bump that the Void noticed, embraced, and forgot. Six times he finished.

 

His focus didn’t absorb the growing number of larger ice chunks that were passing him by. He was the sword, and the forms were his life. Seven times he finished. Thoughts bubbled outside the Void, thoughts would distract him, but he was still vaguely aware of being confident. Eight times he…

 

The raft gave a huge lurch as it hit a huge chunk of ice, heaving the raft half way out of the water and sending him flying. Inside the Void, he was relaxed and at one with the sudden shift, but that didn’t absolve his body from the laws of physics. It did, however, allow him to survive.

 

As his body plummeted toward the icy water, he was at one with the ropes that bound the planks together, and his fingers found them. His body felt the freezing cold water, but inside the Void the only thing that mattered was pulling himself onto the raft. If he didn’t he was dead. His grip held.

 

His muscles bulged, and his will refused to let the ocean win. One pull, then another, and he was lying on his stomach. The Void left him as he lost concentration, and with it came the bitter, bitter cold. But also relief.

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Bobby had found it highly entertaining to watch Drak perform the novice forms while balancing himself on the small make-shift raft. The dread lord had done better than expected, coming quite close to succeeding and having himself unshielded. Bobby might well have had him knocked off the raft anyway, just out of spite.

 

The next lesson would be equally simply if diverse. Bobby stood to one side drinking tea, as was customary, while Mr. Sweeper stood at the foremast weighing slim rods of wood in his well practised hands. Drak was waiting at the jigger, and at the Captain’s signal he would attempt to reach Mr. Sweeper without being struck by one of the blunt, but very painful, wooden rods.

 

Mr. Sweeper had argued the point that she should be allowed to use actual spears. Whether or not he truly believed it, or whether he was simply doing it to fulfil one of their many on-board rituals, Bobby had never bothered to find out. He didn’t doubt that John Sweeper, with his unmistakable revelry would not mind a little blood letting, providing it was not his own, and it never was.

 

Drak was given a sword, the same basic shape as the one used in training, but not of the same quality. He might well choose to attempt deflecting the rods with it, a tactic Bobby had anticipated, and he would not allow such a fine piece of equipment to be blunted for the sake of this particular test.

 

If Drak was struck, a very real possibility, he was likely to go down, the chance of Mr. Sweeper pulling his throws was ... well, it wouldn’t happen. No, the trainee would need to use his wit, his weapon and the cover provided by the ship itself to have any real hope of success, as Bobby intended. It was his hope that it would teach the dread lord to ware his surroundings and to be fluid in his movements and changes in direction. Eventually Bobby would have him practise his sword forms while avoiding such projectiles, but not yet.

 

With a smile, and a nod, Mr. Sweeper picked up the first from his very expansive pile of rods, and threw it in Drak’s direction. "

 

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Groaning and cursing his luck for at least the hundredth time that morning, Drak stood poised to run the gauntlet. He wasn’t “ready” per se, because he doubted anyone could ever get ready to dodge spears being thrown at them by Mr. Sweeper, even blunted spears. But he was as ready as he was going to get.

 

I’m in for a world of hurt.

 

How he was supposed to manage reaching the first mate without having his bones broken was beyond him… but he’d not give in before he began. As such, he took a couple of deep breaths, rolled his head around a few times to get loose, and did some last-second stretching. The time was now.

 

Just as the first mate reached back to hurl his first wooden rod, Drak feinted to the right and dove to the left, tumbling and coming up in a run. His misdirection worked, and the first rod went flying harmlessly, nowhere near its intended target. Meanwhile, Drak had managed to gain cover behind a stack of barrels, and just as importantly had gotten more than ten feet closer.

 

His task would be increasingly difficult as he continued. He would have less time to react, and Mr. Sweeper would not need to be as careful with his throws because he would offer a larger target. It didn’t bode well for him. Not at all.

 

Biding his time, and trying to catch the rhythm of Mr. Sweeper’s throws, Drak waited. His foe was too wily to fall in to a routine, though, so that part didn’t work. But the young Dreadlord did notice how short a time the first mate needed between throws. Scanning the deck of the ship for his next possible cover, he spied two options. The first was the main mast, which he could almost completely hide behind, the second was a crate Light-knows-what about waist high. The gap between the main mast and the crate was too wide to think about.

 

Sticking his head out from behind the barrels, he ducked back to avoid another wooden projectile, then sprinted for the mast. He almost made it when another shot came sailing at his head. He barely avoided it, and then tried to make himself skinny behind the mast. After a couple of spears caromed off the big wooden pillar, Drak dashed toward the crate, falling to his stomach at one point to avoid another rod, and just managing to make the cover as one clipped the edge of the box.

 

Gathering himself, and breathing deeply with the effort, he mentally reviewed where he was in comparison to the first mate. He was less than ten feet away, he thought, which meant he would have to be VERY lucky to dodge a throw. He would be more likely to be successful if he could distract the first mate, or trick him somehow, but he didn’t know how he was going to manage that. He popped his head up to take one last look to make sure of where he was and saw nothing but the blunt end of a rod as it smashed him between the eyes.

 

The last thing he saw before the world went dark was the numeral 12, That’s weird, on the end of the blunt spear.

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He had the idea of it, at least, and that was a start. This particular exercise was repeated four more times, exactly, as one was never enough to grasp the concept of avoidance. There would be times in future where the skill would be useful, as the others Bobby was attempting to teach. The next test was no exception.

 

By now, Drak was familiar enough with the novice sword forms and the various combinations he had been taught, the next step was to work on concentration. This was reasonably mild, with a small margin for stinging, though nothing as painful as the last. Bobby would see how Drak handled himself now.

 

The Captain disliked the void. Useful but relied upon like the power. Whether or not lessons stuck, his aim was to strengthen weaknesses and not strengths. That is why Drak would be forced to concentrate without the void, concentrate in an environment where no surroundings were blocked and no sensations dulled.

 

Drak once more stood amidships with sword in hand, a row of crew men on either side, each with a handful of small leather balls packed with rice. There would be no prizes then, for guessing the idea behind this one. The crew would throw the balls at Dark, and he would concentrate, and continue his routine until Bobby was satisfied.

 

If the trainee slipped, stumbled, erred in his forms in anyway he would simply have to start again—from the beginning, and chances were that Bobby would make him do it for longer, as a sort of “encouragement” against failure, or, more honestly, a punishment for not succeeding.

 

For addicts, and that is truly what a dread lord was, they managed quite well without being able to call upon their addiction. At times it hampered the ability to learn, some had gone through quite aggressive stages of “withdrawal”, and there was no remedy to that other than to release them from their shields, the power was not an addiction permanently severed without serious consequences, normally a loss of will to live.

 

“Begin,” his tone one of crisp military precision.

 

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  • 2 weeks later...

Drak knew this was one of the most difficult tasks so far. Trying to concentrate enough to do the forms while being pelted with rice balls was hard enough, but when the Captain said he had to concentrate without using the Void it made things infinitely tougher.

 

After all, the Void was a concentration tool that worked remarkably well. But the Captain knew his business, and if he thought this tactic would help him improve, then Drak was going to give it his best effort.

 

Eyeing the gathered crew one last time, the young swordsman began the sword kata. Immediately the rain of rice-filled leather balls began. The hard little packets pelted him relentlessly, but he managed to begin his routine, while not quite flawlessly, somewhat effectively.

 

His best efforts were soon thwarted, however, as multiple balls smacked him square in the face, and another connected flush on his testicles.

 

It was enough to disrupt his routine almost before it even got started.

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Bobby had enjoyed than beyond measure, or at least beyond the traditional method of measure. He was very satisfied. He disliked the void in principle, as he believed it caused as many issues as it solved. To sacrifice all those emotions and cares that made one human was a dangerous thing, to become a cold and calculating machine.  Human passion was not a thing to be avoided, but embraced and in many situations the ability to think reactively from human instinct would save lives otherwise lost. It worked for Dread Lords, whose main purpose was to destroy. It worked for soldiers who wanted nothing more than clean butchery, but it did not work for Captain Red Path.

 

The other entertaining part of the exercise had been the nature of it per se. It was novel to strike a man repeatedly with harmless yet stinging bag of rice, and it was also fun to watch selfsame man attempt to cover his ‘vitals’ as well as continue trying to perform the sword form. There was no real chance of Drak succeeding, not without drawing on the void or well-spring, or one of the other meditative states, but he did not know that, and from there he would go and practise, using the void less in order to pass this test.

 

A Captain congratulated him or herself on occasions as these

 

There was one less test that Drak would need to pass in order for Bobby to consider him fit for active duty, and by active duty he meant taking part in a raid upon an enemy vessel. It never did to have many useless and unable bodies concentrated in one spot. Bad things were known to happen to such places: Fire raining from the sky, the ground swallowing people, and other similar nuisances.

 

Motion for one of the crew to join him, Bobby began a quiet and private interchange before pointing to Drak and nodding his head. Two of the training pins were gathered, how the Captain adored them, and one was handed to the crewman, the other to Drak. This would be a fairly simple exercise, and it was rather straightforward:

 

“I will not bother you with rules and regulations. Neither of you is foolish enough to push the boundaries I have set. Overcome him if you can, Drak, or lose if you must. There is no shame in defeat. It is, after all, why you were brought here.”

 

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  • 2 weeks later...

He held the pin casually in his left hand as he listened intently to what the Captain had to say. If anyone was paying attention, they would have noticed that his grip was exactly like that of the sword form Unfolding the Fan. He thought the Captain noticed, but he was too focused on the task at hand to be sure.

 

Looking over the large crewman that the Captain had chosen to be his opponent, Drak smiled softly. “You’re a tall drink of water, now aren’t you,” he said softly. Shifting his feet slightly to get more balanced, just as the Captain had taught him, the young channeler focused intently and assumed the void. All that made up his existence was both outside the Void and at the same time a part of it. It was an odd paradox, but now wasn’t the time for philosophy.

 

The suddenly raucous crowd of crewmen and women were a vaguely noticed buzzing that bounced along the edge of his awareness, as was his own anger at failing so miserably at the training session that the Captain had just put him through. At the same time, the feel of the deck beneath his toes, the slight breeze carrying with it the ever-present sea salt, the rough hewn, water-soaked pin in his hand, and the gigantic beast of a man holding a belaying pin just across the open space from him were all as much a part of him as his own skin.

 

He stood silently, waiting for the big man to make the first move. Drak didn’t know the giant’s name, but he’d seen him around enough to know that while he wasn’t very fast, his hands were like large lobster claws if they were to ever latch on to him. The man’s shoulders were like huge boulders of muscle, and his arms were thick enough to be used as a spare mast in a pinch. But all of that meant nothing if Drak used his training and his own physical abilities as he had been taught.

 

With the man’s first tensing of muscles, Drak exploded into motion. While the man-mountain was still raising his club over his head and letting out a guttural “RAWR!,” the young channeler fluidly replicated the sword form that he had practiced so many times, only this time with a lead-weighted belaying pin instead of his sword. Unfolding the Fan caught Gigantor right under the chin with a painful CRACK!

 

The huge man was already out on his feet, his broken teeth grinning like a discarded saw blade and his jaw a mess of shattered bone, blood from his mouth spurting like a crimson fountain. In one smooth motion, Drak pivoted on the balls of his feet, and followed his first strike with The Courtier Tips his Fan. The overhead blow connecting with a sickening SPLAT as the behemoth was already falling on his way to the deck like some giant oak tree after a woodsman’s axe had been at it.

 

In the depths of his mind, Drak heard himself think, Timber!, but the joke never made its way to his face before it skittered across the void and was lost.

 

He strode boldly forward, and heaved the man over onto his back, before dropping to one knee and balancing himself with one hand on the man’s chest. Lifting his right hand high, and with it the belaying pin that would finish his foe, he was halted as an iron grip caught his wrist and simultaneously a shout rang out.

 

“Enough!” he heard the Captain crisply announce, cutting through the din like a good knife through jam.

 

Jerking himself loose from Mr. Sweeper’s grasp, he stood, coolly replaced the belaying pin in its nook, and let go of the Void. The “fight” had lasted only a few heartbeats, but he was soaked in sweat from the adrenaline rush, despite the cold weather.

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