[Training] Early bird gets the worm

[Cyrus Marius]

3rd Candlemark of the 1st Brightening of the Second Cycle in the Month of Junctior in the season of Autumn; Era I of the Celestine Mandate, Era XIII Post Fractum.

The pain in Cyrus' head felt like a knife pressing into the soft tissue of his brain, stabbing him over and over again with each step. He could feel his balance slowly returning to normal, but he still kept one hand on the wall as he staggered along the torch-lit streets towards the Military District. His foot turned on a loose rock as he walked and the young soldier went down hard to one knee, gritting his teeth against the pain and dizziness that assaulted him. His insides churned violently at the disruption, and Cyrus could not help himself from wretching and heaving the last of his stomach's contents onto the stones before him.

He knelt there a moment, weakly drawing the back of his hand across his lips to wipe them clean. He coughed once, wincing with the pain it brought to his head, and slowly he stood once more. Still leaning against the wall, Cyrus began to walk again, concentrating on placing one foot in front of the other and not on how terrible he felt. Before long, the familiar walls and buildings of the Military District came into view, and Cyrus shambled off the main street before approaching the main gate. He reached into a small sack at his side and pulled out his tightly bound green cloak, stamped with the mark of the 30th Legion, then reached up and replaced the large, threadbare cloak hanging from his shoulders with the legion's.

Nodding weakly to the few guards on watch duty and holding up both Military and Imperial visas in plain view, Cyrus was mercifully allowed to enter the district unmolested. The last thing he wanted was to explain why he was out so late, or why he was in such a condition. He quietly made his way to his company's barracks and managed to make it to his bunk without disturbing any of his fellow soldiers, then he sat on the edge of his bed and let his head rest in his hands. The night had taken it's toll, that was certain, and Cyrus could hear the Taskmaster's voice in his head, telling him to prepare for basic training in the morning. A wry smile crossed Cyrus' face despite the way he felt, and out of the corner of his eye, he cast a glance towards the training sword he had been issued.

Solidly constructed of quality wood and weighted similar to a weapon of steel composition, the training sword was not a bad piece of work. Cyrus reached over and grasped the weapon by the hilt, concious not to disturb anything and awaken his neighbors, and brought it to his lap for closer inspection. Here and there he could see dents and scratches in the wood from prior use, but it was newly smoothed and polished, ready to teach another young soldier the basics of swordsmanship.

Quietly, Cyrus slid from the barracks with his training sword in hand, still garbed in the green cloak of the recruit legion. He made his way towards the training grounds, deserted at this hour of the morning and far enough away from the sleeping quarters that no one would hear his practice. He found a wooden pell at the sword practice station, nicked and hacked half a hundred times, but sufficient for his level of proficiency. Cyrus tried an experimental swing infront of the pell, to get a measure of the weapon's balance and it's feel in his hand. The wooden blade hummed as it parted the air, and the young soldier could not contain a small smile at the sound. The weapon, rudimentary as it was, still felt alive in his hand, like an extention of his arm that was guided by his will.

He struck out at the wooden pell with half speed, aiming for a particular nick in the wood and attempting to hit it with his strike. More often than not he missed by several inches, and before long his wrist and fingers began to tire and get sore. His face got an almost expressionless look to it as he continued on determinedly, shifting his grip and stance methodically to better strike the target. Left and right, high and low, Cyrus repeated these basic slashes over and over again, always managing his speed and power to ensure his accuracy and control. The constant sound of wood hitting wood hung over the training grounds all that morning, it's rhythmic pattern heralding the comming day.

[Cyrus Marius]

"I've got to be doing something wrong."

The soldier frowned at the pell, holding the training sword loosely in his right hand. The concepts seemed simple enough; hold the hilt, hit the enemy with the blade, the edge is sharp, the tip is pointy, and so forth. Yet when he gripped the sword tightly, his hand would begin to ache and the angle of his edge was often misaligned. If he held it too loosely, then it would ring his fingers sharply and often slip right out of his grasp. He knew enough about fighting basics to know that you don't stand there like a tower, but as he circled the pell and lashed out at it, he couldn't help but feel that he was over-extended or exposed, vulnerable to a counter attack from a real enemy. He had shifted his stance several times, attempting to mimic what he had seen of soldiers and guardsmen in the past, but what seemed natural and simple to them was hard in comming to Cyrus.

The urge to simply hack and slash at the pell was a strong one, to just rain blind strikes down upon it as fast and hard as possible. Cyrus allowed himself a smile at the thought, but knew that kind of thinking would not avail him on the training field. He knew the Legion would teach him what he needed to know about weapons proficiency and combat training, but a part of Cyrus relished learning this deadly art through the natural process.

The young soldier looked down at his training sword's hilt, studying it intently. It was undoubtedly intended for single handed use, yet there was still space above and beneath his hand when grasping the handle in a tight-fisted grip. Two hands felt confined and awkward, so Cyrus began experimenting with different ways to place his fingers along the handle's length. He quickly found that by laying his thumb along the back of the handle and holding the weapon tight against his palm he gained a noticable level of edge control as well as a secure, sure grip even with moderate to almost full power strikes.

Cyrus flexed the fingers of his right hand, smiling now at the minor ache that lingered there. It felt good to be learning this, and each pain brought with it a new lesson. He brought the training sword back up before him, holding it's point level with his eyes for a brief moment, then slashed downward at the pell once more.

[Cyrus Marius]

Cyrus paused for a moment, catching his breath and giving his arm a chance to rest. He had made progress on the accuracy of his strikes, though he knew that his stance still left much to be desired, and that striking a pell provided him with no opporunity to learn any sort of defensive manuvers. None the less, he was becomming more accustomed to the weight and balance of the practice sword, and familiar with it's characteristics and limitations.

His stance was improvised, the way that felt most natural to him as he fought with the one-handed sword. He was turned profile towards the pell, back strait and head leveled, with his legs slightly wider than shoulder-width apart. He leaned forward slightly on his right leg, foot pointed towards the pell, but his weight was more or less centered. His sword arm was half extended, wrist strait, elbow turned down and the point of the blade level with his eyes. He would circle the pell as he struck out at it, quickly changing directions and shifting his weight forward and back, simulating the evasion one would employ against a live opponent, but with no opportunity to learn to parry or block incomming blows, his defense could only go so far.

His left arm felt awkward and unused as well. Cyrus knew that as a member of the Heavy Infantry, he would be fighting primarily with a shield. Glancing around first to see if anyone was present, Cyrus hurried over to the training field's equipment storehouse and quietly slid inside. All of the training armaments had been set in their racks and lockers for the next day's training, however the large, cumbersome tower shields hung upon hooks along the walls, and Cyrus quickly slid one off the wall and returned to the pell. He slid his left arm through the straps in the back of the shield and grasped the hand-grip tightly, moving his arm about to test how the weight of the shield felt on his arm. It was not light, but Cyrus assumed he would become more than familiar with the weight, and it was more manuverable on the arm than he would've assumed before holding it himself.

Turning back to the pell, he adjusted his stance to put his shield between him and his imaginary foe. This time he faced front more or less, standing strait and leaning foward very slightly, his feet once again shoulder-width apart and his left foot a step ahead of the right, with his weight evenly distributed on the two. His shield hung about a foot before his chest, resting just beneath eye level, and his sword arm was half raised behind his head, the tip of the training sword pointing towards the sky. He settled into position for a moment, letting his body tell him the natural way to stand, and soon he began to hack once again at the pell, half speed as before until he was familiar with the balance of the shield on his arm.

[Cyrus Marius]

The addition of the shield on his arm made for an interesting development. Cyrus quickly found that he could no longer solely use his arm in the swing, the tower shield before him obscuring a portion of his angle of attack. Where his shoulder, elbow and wrist had been sufficient before, he now found he needed to incorperate his entire body in order to maintain balance between offense and defense. He had to pivot his torso and twist with the blow, using his shifting center of gravity to lend power to his strikes, but still try to keep his shield covering as much of his front as possible. Even at half speed, the wood clacked against wood with a solid sound, ringing out across the training yard.

Cyrus paused for another breath, eyes closed against the throb in his head. He was still not yet fully recovered from his evening spent at the Crown, but the practiced helped. It cleared his mind and gave him something to focus on.

"Alright Cyrus," he muttered to himself, "you've swung away at this thing like an amateur for long enough. How about pretending your a soldier and trying a little structure."

Cyrus dropped back into his ready stance, eyes locked on the notched wooden pell. He quickly closed the distance, and struck out at the target's right side, then twisted the weapon around and struck at the same height on the left side. He then thrust the wooden blade forward, a short, hard thrust from behind his tower shield, and the rounded point of the blade glanced sharply off the wooden pell. He paused for half a moment, then lauched the same three strikes again. Soon he began the series from the left side, and then he would begin from the thust and transition to the slashes.

Sweat trickled into Cyrus' eyes as he swung the practice blade, and he began to feel his fatigue deep within his muscles. Still, he trained himself hard in the dark morning hours, moving slowly and methodically over the rudimentary basic techinques he could discern for himself. It was slow going and tiresome, and he was bone weary for his bunk, yet his legs kept moving and his arm kept swinging, and the smile across his face seemed only to grow and grow.

[Cyrus Marius]

One, two, three...

Pause...

One, two, three.

Two candlemarks would come and go as Cyrus continued this pattern, his pace steadily building into another rhythm that seemed to sweep him away. His concentration never wavered, indeed, the young soldier rarely seemed to blink as he focused on his target, swinging the practice sword again and again and keeping his shield poised and steady before his chest.

Finally he broke his reverie and lowered his arms, his chest heaving slightly with the exertion of his practice. Cyrus stretched his back and rotated his shoulder muscles, wincing slightly at the feeling, then rolled his head about, relaxing the muscles in his neck. The fingers of his sword hand slowly opened and closed on the hilt of the wooden weapon, sore and stiff from training, yet his grip was as strong and sure as ever. His left forearm felt as though it had a shield of granite strapped to it rather than one of leather and wood, yet the pain made him only grit his teeth with determination and grasp the hand-grip all the harder.

Cyrus glanced up towards the moon's position in the sky, and guessed that he still had several candlemarks left until anyone would discover him missing from his bunk. Less time had passed than he initially would've guessed, but that is labor for you, he reminded himself wryly.

Returning once again into his defensive stance, shield up and sword poised and at the ready behind his head, the young soldier began his next sequence of attacks on the pell. He struck on the right side, leveling his practice blade for the head or neck of his imaginary opponant, and as the wood connected with wood he whirled the sword for a second blow in the same spot, attempting to strike swiftly at a double time pace. His second strike missed it's desired target by a good half-foot and struck with more power than he intended it to, but the speed with which he was able to move the blade brought another smile to his face.

Flexing the fingers of his sword hand, Cyrus raised the practice blade and let it lash out at the wooden pell once more.

[Cyrus Marius]

The wooden sword blade whirled through the air, it's dull and rounded edges reverberating soundly off the sturdy wooden pell. Cyrus was getting caught up in the speed of his attacks, lashing out with the weapon faster and faster, sacrificing grace and technique for raw aggression. His face had lost it's expressionless countence and now held a fierce, savage tenacity that suited the fiery rage that seemed to burn within him. Faster and harder he swung, until the young soldier suddenly realized he had ceased with form and structure all together, and had been simply beating the blade of his sword against the pell as rapidly as he could.

Chagrined, he lowered his sword and took a deep breath, noting the slight pain in his jaw muscles. He must've had his teeth clenched that whole time, he reflected. Cyrus stared at the pell for a moment, trying to fathom what it was inside of him that smoldered so hot and unchecked.

"Done now, Marius?" He asked himself bitterly.

He continued to stare at the pell, but the night's training had lost some of it's allure for him. No matter how familiar he was with the technique of a certain form of combat, or any skill for that matter, he would never reach true proficiency until he learned to discipline himself and master his own wild heart. At the very least, few of his fellow soldiers would ever want to train with him if he showed that sort of lack of control during a sparring session, Cyrus thought to himself.

The mental image of hitting at a fellow recruit in the manner he had been hitting the pell made Cyrus feel even worse than before, and he all but tore the tower shield from his left arm. He returned the shield to it's proper place in the training equipment storeroom, cautious to keep things looking as undisturbed as he could manage, then slowly began to walk back across the training field to his barracks.

[Cyrus Marius]

There was no hurry as far as Cyrus was concerned, the moon still hung bright overhead and he was still, mercifully, alone. He strolled slowly, toying around with the practice blade while his thoughts wandered.

As he walked, he absent-mindedly swung the sword before him as a child might, his muscles seeming to remember the motions even without his mind's command. He swung horizontal, diagonal, vertical, even thrusting through the heart of his imaginary enemies. Cyrus had to smile at himself as he walked, amused at his own youthful excitement at practicing with the training blade.

As the young soldier thought back on his practice that night, unschooled and amateur as it was, he began to critique himself and his performance. He was confident about his method of holding and manipulating the sword, however, until he had a real teacher judging his technique, he could not guess as to his true proficiency. It felt right though, it had all felt natural and fluid. Loosing his control like that at the end however was abhorrent, but he would work long and hard on harnessing that sort of passion next time.

"Save it for the bedroom." He said outloud to himself with a wolfish grin.

Cyrus glanced at the wooden weapon in his hands as he strolled along, freshly scratched and dented from the hours of training, but that aside, it had withstood the abuse remarkably well. It's hilt components remained as tight and solid as ever, without a rattle or a loose section to be found. Still grinning, he began to toss and twirl the wooden sword in the air like it was a baton, his sharp hand-eye coordination and familiarity with the weapon's weight and balance allowing him to juggle it rather well.

That is, of course, until he fumbled his last grab and it clattered to the dust at his feet. Chuckling and shaking his head at himself, he snatched the sword up and quietly approached the front door to the Jade Legion's barracks.

[Cyrus Marius]

The young soldier cracked open the barracks door and peeked inside, looking for any sentrys or anyone else happening to be awake at this hour. Fortunatly, all still slept peacefully in their bunks, dreaming of glory and blissfully unaware of the rude awakening the Deakins would have for them in the morning. Such was life in the military.

Cyrus waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room, then he quickly slid inside the barracks and gently shut the door behind him and quietly crept back to his own bunk. He placed his wooden training sword on the bed and knelt at the locker at the foot of the bunk, trying to rummage through the stored equipment as quietly as possible. His long fingers roamed over the objects in the locker, feeling for the right texture, until he came upon the objects of his desire. He pulled an oil cloth from the locker, a strip of leather, and a small, rough-hewn chunk of whetstone that had been wrapped in the leather. Smiling to himself in the dark, he quietly shut the lid and sat on the edge of his bed.

Placing the wooden sword across his lap, Cyrus took the oil cloth and began to rub and polish the training blade. He knew that the wooden sword wouldn't recieve as much benefit as a live sword would from the maintenence, but none the less, he wanted to keep his sword in as fine shape as could be. The young soldier rubbed out out the shallow scratches and scuffs on the wooden blade, and he checked the tightness of the hilt components once again. Once he was satisfied with the training sword's condition, he placed it back in it's place near his bunk, next to his and other recruit's live weapons.

Cyrus' eyes lingered on his long sword's blade, and in his mind he imagined performing the night's practice with the steel sword in hand rather than the wooden one. He could almost hear the sound of the keen edge parting the air as it arced towards his target. Smiling to himself, he reached over and quietly slid the long sword free from it's home on the weapon's rack, flinching slightly at the sound the metal made as it drew across the wood. No one stirred though, and Cyrus once again quickly and quietly made his way out of the barracks door, his long sword in his hand and his maintenence equipment in his pockets. He knew he was still too energized to sleep, and the sound of the whetstone on the steel would ring too loudly in the quiet barracks.

As the young soldier walked towards the nearest place to sit, he swung the sword before him as he had done previously with the training blade. The smile grew on Cyrus' face as the live blade cleaved through the air, it's balance and handling a seemingly refined version of the wooden weapon. The sword transitioned smoothly through his diagonal slashes, and just as he imagined, it hummed as it parted the air during his horizontal slashes.

Sitting on a short wall not too far from his barracks, Cyrus placed the sword across his lap and took the cleaning materials from his pocket. As children, Cyrus and his brother were often given the duty of ensuring that their father's armaments were in fighting condition for the rare time he was called to battle. He never did go into battle again after his children were born, Cyrus recalled with a smirk, but they had to sharpen his sword and polish his armor like good, devoted sons none the less. If nothing else, it had given him a comfort and familiarity with the caretaking of armaments, and it had taught him a respect for keeping them in prime condition.

Taking the whetstone firmly in hand and holding the sword in place with the other, the young soldier began to draw the stone down the length of the blade in smooth, practiced strokes.

[Cyrus Marius]

The rasp of steel and stone drawled on rhythmically, as Cyrus ran the whetstone in long, smooth strokes down the sword's blade. He scrutinized his work with a critical eye, turning the blade left and right, letting the moonlight reflect off of the keen edge. He would stop after a dozen strokes or so and wipe the blade carefully with the oil cloth, mindful of the weapon's growing razor-like edge, then he would slowly run the swatch of leather along the weapon's length, collecting the indiscernable steel shavings that still lingered on the blade. He repeated this process for over half a candlemark, until the edge of his sword was so fine it seemed to disappear when he looked at it strait on.

The young soldier smiled in admiration at his own handiwork, turning the sword to and fro in the light some more for a final inspection. An edge that fine would be hell against lightly armored opponents, though it would have a tendency to chip or roll if struck against a hard, unyeilding surface. None the less, Cyrus figured the amount of steel-clad brigands he would be facing while in recruit training would be minimal at best, therefore he concentrated instead on maximum lethality against soft targets whilst still maintaining respectable structural integrity. He was very pleased with the results.

He set the sword to his side and brushed the steel shavings from his lap, then looked towards the rapidly approaching dawn. He had spent the entire darkening out in the practice field, and in less than a candlemark, the Deakins would be comming in the barracks to wake the recruits for morning excersize and drill. If they found Cyrus out of his bunk and fooling about with his live armaments, there would be no end to the laps he would find himself running. Grimacing at the prospect, the young soldier grabbed his long sword and swung down from the wall and hurried to the barracks door, careful to remain quiet but concious of his need for haste

He made his way directly to his bunk, first carefully placing the long sword in it's proper place, then he quickly stripped off his boots, tunic and leggings and crawled into his bed.

[Cyrus Marius]

The sharp jab of pain that he felt as the back of his head made contact with his pillow reminded Cyrus of how wild a day it had truly been, and he almost laughed aloud to himself. From seeing Ellie, to the fight in the Crown, to his impromptu and intense training regime, it had been a day to remember.

"You were born for this sort of life though, you know you were." He said to himself quietly. "This is living."

His was not a life destined for peace, harmony and tranquility. His blood burned hot and his spirit raged fierce, and his heart beat with all the ferocity of a battle drum. Cyrus lay awake in his bunk for many minutes after he had crawled into bed, staring up at the ceiling, his mind racing over his new place in the world. He was a legionnare, a soldier of the Empire, and it was his duty to kill or die, with no room for mercy in between. He pondered this and other things, until he felt his lids growing heavy, the fatigue of the day finally taking it's toll.

Closing his eyes, Cyrus resigned himself to what sleep he could catch before his commanders came and woke the recruits. Before drifting off, his mind continued to go over and evaluate the practice he had done that night. He saw the pell standing clealy before him in the moonlight, and he could feel the weight of the sword in his hand. In his mind, he could feel himself moving on the balls of his feet, his balance shifting from side to side, back and forth, always on the move. He could see his blade striking out towards the target in all the basic slashes he had practiced over and over again that night, and his right fist clenched reflexively in his sleep.

Yet, as his breathing steadied and he finally succumbed to slumber, the pell and the scene of the training yard faded into darkness, and it was replaced with his Elizabeth's face.

[Gossamer]

Great Job, Cyrius! Btw love the avatar.

Basic Longsword (+2XP) Approved.

[Cyrus Marius]

Thanks Goss