To Be Practical or Orthodox?
Sun Jun 18, 2006 08:04 (XFF:

Sirestes appeared to have done well enough with this activity, it seemed, for he was feeling confident in his skills when the time came to progress. He claimed no mastery over the weapon, but thought that, perhaps, he was not one of the worst here. If anything, some of the Accepted who might never before have touched a weapon–wood, steel, or anything–perhaps were the most shaky, and yet they even were the best at exuding a front that would make anyone think upon first glance that they were among the best. Accepted were a far cry from having the manipulative skills of Aes Sedai, yes, but even that “far cry” amounted to much more than anyone else could claim.

The Sei’Tar progressed to explaining what would come next: spars. It was an appealing notion, for however long they’d been working away at sword forms only had made Sirestes restless in a sense. He was thinking back to the ball-lobbing game, and how, well, fun that competitive behaviour had been. Sirestes did not want to dwell on whether or not he’d learned enough in this short tenure to fight someone with their lathes, yet nonetheless . . . he knew he would enjoy it.

Once Harin had explained the details of their competition, they were free to go and find partners. Standing so tall, Sirestes had a clear view of the trainees, though that really did little good. He paused for a moment, peering at them squarely, before he was approached at random.

“Sirestes Aethan’Tar, no?” asked a voice with a heavy Taraboner accent, and he peered downward. It was a short woman standing before him, an Aethan’Tar who was little taller than a certain Yellow Aes Sedai he’d come to know especially well, and she peered up at him with a smile. She was unquestionably pretty, and he’d found in the past years that he really did not discriminate against men or women of short stature . . . though this one reminded him too much of Myrth. Her hair was styled rather the same, down to her waist though this time in blonde, and her heart-shaped face was noticeably pale. This one . . . had introduced herself as Becca Aethan’Tar, he was sure. “We can spar if you’d like . . . I am Mearah Aethan’Tar.” Hrm. He’d been so sure it was Becca.

Nonetheless, he nodded his acceptance to Mearah. The pair of them separated themselves from the throng of other initiates, and he thought he saw a thirst for victory burning in her grey eyes, though that smile never left its place.

“Ready,” Mearah murmured, her voice just barely audible over the crowd. “Begin!”

It was all quicksilver action from there. He initiated Los’Val with a plan, pulling his arms and hilt behind his ears with his wooden lathe aimed at his opponent with a bit of a diagonal inclination. I know what I’m doing, he thought, all steely sureness. He wasn’t sure which stance it was that Mearah entered, whichever one involved the weapon pointed at his feet, though he wasn’t going to care. He knew what to do.

He threw himself forward, embodying Scales of Power to the fullest extent. Teeth bared, he assumed River Undercuts the Bank, launching himself forth with as much physical strength as he could muster, his blade aimed squarely for her gut. She was a tiny thing, Mearah, though he had not become the man he was today assuming that size meant one was weak or strong.

Quickly recognizing Cat Dances on the Wall as Mearah performed it, not pausing to debate if that even was the proper stance to assume before trying it, Sirestes halted abruptly, finding his actions barred by a barricade of rapid parries and thrusts. She was so short, having to aim her blade upwards, yet the barricade was there. He smirked. Sirestes assumed Los’Val again, this time progressing directly to Cat Dances on the Wall, too. Heart-shaped face painted with determination, the other Aethan’Tar moved her lathe so that it was little more than a wood-coloured blur, and Sirestes was mimicking as he did the same. Their lathes interwove as they thrust forth and dodged past, cutting around one another’s attempts, waiting for either of them to fail, to miss a step, to suffer a distraction. She was short, yes, but advancing on him, and he could not walk backwards as quickly as she pressed forth. Sirestes could not extend his blade down as far as he’d have liked, and his long arm was progressively having to pull back, so that all the strength of his attempts was coming solely from his wrist. And then came the impact.

“Bloody ashes!” Sirestes roared, leaping back. He cradled his hand, cursing wildly, as pain was shooting through it wildly. Wood or not, the flaming lathe hurt, and he saw a red welt rising on the back of his hand where her attempt had hit his. He was not down, however. Diving in haste, Sirestes recovered his blade, though he snatched it up with his left hand. His weak hand. His weak side.

Sirestes assumed Los’Val again, though awkwardly. Mearah assumed no strategy no more complex than continuing with Cat Dances on the Wall, and he realizes that the woman was bloody good at it, slowly creeping forth at him, face almost comical in how it was that same determination, allowing no variation. Perhaps if she was of a level height with him, he’d be able to bloody knock her head off! Feeling like a fool, Sirestes crouched on his knees so that he was close to level with Mearah. Right arm limp, Sirestes took a blind whack with his lathe, aiming right beneath her series of parries and thrusts. She gave a grunt as it came in contact with her right shin. Mearah’s transition was rapid, and she fell down to one knee, so that they both were crouched feebly on the ground.

The only thing, though, was that he was allowed to get up. . . .

And so he did. Standing, he peered down at the woman–down, down at her–and smirked. Almost out of arm’s reach. Striding forth, Sirestes stepped down onto her lathe with one of his feet, crushing it down so that it was pinned to the ground. Mearah’s arm tried to recover it, to push his leg away, though that was no good. Lathe in his left hand, Sirestes tapped Mearah on the head, winning.

Well, perhaps not tapped. He was not gallant enough to do that. It was mild, yes, but certainly not a tap. For all the stinging of his right hand, Sirestes was not feeling entirely merciful.

OOC: *grins* Better late than never?

  • Swing it, shake it, move it, Spar it.Harin Rieldred, Sei'Tar, Sun Jun 11 05:47
    Harin watched as the more pitiful attempts became… less pitiful. The forms were executed with a complete lack of precision or poise, but what they did have, was promise. Some seemed pleased with... more
    • Lesson ClosedRick, Tue Jun 20 04:13
      Nice job guys. Thanks to all who took part. Credit is awarded to: Sarin, Aethan'Tar Riani, Aethan'Tar Valla, Aethan'Tar Sirestes, Aethan'Tar. I will be e-mailing Jeremy with credit later today. So... more
    • To Be Practical or Orthodox? — Sirestes Aethan'Tar, Sun Jun 18 08:04
    • Enter The DummyValla Karajan, Aethan'Tar, Thu Jun 15 14:22
      Valla did not want a fair fight. She wanted someone with the grace and speed of a three legged pig. Half the intelligence; optional. It was not due to a desperation for victory, rather, not entirely... more
    • An Expected LossRiani Aethan'Tar, Wed Jun 14 13:55
      Sparring, Riani thought, gritting her teeth, oh, that’s just great. Excellent. Her mouth should have been dripping with the sarcasm of her unspoken words, but Riani had had sixteen years of practise... more
    • Wood as SteelSarin Cordana - Aethan'Tar, Sun Jun 11 18:08
      Sarin scratched his chin as he listened to the Sei’Tar lay out the rules for their spars. He smirked when he heard that if you got hit in the leg you lost use of it, he couldn’t imagine himself... more
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