Still Waters Run Deep [self-mod]

[Amelia Lynsdaughter]

OOC: with thanks to Grim for coming up with the awesome idea that sparked this...

Imperos, Era 13 PF

Brightening 14, candlemark 0900
Temple of Aslan Training Center

She arrived quietly, her first time inside a temple to Aslan, her very being filled with doubt and ambivalence with regards to what she had come for. Hat firm on her head, she was wearing a simple white summer dress which matched her hat well. Purse and all, one would be hard-pressed to believe that she had come to that place to consider the possibility of taking up a weapon.

She could scarcely believe it herself, truth told, and it spoke volumes of how much she had evolved in the past couple of eras. Amelia had killed a man in his sleep, sinking the blade of a dagger through his ribs and ending his life in a fountain of crimson. Having removed the self-imposed memory blur thanks to even more shocking experiences in Nexus, she could remember it in detail now.

She could remember slipping into the bedroom, moonlight streaming through a half-opened window. She had been possessed by her father, at least in part. It had been a weaker form of possession than what she would experience after the raising ritual by Mama Juju. She was in partial control of her actions, making the girl and the ghost equal accomplices in the deed. Oh, it was clear now. She recalled it in a dream first, and then managed to do the same with her eyes open. Sneaking to the bedside, next to the Chief (her mother sleeping besides him), she had lifted the dagger and rammed it down strongly in a single explosion of power. Father, who had been good with daggers, had added precision, making a blow deadly that could have been deflected by the ribs.

The fountain of blood had been surprising, staining Amelia's face, neck and hair with warm fluids. The Chief could not even bring himself to scream, though the spasm woke Lyn up instantly, Amelia watching helplessly, without understanding, as the red pool grew wider and started leaking onto the floor. He still mouthed a few words, the girl saw it clearly, though she was unable to discern them. The curse showing in those dying eyes.

Then there had been a feeble light and a scream. Lyn had smacked the dagger out of Amelia's hand, the weapon falling with a metallic thud and staining whatever it touched. It had taken the Vagaran woman much self-control to keep herself from strangling her daughter then, but she still slapped her to the point of bleeding. It did not matter that the Chief had killed her beloved, her Den'theran, the girl's father. It did not matter that the Chief had replaced the Elf, using his authority to force himself as her mate. Nothing mattered. Amjl Lynsdaughter, of the line of Aaltr Hendriksson, had broken the rules. It was over.

She was put to trial the next morning. Three Elders and the Seer officiated the thing, Amelia not speaking a word throughout the ordeal. The fact that the Chief had killed her father was never brought up, though they all knew it and it was the only reason she was not given the Bloodraven right there and then. The Seer smirked, the Elders frowned, and in the afternoon, she was branded in front of the whole village, her mother standing in the first row. Dozens of merciless blue eyes watching as she screamed and struggled with four tough Vagaran men keeping her in place. With the branding done, the crowd dispersed, her mother leaving last after tossing the dagger by her feet. Neither of them said nothing, and Amelia saw her mother off as she reached down to pick up the dagger, realizing the meaning of the 'gift'.

It was saying, 'kill yourself with this'.

But she couldn't. She was a trembling shell without an identity now, and even the courage it took to commit suicide deserted her. She took the dagger and left, knowing in the hallucinated haze that was her mind that once past the border stones, she would become an animal to them. She narrowly escaped death three times over the next two cycles, hunted like a boar by a Vagaran party who only abandoned the chase because they'd found an actual boar - a more prized prey.

Against all odds, though, she had survived. Somehow. She had built a new person from the shattered remains of her old one, and one of the implicit rules she had given herself was, 'never again'. A lady could not use weapons. She must keep that tragedy from happening again. That had been the plan, however naive and incoherent. It had been painfully clear that hiding her head in the sand would not lead her anywhere - and indeed, she only lived because someone else had saved her. Because she had been a burden on those around her. And in the end, one desire overwhelmed the other. She would risk living through that nightmare again, if succeeding meant that she would be free from it.

"What can we do for you, Miss?" the young woman at the reception asked her. Amelia snapped out of her reverie and smiled a moment, looking over the list of offered courses - and feeling very uneasy. She had seen soldiers swinging swords around, and she could not really see herself doing the same. Daggers, on the other hand, she truly wanted to avoid. As for martial arts, Amelia knew that practicing them would make her body lose its feminine softness, and she was not willing to sacrifice that. She wanted to be able to defend herself while remaining perfectly ladylike. As much as she admired Viskyia for her strength, Amelia's background was different, punching people never entered her mindset.

"I'm not... really sure," she confessed after a short while, an apologetic look on her face, "but I would like to learn a form of self-defence."

"It's a very wise thing to do these brightenings," the woman replied, "perhaps I could show you around so you can watch our instructors at work? That might help you decide." It was a kind offer, and Amelia nodded gracefully. "Thank you very much, I think I could use the help."

[Amelia Lynsdaughter]

The woman, who introduced herself as Claire, did indeed take Amelia to the training center. It was a simple thing from a purely architectural standpoint, pillars with a roof on them and extensions for each discipline taught in the temple. As such, watching the instructors in action proved a very straightforward and unobtrusive task. They visited the K'tesh area first, watching a Katta demonstrate the use of claws in fluid, deadly motions. The girl shook her head and they moved on.

They barely stopped at the mace and warhammer areas, the mere idea of her learning those things being ridiculous. The archery range also held little interest to Amelia, though perhaps a small crossbow would be acceptable to her. Still, what she sought was a form of self-defence to deal with trouble in close quarters. Then Claire pointed at the dagger lean-to, but the girl refused politely. Finally, they watched several flavors of swordplay, though it all seemed so unladylike. Thick swords clashing noisily, coming down with enough strength to chop a limb off. She sighed at the end of it, her worst fears come true. There was nothing for her in this place.

"I am truly sorry," she apologized, "I can't seem to find anything suitable for me, but I still wish to make a donation to the temple," she added the last part to reward Claire's patience with her. The woman did not seem offended in the least, and replied that there was no need, and that she was always there if Amelia ever changed her mind. The young witch was disappointed, mostly in herself for not being able to defeat her own inbred limits, but she just could not bring herself to learn any of those weapons.

As they returned to the reception hall, Claire took notice of someone else standing in the room, and rolled her eyes up. "No, not again." Apparently she was familiar with the man in the hall. But Materna, what a funny-looking character he was! Amelia had to refrain from giggling like a schoolgirl upon seeing him for the first time. He was a human, perhaps in his early thirties, with a healthy tan on his face and restless brown eyes. A spectacularly well-kept moustache run from one side of his mouth to the other, his hair falling over his shoulders. A gorgeous, bright-colored hat stood proud on his head, it was a wide-brimmed thing with a large orange plume on it, surrounded by quite a few other plumes of different colors. The rest of his clothing was no less flamboyant, a vortex of colors wrapped inside an orange cloak. An elaborate, thin scabbard rested idly at his side.

"I am sorry," Claire said, a tinge of exasperation in her voice, "but as I said before, we aren't looking to hire any more instructors at this time. I thought I had made myself clear, sir." But the man spread his arms out in a burst of outrage and prevented her from continuing. "A farce! Sangre d'Aslan, please tell me this is a farce and I will applaud at the sheer greatness of it! I, Ricardo Flaminio Borges, denied by such a tasteless establishment! Have the basic laws of aesthetics been turned upside down? Let men walk on their hands and wear gloves on their feet then!"

Claire ignored the man's flamboyance and answered as professionally as she could. "Again, I am sorry, I do not set the rules here, but I have to enforce them. Perhaps we may have job openings some time in the future, but as of right now, I am sure you will find other ways to put your... talents to profitable use, good sir."

All the while, Amelia was watching in silence, trying to fight back the very inappropriate smile that threatened to make her lips curl. For all the man's bluster, there was something endearing about him. At least, unlike the other instructors, he seemed very passionate about his way of life. "That I will!" Ricardo replied theatrically, "I will open my own school and spread the grace and beauty that this place so obviously lacks. You have done me a dire wrong, scorning the offer I gave you out of pity at seeing promising young people enter your so-called school and getting out of it as distasteful armed grunts. The ruin of our society is not an Orc, nor a Vysstichi, but a gentleman tainted with the ways of the woodcutter that you seem so fond of in this place." His body did not stand still throughout the speech, his cloak billowing as he rushed and moved and turned, as if addressing an audience all around him.

"This is a temple," Claire replied coldly, "I must ask you to leave." The man spread his arms out, the cloak animating from the momentum. Then he bowed impeccably and turned around, leaving as he fumed with indignation. Tainted with the ways of the woodcutter? He sure talked funny, Amelia considered, though she had admit to having felt the same way upon seeing the swordplay being taught at the Temple. She thanked Claire and made her way out of the building, hoping to stop the master-at-arms in time.

[Amelia Lynsdaughter]

She found that catching up with the man was a pretty easy task, all things considered. His pace did not strike her as exceptionally fast, and maybe he was trying to let his outrage show, so the world would see the unfairness of it all. Ricardo claimed to be a master-at-arms, but so far Amelia had only seen the actor (or the street performer) in him. She decided to approach him and ask a few questions, her shy nature opposing the idea for a few seconds before yielding to it. Whatever the man had to offer, it was either nothing or better than nothing. It could not be worse than nothing.

So she suddenly found herself passing him by and stopping a few meters ahead of him, at which the tanned swordsman stopped on his tracks, as well. "Um..." Amelia began, fumbling for words. She wanted to ask for a demonstration of his skills but at the same time she was afraid of insulting him and being on the receiving end of another tirade. Ricardo, however, knew exactly what to do, and bowed like a true gentleman, his hat almost sweeping the ground in the process. "M'lady, I beg your forgiveness for my earlier behavior. Be assured that it was never my intention to insult you in any way."

"No, no, you didn't insult me," she replied, "but you had me... interested in your words about grace and beauty in a fight. Does such a thing really exist, Master Borges?" Ricardo grinned then, his brown eyes scanning the girl in front of him. "Whether there is beauty in a fight, M'lady, depends as much on you as on your opponent," he explained, "yet a duel between real gentlemen is quite a spectacle to behold. There is skill, there is drama, there is pathos. There is art, like on the stage, but better than on the stage, for everything is fake on the stage."

Amelia sighed a little and voiced her doubts. "I don't think anything about a fight can possibly be graceful. In the end it's just a weapon and spilt blood. Earlier at the temple I was trying to choose a form of self-defence... because Nexus is so dangerous a city... but it turns out none of those courses were cut out for me. My hands were never meant to be holding a sword. I was foolish for believing it even an instant. Certain things can never change." The smartly dressed fencer took a few steps forward and approached the girl, her body getting a little tense as he did. "Of course, M'lady, this begs the question of why you stopped me, if you already knew the answer. May I inquire as to your previous experience with weapons?"

Amelia froze, a part of her wishing for nothing more than a hasty retreat. "Um... very occasional..." she simply murmured. Thankfully the man did not sound as enraged as he had been at the temple. "All I really wanted was a weapon I could feel comfortable with, that I could defend myself with. Because when people tried to hurt me in the past, someone else had to step in... and save me..." There, she said it. And Ricardo grinned, almost wickedly so. "This is getting interesting, M'lady, you are actually making my brightening after that debacle. So you would like to defend yourself in style. Very reasonable intent, if I do say so myself. You must be wondering right now, if my style matches yours well enough. Perhaps I can interest you in a demonstration?"

The half-elf nodded, her expression lightening. "That would be wonderful!" she confirmed, deciding that she would give him the benefit of the doubt. She looked at her hands, imagining them with a hilt in her grasp and marveling at the thought. "Excellent, may I ask you to follow me? It's a bit of a walk." It was only natural, Amelia, supposed, one could not demonstrate a combat technique right in the middle of a public street. She gave her agreement, Ricardo bowed again and then headed out for the Western part of the city - the Docks.

She had walked down those streets many times before, and knew their destination. One could easily see the buildings get poorer and more unstable with each step down the road, heralding their entrance into the more unsafe quarters of Nexus. Amelia felt uneasy not knowing where Ricardo was planning on taking her, but she guessed he knew what he was doing. In fact, Ricardo knew it very, very well, for it was a very simple plan.

They eventually reached the entrance to a very low-profile tavern. It could not compare to Longbeard's, not by a long shot. In fact, it was one the filthiest, most run-down places Amelia had ever seen, it did not even have a sign identifying its name, but Ricardo deemed it satisfactory after a cursory glance. The smell of cheap alcohol was almost overwhelming and the girl could swear she caught a glimpse of a rat flashing across the main room.

There were perhaps four or five patrons inside, plus the bartender, so to speak. They did not seem intent on drinking excessively, likely because of the early hour, and had probably gathered there to discuss some seedy business seeing as they there were sitting at the same table. They were scruffy-looking, tough men with a malicious glint in their eyes. The bartender himself was washing a mug as they stepped in. Amelia had learnt her lesson well from her night at Longbeard's, and if a flamboyant dandy and an impeccably dressed girl entered such a establishment, trouble never seemed to trail far behind.

Especially if one addressed the patrons the way Ricardo did, Amelia practically shrinking behind his back in disbelief. "I am here on behalf of the Guilds, they say you need a license to carry as strong a body odor as yours," he deadpanned with a tip of his hat, orange plume waving ever so slightly.

[Amelia Lynsdaughter]

At first it was laughter, the men at the table not taking him seriously. One of them rose from his seat - he was huge, with fists the size of melons and a series of nasty scars running down his cheeks. He was easily a full head taller than Ricardo, and he uttered a few obscenities best left unsaid. The bartender kept wiping mugs with a towel. Amelia wanted to run, badly, and was ready to do so if things went wrong. The patron pulled out a mean-looking knife and unloaded some more verbal abuse. A tiny, transparent ghost orbited around the blade, black mouth open in a silent scream, meaning that the weapon had taken lives. "En garde," said Ricardo, drawing his own blade in turn.

To his credit, that was the most elegant act of drawing a blade Amelia had ever seen. The point traced a beautiful arc in the air, and the master-at-arms stood in a dynamic fighting stance with his sword arm extended. The sword itself was perhaps 70 centimeters in length, thin, narrow and shiny. It tapered to a point towards the end and featured a simple handguard, but in Ricardo's hands it looked like a conductor's baton.

With both blades drawn, the situation was past the point of no return. The knife-holding ruffian charged at the fencer and lunged with his weapon. The parry that followed was literally lightning fast, though it was as much a sidestep as a parry, deflecting the incoming blade and dodging the furious bull who spent the next few moments turning around and regaining his balance. He then attempted a wild horizontal swing at Ricardo's torso, but a new flash of his smallsword drove it up and away. The flamboyant swordsman merely added one more flick of his wrist and suddenly the titan roared in pain, the knife slipping out of his wounded hand.

"You will have to forgive me for that," Ricardo taunted, circling him playfully, "my opponents usually tend to have opposable thumbs and all that." The man, driven mad by his attitude, attempted a bare-handed grapple on the master-at-arms, who lunged with incredible speed and removed the buckle of his pants, causing them to fall down and him, to trip over them. Ricardo easily sidestepped the pathetic falling figure of his opponent just as the other three decided that it was pretty okay for them come to him at the same time after all.

It was then that Ricardo changed the rules of engagement and leapt on a stool and then on a table, not before kicking the stool in his opponents' way in a jaw-dropping display of acrobatics. One of the men stumbled into the stool and fell like a sack of potatoes. The other two, however, were both armed with longknives and attacked more warily after their comrade's swift defeat. They were clearly maneuvering themselves to surround their opponent standing on the table.

They never got to carry out their plan, though. The swordsman thrust his blade first, feinting twice with some impressive footwork even on the table, before aiming the actual blow. The man barely parried it sideways, and tried to land a riposte, when Ricardo did the unthinkable, tossing his orange-plumed hat in his face. The rogue flinched, roaring his surprise, a quick succession of blows undermining his grip on the longknife until he dropped it, Ricardo catching the hat back with practiced ease. Then he jumped off the table, forcing the other man to pursue him around it. The orange fighter kicked the first longknife out of his owner's reach and parried a rather sloppy attack from the second. Apparently he was able to land two or three attacks for each one of his opponent's, his blows landing with inevitable grace. Soon enough the enemy were disarmed and lying on the floor, stunned by the speed of it all.

"This, M'lady, concludes the demonstration," Ricardo commented. Amelia was speechless and wanted to say many things. First of all she was very annoyed at him for not revealing his true intents until the very last moment, putting their lives at risk. At the same time, though, she was awed by his skill. What impressed her the most was that all of the ruffians still lived. Had this been a common longsword fight, much more blood than those minor gashes would have been spilled, and some of those men likely would have faced death or mutilation. She also realized that Ricardo could have ended the fight much faster if he had gone for their vital spots, but had instead opted for a merciful approach.

"Well..." she struggled for words, color slowly returning to her cheeks. "I really think you should have warned me first! You almost gave me a heart attack there!" Amelia protested with some vehemence, but Ricardo merely grinned and dropped five Crowns on the counter, with a tip of his hat at the bartender. "For the trouble I caused," he merely stated, the older man still wiping the mugs wordlessly. He probably saw worse things than this on a daily basis.

Once they were outside, Amelia felt her irritation subside as the recollection of that dangerous situation left her short-term memory. "What's your style called anyways?" she asked, pretending she was still annoyed at him. One had to keep up appearances, after all, and she did not want to sound too needy. "El Viatre," the man half-pirouetted to face the girl, "the art of the swift sword. Did my demonstration catch your interest, M'lady?"

"Amelia," the young witch replied hastily, realizing that she had been impolite, not having introduced herself to him until now. "If... if you had killed even one of those men, I'd have blamed it on myself for asking you. Do you realize that?" Her voice was softer and more collected now, as though she was lost in her own thoughts. "Well then, what if I had died?" Ricardo grinned again, apparently never caught without a riposte. The girl looked at him curiously. "Not sure," she replied, playing along, "but we can safely say that they'd been right to not give you the job at the temple." She smiled a little then, her Rhetoric training had been helping her a lot. She found it noticeably easier to deal with people now.

The swordsman seemed to enjoy the answer. "Point," he conceded. "So, will Lady Amelia be the first student of my not-quite-there-yet school? Do I pass muster with your unbelievably high standards?"

She thought it over a little as they walked near the docks with no real destination in front of them. "Maybe," she said in the end. She did not want to sound like she was eager to learn how to fight, but the concept intrigued her. Fast, graceful, and not necessarily lethal. "How much would that cost your first student?" she asked, blue eyes on him as she half-expected a witty pickup line to follow. What followed was actually not a pickup line, nor very witty, and left her wide-eyed for a second or two.

"Four hundred."

[Amelia Lynsdaughter]

"Four hundred..." Really, this man was full of surprises, and while Amelia could not be counted among the fans of excessively flamboyant men, he did manage to amuse her. "They only wanted three hundred for basic training at the temple," she retorted half-seriously, probably just for the sake of it. Arguing with him held more entertainment value than she had thought, or wanted to admit. "Sangre de Diana, I didn't just hear you put me on the same level as those woodcutters! My ears, my ears are burning!"

She adjusted the skirt of her dress, comfortable with her surroundings. Ricardo's skill made her feel safe even in the most dangerous area of the city, and her gaze lost itself in the sea she so loved. A ship was lazily sailing into the harbor as they spoke, a white trail of foam in its wake. "Master Borges... do you really think I can do it?" She was a strange woman, he thought. She could switch from teasing confidence to self-doubt and back again in a few seconds, yet both seemed genuine. It was as though two forces were fighting inside her, nature versus nurture."I won't lie to you, most practicioners of El Viatre tend to be men, but that's true of most weapons and fighting styles. You seem to have all the makings of a promising fencer, though. It takes grace, wit, and a worthy hat to practice El Viatre, and you have all three."

"I have wit?" Amelia asked, surprised. She also failed to see the relation between fighting and her hat, but decided to postpone the question. "You are flattering me, I am neither smart nor witty. I make so many mistakes..." she walked slowly, taking in the sights of the docks. "Well, we'd have to work on it, of course, but you can say some pretty sharp things with a perfectly straight face!" She turned her head to look at him in the eyes. Was it true? Did she really give him that impression? She could scarcely believe it, she did not think it was like her. She had to admit, however, that since her becoming a witch, and especially since her Rhetoric classes, she had paid more and more attention to her speech. She was losing that slight impediment that had had her stop halfway through sentence, just like she had lost many other things.

She truly was changing, then. The girl who had slipped past the gates of Nexus had been afraid of her own shadow, even afraid of speaking, afraid of using the first person pronoun. Speech had been her absolute weak point, and now the weakness was actually turning into a strength. It gave her an injection of tingly pride, though it also unsettled her somewhat. Who was she? Who was she meant to be?

"Could you tell me more about this style of yours?" she asked, accompanying the request with a smile. "Why do you need wit to fight, or a hat for that matter?" The man, who had been walking by her side, pirhouetted until he was standing in front of her. "It will be my pleasure to explain, Miss Amelia. Forget those other schools, those styles. They are rough, utilitarian, animalistic. They sacrifice form to some so-called essence, never realizing that form is its own essence."

He took off his hat and spun it around with one finger. "We do not fight for violence. We do not wield the sword to kill, even though we can do so easily. We are the actors, the dancers, the mimes. Each lunge is a verse of the poem, the flash of the blade is the light of the stage. Wit complements our performance, it serves as lyrics to the song of the sword. As for the hat, well, that is de rigueur, as they say. It identifies us amidst the legions of cheap impersonators. And yours, if you will pardon the boldness, is gorgeous, Miss."

The girl beamed. He had struck a very sensitive chord there. "Four hundred, was it?"

[Amelia Lynsdaughter]

Fang Horn Drop
Brightening 15, 1215 candlemarks

The house was old and run down, with an equally old and run down front garden. Ricardo had mentioned that in passing the previous brightening, after she had handed him the four hundred Crowns. Apparently he had only recently moved to Nexus from the refined city of Daltina - a city that suited him far better than Nexus, Amelia thought. Ricardo had not chosen to reveal the reasons of his presence in Arium, but he had taken Amelia in as a part-time student. He had agreed to spend a few candlemarks with her each morning until she got the gist of El Viatre.

And there she stood, in that neglected garden where weeds had long since taken over. Accustomed to the perfection of the Ablutos' own garden and hedgemaze, Amelia's feet rustled softly towards the entrance. She had followed his advice to wear something light and not hindering her movements, opting for a pastel shirt and simple trousers. In truth, she much preferred more feminine clothing, but there was no point in putting on a skirt only to trip every other second. No, skirts would have to wait a little longer. While her clothing did not mix very well with her hat, she had brought it anyways. The teacher had said the hat was an essential part of El Viatre, after all, and besides her Chocomir Original had become an extension of her body by now.

And then he showed up. On the roof.

"Serale, my sweet apprentice!" he proclaimed, standing above a wide-eyed Amelia with his right arm extended and holding his orange-plumed hat. "How does this brightening find you?" She hesitated an instant, pondering over her answer, and then decided that she might as well exercise her wit while she was at it. "At ground level!" she answered with a half-smile. The swordsman grinned and threw a white rose which landed half a meter in front of her while he scrambled back into the building, only to exit from the front door holding a sword in its scabbard.

He held the weapon out for Amelia to take, which the girl did after a moment's hesitation. It had been so long since she had picked up a real weapon... and it seemed even longer through her eyes. She had wielded kitchen knives, killed animals with them even, but that could not compare to this. This sword, albeit a training specimen, served a different purpose altogether. "This is the smallsword," Ricardo explained while the girl examined the sword, not yet willing to unsheath it. "El Viatre can be performed with a variety of weapons, but this is the one I will be teaching you with." Like the man's own weapon, the blade was perhaps a little over 70 centimeters in length and the hilt featured a D-shaped hand guard protecting the fingers.

The girl slowly drew the sword from its scabbard. It was clearly a training sword, but it scared her nonetheless. The blade was long and narrow, the cross section being a triangle that tapered to a point toward the end. "The smallsword may or may not have a cutting edge. Even if it does, though, it is not meant for slicing, but for thrusting, so there is not a lot of difference there. This blade can't even pierce, so it's perfect for training. Try holding it."

Amelia slipped her hand into the guard and closed her fist around the hilt, trying to feel this alien piece of metal as her own. "Too tight, I can see it by the color of your knuckles, Amelia," Ricardo said, "your grip on the blade should be neither too loose nor too tight. If you are too rigid, both your speed and your accuracy will suffer. Look." The instructor drew his own blade with his gloved hand and demonstrated how the weapon was to be held, four fingers delicately curled around the hilt while the thumb rested on the upper side to provide stability. In this position, the blade was parallel to the forearm, becoming its natural extension.

[Amelia Lynsdaughter]

The first thing Amelia noticed was that the blade felt very light in her hand. The balance point of the weapon fell perhaps an inch or so past the end of the hilt, and it was rather comfortable to hold. It did not fatigue her arm as much as she had expected, and even a tiny flick of the wrist was enough to cause an ample motion of the blade. "The smallsword is an evolution of the rapier," Ricardo explained, "the rapier's blade is longer and more flexible, but also much more taxing on the arm. The smallsword is easier to use in more confined quarters and much less likely to snap. Each has its advantages, of course, but I find the elegance of the smallsword to be unmatched. Speed is everything here, even more so than with other El Viatre weapons. Speed and accuracy in positioning the blade."

Amelia nodded slowly, still balancing the weapon in her hand. "I see, Master Borges," she said, at which the master-at-arms replied: "Maestro Ricardo, from now on. We're going to follow our own customs and our own ceremonial. This is very important, we aren't woodcutters after all." He winked at the girl and continued: "This also means that when we spar, we are going to do it like true gentlemen, or ladies in your case. You salute your opponent before a duel... and afterwards, if you are still alive and conscious. Unless you are being charged at by some troglodyte, of course, and even then, you should find every opportunity to do so. The aim of El Viatre is not only to win a fight, but to do so on our own terms, without sacrificing what we believe in. Any thief can sneak up to someone's back and stick a dagger there. We don't."

Ricardo demonstrated the salute by sweeping his sword into line with Amelia's chest, parallel to the ground. It was a beautiful arc, blade shining in the mid-brightening sun. Then he flexed his elbow, bringing his arm back to the body. The blade and forearm were now vertical, the handguard about on level with his chin and the blade covering exactly his right eye. Finally, he extended his arm again, concluding the salute and gesturing for the girl to do the same.

The witch slowly repeated the motions, though her grip was still uncertain. She copied his stance to the best of her abilities, extended her sword till it was parallel to the ground and then recalled it back vertically to cover her right eye, finally extending it again. "That will do for your first attempt," Ricardo commented. "Adding 'en garde' at the end is also polite while at the same time telling your opponent something like 'careful, you wretched byproduct of questionable bloodlines, I'm coming to get you'. So that's very, very good." Amelia had to fight back a giggle there, the point of her sword wavering for a second or three. Her instructor was doing an excellent job of making her feel comfortable.

"Well, time to tell you something about the philosophy of the swift sword," Ricardo began, left hand stroking his black moustache. "This style is actually comprised of two styles, or estilos. What we are practicing right now is Main-gauche open, but later on I will also show you something about Main-gauche closed. Main-gauche means 'left hand', Amelia, and to fight with your left hand open means that you aren't holding a weapon in there. Conversely, a closed left hand means aiding yourself with an off-hand weapon. Both styles have their advantages and drawbacks, and for the moment we are going to use the smallsword alone."

Amelia was a little surprised by the news. "A second weapon? Why?" The only people she had ever heard of that would fight with two weapons on occasion were Vagaran berserkers, their urge to kill sometimes too great for just one blade. "Well, the main-gauche weapon is always light but very different from the main weapon," Ricardo answered, "some of these weapons are meant for defense, like swordbreaker daggers, others can also attack, such as stilettos. These weapons are especially useful when you are fighting opponents with heavier blades than yours which are notoriously difficult to parry with a smallsword. A parrying dagger can take the blunt of an attack much better than this thin blade can. For now, however, we will be focusing on combat between two smallswords, so I would not worry too much about that."

Of course by now she had this picture of herself as a berserker in her mind, which threatened to distract her. She shook the thought off of her head and listened as Ricardo went about describing the first stance she would be learning.

[Amelia Lynsdaughter]

Ricardo seemed to sink into a much more serious - almost solemn - mood now, knowing that what he was teaching could spell the difference between life and death for his pupil. "The thing about El Viatre is that it is rather freeform compared to most combat schools," he explained slowly. "The reason why is quite simple, really - this style didn't originate from a single master... no, it evolved from a number of different styles that merged together. Each master will use different weapons, stances, and combinations, though the overall 'feel' and philosophy remain the same. I will teach you the basic stance of the style, although in a version that is designed for use with the smallsword."

The man demonstrated the first stance as he spoke. It was a relatively simple position, the blade was extended towards Amelia's chest in a slightly upward position, the blade still an appendix of the forearm and its natural continuation. "Lato Favorecido Forward, that's what this stance is called," Ricardo said, "it means your favorite side is forward - the right one in our case. The reasoning is pretty simple, you offer a smaller area for your opponent to hit, and your sword arm in between. Pure El Viatre would want your wrist to be rotated, but I have found this version to work best for me." His right leg was bent and his heel was not touching the ground; at the same time, his other foot was turned ninety degrees to the left. "This stance favors neither attack nor defense, and it's easy to switch between the two. It's balanced in the middle, so you can both advance and retreat with minimal effort. This is the stance you will be using most of the time."

Amelia nodded and tried to copy the stance, right foot forward, bent at the knee and heel separated from the ground. Her other foot was turned in the required amount, and though not perfect, she managed to get the lower half of her body aligned as desired. Her arm was not quite as good, though. She did not point the sword high enough, the point only facing the teacher's legs and unsure where it should be.

"You need to get more comfortable with that wrist, Amelia," the fencer commented, "There are three groups of arm muscles concerned with swordplay - wrist, forearm, and arm. If you were swinging a longsword, you would be using your upper arm's muscles to build up momentum for a chopping motion. With these blades, however, your wrist and forearm are incredibly important. Brief, explosive but controlled flicks of the wrist and the forearm control the sword and let you parry and strike at speeds that a longsword user can't even dream of. Moreover, you must always have your sword pointing at the enemy - it is a constant threat he will have to deal with, and it allows us to attack almost without warning."

The girl practiced the stance some more, getting more familiar with the relative positioning of her feet and the angle of her wrist. Ricardo watched her striving to find the correct balance between her legs while keeping her arm extended. "Never forget that this style is meant to be highly dynamic. In a real duel, you would never stand still like that, of course... which brings me to the topic of footwork. The reason why we don't encumber ourselves with heavy armor is mostly one of footwork. Knowing the stance and the bladework will help you perform attack and defense effectively, but a still target loses every single time. As a fencer, you will almost always find yourself at a disavantage of mass and protection, and with only your speed and agility to make up for it. If you don't exploit those, you are as well as dead."

"So I should be moving all the time while keeping these stances?" Amelia asked. The thought had touched her before, that with such a light sword and no protection whatsoever, fighting a real opponent could very well be suicidal. "What kind of movements are we talking about, Maestro Ricardo?" "Depends on many factors, like the nature of the opponent and that of your weapon. If I were teaching you the rapier, sideway movements would be an essential part of a parry. With the smallsword, though, advancing and retreating are by far the most essential footwork you need to know." As he spoke, he took a few lightning-fast steps backwards, his feet skimming the ground as though he were dancing, the sword never wavering. Each of his strides did not cover much terrain, but he looked perfectly balanced throughout the performance, always ready to defend, always ready to strike. "Remember, why parry when you can avoid?"

It made sense, Amelia acknowledged. Against a stronger but slower blade, it was very convenient to keep oneself at a reasonable distance and close down on the opponent when he overextended himself, to attack and then to retreat once more. The girl attempted to advance from her current position, shifting her left foot forwards as quickly as she could, then bringing her Lato Favorecido forwards as well, forming the initial stance again... and stumbling into a rock. She lost her balance, and immediately found herself lying on her side, flushing with embarrassment. "You've just died your first death, Amelia," Ricardo smiled amiably. "I will be keeping track of the number of times you die while we train together, just for fun, between friends!"

[Amelia Lynsdaughter]

She quickly got back on her feet and composed herself, trying to take on the one stance she knew. "I'll be more careful from now on," she apologized quietly. Ricardo smiled and shook his head a little. "Drills. I'll have you drill till you get the gist of footwork. You just have to follow my movements and copy them as best you can." The teacher assumed the Lato Favorecido Forward stance and motioned for Amelia to stay at his side. Then he moved the first steps forward, the right foot moving first and the left following suit, almost dragged and scraping the ground. The upper body was practically still throughout the process, and Ricardo took a few more steps in this fashion.

Amelia did her best to keep up with her teacher, imitating his every move. The forward part was not too hard, however when he began moving to the right it caught her by surprise. He shifted the right foot sideways first, the left foot catching up afterwards for the sequence to start over. The backward part that came next did not surprise her this time, and she noted that this time it was the left, rear foot moving first. The left steps that completed the square were also initiated with the left foot, after which Ricardo started over and went through the same exercise a few more times. These were essentially boring drills, though Amelia did not mind. Lap after lap, she got the basic sequence planted in her mind.

Of course, this was not to say that she never lost her balance when Ricardo increased the speed of his paces - in fact, she 'died' two more times here - but she was definitely at an advantage thanks to Father's blood. Her legs learnt the basic motions long before her brain did. She would need more practice to make her footwork decent enough for practical use, but at least now she knew how to move around without making a total fool of herself.

The next drill Ricardo had her go through involved circular movement. This was used to make the fencer move around a static point gracefully and effectively. It was in a way a combination of the forward and backwards step, the first foot to move being that in the direction of intended movement and the other following to reform the initial stance. Ricardo had Amelia walk in circles around him while keeping her stance, which caused her to die a fourth time. After that, however, her circles became more regular and her sword began to waver less noticeably than before. "Good, good. It's not that difficult now is it? If you are able to move along the four main directions as well as in this circular way, you know most of the basic dueling footwork." He turned gradually as he spoke, following the student's rotations.

That was it for the first brightening of training. Amelia realized that the gentleman from Daltina had taught her virtually nothing about the sword itself, only how to hold it and how to move around with it. Ricardo almost read her mind as he added, "Don't be disappointed, you'll get to use that blade soon enough. As soon as you can last a session without 'dying', we're going to move on to the next section."

"Yes, Maestro Ricardo," she replied. "I'm afraid I was underestimating the difficulty of these drills. Seeing you in action yesterday made me think..." "Oh, that! I wouldn't worry about that show, Amelia. It's taken me many patterns to get to this level, and I still have room for improvement. Rest assured, by the time I'm finished with you, you will be able to hold your ground against most opposition other than professional soldiers. Most importantly, you will have discovered a beauty inside you that you didn't know existed." The girl said nothing in return, and just trusted her teacher on that count. He was a rogue, but all in all not a half-bad one to study under. She held the blade in her hand, not entirely unfamiliar with its feel now. A beautiful instrument of death... would she ever have to draw it on someone to defend her life?

The following brightening, she 'died' twice performing similar drills to the ones she had been ordered on the first, bringing the total to six. The seventh came on the third brightening, a rather silly mistake of sunlight reflecting on the blade and blinding her at a very unfortunate moment.

But the fourth brightening did not bring an eighth casualty.

[Amelia Lynsdaughter]

Remembering Ricardo's words, Amelia showed up at the house a little more nervous than the previous brightenings. She knew they were going to practice something different, something more advanced today. And probably, the sword would become something more than just an appendage to be held while she moved around. She had gotten the basics of El Viatre footwork fixed in her mind, and she was ready to learn about actual combat. Combat. Amelia was a dove, not a hawk, and yet there she was, trying to grow claws. Hopefully Materna would forgive her for that. She still remembered the Reginalia incident, the dagger flying towards her chest, and how she would have died without Skay saving her at the very last moment. But Skay would not always be there to protect her - and Amelia was charged with duty and obligations of an extremely dangerous nature. Learning a weapon had been a necessary evil in her mind, but now it was starting to become intriguing new territory to her.

She noticed it randomly, how she could feel a certain rhythm to her movements now. The change was mostly psychological, of course, for she had not really spent enough time training to have acquired a new level of agility and dexterity. Yet there had been a definite change, or rather a self-discovery. Just like when there are many melodies playing at the same time and one finally manages to focus on only one and find out what tune that is. Merely realizing that she could do it had proven wrong one more of her 'self-evident' assumptions about herself, and the suspicion dared to surface that maybe, just maybe, what she perceived as her weaknesses could be trained, perfected, harnessed till they became strengths.

The master-at-arms had a more serious, almost solemn, look about him that brightening. It did not suit him at all, Amelia considered, finding it hard to not smile at the thought. Ricardo's exaggerated expressions were designed for flamboyance, not seriousness. "Very well," he said, after the salute and a few short warmup drills, "today we will be practicing the Estocada, or the lunge as it would be called in Common. I told you before that light swords aren't used to slash; in fact, even when the smallsword has a cutting edge - which may or may not be the case - that edge is almost never used to actually cut or slash. It is merely a deterrent, as it discourages the opponent from trying to grab the blade. Do you remember?"

Amelia nodded confidently. "Yes, we always attack with the point of the blade, and if performed correctly we can even pierce through heavy armor and natural protection." She did not leave her stance, pointing at his chest with her sword slightly upwards, a position emanating a feeling of constant threat. "Today I will show you two ways to perform the Estocada, which is basically a lunge towards your opponent. Look carefully, student!" It was a rather simple movement, his right foot flashing forward as he straightened his left leg to provide linear momentum. The power for the lunge was given by his legs as well as his arms; he pushed his left shoulder back to further increase the reach and speed of his attack, the blade flashing for an instant before he recovered gracefully, shifting his body m