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Sergeant Adrien-Baptiste Chandonee
Circumlocutory Articulacy
Thu Sep 7, 2006 17:55 (XFF:

Adrien-Baptiste Chandonne's eyes were closed, even as he walked, one foot in front of the other, along the edge of the Wall of the Black Tower. Even if there was, in fact, no Tower, there was still a wall, but in his mind, Adrien had made that prepuce into a razor blade, and populated either side with pace long spikes waiting, reaching, almost… straining to push into his flesh and water the earth beneath with his blood. Passivity and ease were for the weak, the Black Tower taught its agents, and Sergeant Chandonne was neither passive or weak, at least not in his own estimation and judging from the sword pin which now decorated the collar of his navy coat, neither in those of his superiors; either of them.

After coming to the end of his razor, realized when he found nothing else before his outstretched foot, Adrien twisted his legs, laying the front half of his feet of the blade and smartly turned a back no-hands walk-over, opening his eyes to reveal a painfully blue sky and a picturesque golden sun only after both feet had hit the planked walkway so few feet beneath the tops of the Tower's walls. There was some quiet, if fervent applause off to one side and after redoing the buttons on his overcoat, the Towers only Sergeant turned to address the Private who had been applauding. The man stopped immediately when Adrien's green eyes fastened onto him like grappling hooks.

"Speak." He said, trying his best to assume that dismissively casual stance the Asha'man managed so well, and to his great surprise, succeeding somewhat. The Private saluted and offered a slip of parchment.

"Message for you sir." He said and stood by casually. A short command from the Sergeant snapped him to attention, chagrin, brushed with undertones of disgust plain on his unguarded features.

Sergeant Chandonne, the missive began, a private lesson pertaining to Advanced Axe technique has been arranged for you. Asha'man Locke Lemain will be your instructor. You are to meet him in the West Exercise Yard three hours past high. Though unsigned, there was no doubt the note had originated with Xerin Bertrand, the one of the two Staff Sergeants who commanded the Trainees. All seven of them.

"Will there be a reply Sergeant?" The Private asked contemptuously twisting the last word. Despite his applause for acrobatics, at least to this Private, the idea of Sergeants was still apparently new and their authority therefore tenuous. His passion for proper etiquette brought bile into Adrien’s words as he replied…

"Be glad Private," he put his own twist on the man's rank, "that I have a lesson to attend to. Or I should take you to task for disregard for rank. Consider yourself fortunate if I forget to spare time for a write up later this evening. It will greatly depend on this lesson. Pray then if you will, that this Asha'man is harsh. Or I shall see to it that you see a harsh one yourself in the near future. Dismissed." The man had grown more ashen-faced and crestfallen at each word, and when dismissed, had saluted dumbly and stepped double quick to get away from the Sergeant whose rank he had scorned. Adrien of course knew the man's name anyhow, he knew all the Privates, having not that long ago been one himself. He supposed now that he was superior to her in rank that his cavorting with one Carys Alistair would have to cease. A pity, he mused dispassionately as he mounted the steps down. She had sparked his boyish interests so keenly those long months ago when they had met. Things had changed since then. He had changed, but their relationship had grown static, stale and as such, had been eroded and eventually crumbled. That was the nature of life. Evolve, grow and adapt… or die. It was simple. Adrien knew that lesson from his lessons on the Voice. And while he could sustain or even refresh a wilting flower, there was nothing his Talent could do for a wilting relationship. He considered it much more coolly than he had ever hoped he could as he stepped none to slightly himself on the way to his dorm. His boots needed a good shine before he met this Asha'man. And what's more he intended to have that letter written before went, lest Locke Lemain did indeed prove to be a harsh master. A strong west wind ruffled the young mans curls as he walked, and his cheeks dimpled as he smiled. No matter how the Tower might shape him, change him, he still looked a boy when he smiled.

Pick one the note said, two words, looking lonely on the entire sheet of parchment which lay, itself look disconsolate, between two axes on the grass. The choice was glaringly obvious, one of the weapons being an ungainly (and ungodly) massive demi-polearm of a weapon. Ambrose Meriwether would like that one. His own trio of axes, the handaxes on his thighs and the longer battleaxe across his back, had been an afterthought, Adrien always wore them when he left his barrack, and it was the nature of the job. He did not for one second question bringing them, their weight was comforting, even if his instructor, who the Sergeant noted absently was yet unaccounted for, had provided a stand in. As his fingers touched the haft of the much smaller weapon, a battle cry erupted from off to the left. His eyes widening, Adrien snapped his head up and saw the man in black, rushing him with a bastard sword held in the Ji’Val guard.

Reflexively grasping the axe his hands rested on the Andorman simultaneously snatched a handaxe from his hip and dove into a forward roll. ”Close with a swordsman and you limit his options.” The instruction came unbidden, it was instinct, which was right, which was the way it was supposed to be. As his head came clear of the roll, Adrien snapped his wrist and the handaxe he had held flashed forward like quicksilver. If it bothered the charging man he gave no indication, though Adrien couldn’t say for sure how the fellow dealt with it, while knowing that there was little chance that it had hit, for the gentleman showed no signs of abating his charge.

Black Pebbles on Snow was the fellows choice of form, as it almost had to be from that guard, and Adrien struck at the sword’s blade with the double bitted head of this borrowed axe, he had meant to go for the fellows wrists, but his excitement caused him to strike to soon and the edge of his weapon threw sparks off the attackers sword. The man hissed and very nearly dropped his blade. He did not however lose his grip and answered Adrien’s stroke with Parting the Silk and that almost immediately with Cutting the Clouds, mimicking the Sergeants intended tactic perfectly. Panicked, the Sergeant flipped his wrist, and the axe, letting the weapon spin unaided in the air as he withdrew his wrists from the enemies strike, and holding his breathe expectantly, watching with some awe as the haft of his weapon spun cleanly over the blade of his foes. That he had to admit, was a slick move. Even while mentally rewarding himself, the Sergeant struck, his stroke resembling Low Wind Rising which caused the swordsman to lean back off his balance to avoid losing his throat to the axe. Soft Rain at Sunset was what the swordsmen called his next strike, but there was no name for it with an axe, it was simply effective. The counter which the swordsman used was several things all at once. Lightning fast, perfect, and bleeding brilliant.

Even off balance as we was, he had the presence of mind to try Black Pebbles on Snow again, and though as before all it did was slice through the Sergeant’s coat (rendering it by then largely ceremonial and as such more encumbering than it had previously been) it allowed him to follow with Bundling Straw and The Falling Leaf. Adrien’s only recourse had been to parry, for that second Black Pebbles on Snow had very nearly gotten to the heart of him, colloquially speaking of course. As the two parted momentarily, Adrien sloughed off his ruined coat, ripping the three top most buttons apart as he tossed the rag away. The fellow didn’t seem to be hardly winded, but the Sergeant could feel his own heart thundering in his chest and the burning ache in his lungs. This fight, one way or another, was almost over.

Deciding on a drastic course of action, Adrien charged abruptly, switching the axe to his weak hand as he went and then mimicking his Low Wind Rising strike from earlier, and once the fellow leant out of the way, switching the weapon back to his strong hand high and drawing his entire body up like a spring. He allowed himself an instantaneous lamentation of the axes much too short haft (since it precluded his getting a second hand on it for extra leverage) and brought it down with as much force as he could muster with his right arm. He aborted the blow just short of driving it through the fellow’s nose, for he felt the naked edge of that bastard sword pressing into that space below his ribs. Either of them could likely kill the other, but just as assuredly, the other would die. There was a pregnant silence which stretched uncomfortably on…

OOC: My apologies John. I'll do better I promise. After all, its not as if I have college to keep me occupied any longer...

  • Brutish Eloquence - Private Axe Lesson For Adrien!Asha'man Locke Lemain, Wed Aug 16 22:58
    Locke was quite pleased with his new assignment: it was early in the afternoon, and he had a lesson to teach. It had been a quiet day so far, with nothing to interrupt his filings and reports,... more
    • Circumlocutory Articulacy — Sergeant Adrien-Baptiste Chandonee, Thu Sep 7 17:55
      • The Usual MannerAsha'man Locke, Tue Sep 12 13:49
        Locke examined the man whom had him at the neck. He was watching him watching him; he had the Sergeant at the stomach. The silence was buzzing angrily with tension, the space between each combatant's ... more
        • It's Not UnusualAdrien-Baptiste Chandonne, Thu Sep 21 11:21
          “And now honey-bunches,” the instructor, the Asha’man, said as he drew and executed a sharp flourish with his sword. “we go again.” He dropped into the Ji’Val guard again. Adrien wasn’t sure what it... more
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            It was better. Much better. Locke examined his fallen foe with a quirked eyebrow, noting the small red blot on his face, the burnt-in reminder of his own fist, that would metamorph into a purple-blue ... more
            • The Six on One OvertureAdrien Baptiste-Chandonne, Thu Nov 2 08:45
              "Now, since there is only so much that I can teach you all by myself, and a real battlefield consists of more than two men having at it at their own leisure," "That might be the first mistake I’ve... more
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