gurabad | 033 » they bowed to us like kings

Entry tags:

033 » they bowed to us like kings

[even the thirteen most powerful men in ishgard need to hone their skills from time to time.

ordinarily, the knights of the heavens' ward are given their partners. zephirin and vellguine plan assignments in advance, pairing the members of their ward according to their strengths and what weaknesses need to be addressed. last week, vellguine correctly surmised that francel found it difficult to evade spells; he spent bells dodging haumeric's conjured icicles and boulders, and still has bruises where the conjurer's volley found its mark.

today, however, practice is lax. the knights have been given free reign to choose their partners as they please; unsurprisingly, they all fall back upon old friendships. ser ignasse gravitates towards ser vellguine like a dog to its master; sers grinnaux and paulecrain pair off against one another, and fill the air with their deep-throated shouts. sers adelphel and janlenoux, as always, clash swords and dart around the room as elegantly as lovers engaged in dance (francel has long suspected that janlenoux would place higher than the eleventh seat if only he could bring himself to unleash his full fury upon adelphel). surprisingly, ser hermenost seeks out ser guerrique, perhaps hoping to imbue some calm and wisdom upon the younger axe-bearer. their mages congregate in a corner, heatedly debating the finer points of magickal theory.

that leaves ser francel with ser zephirin — the thirteenth and the first.

upon reflection, they make for an excellent match. both are shieldless swordsmen, unlike adelphel and janlenoux, but where zephirin wields a two-handed greatsword, francel prefers a one-handed rapier. francel holds it before him, drawing his fingers slowly along the dull edge of the blade.]

It would seem we are both unencumbered.

[it is a delicate jab towards their shieldlessness.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ Their blades are opposites, two-handed against one-handed, broad against slender, heavy against lightweight. Zephirin's is both sword and shield; Francel's affords him off-hand defense of his choosing. Zephirin makes a blade incongruous with his frame its complement; Francel's rapier becomes an extension of its wielder's arm.

In their shieldlessness, in their somewhat unconventional preferences, they are well matched.

As they stand facing each other, their section of the hall in the foreground against the backdrop of familiar rising sounds, Zephirin hefts his sword, stepping smoothly into a ready stance and waiting for Francel's response. He acknowledges the younger knight's observation with a brief nod. ]

On your guard, Ser Francel.

As you will, brother.

[francel makes swift calculations. zephirin is faster with his blade than any of the axemen are with their weapons — but of all the knights in the ward, none can match francel for sheer speed. his best strategy, then, will be to hover at the edges of zephirin's considerable reach, darting in to strike when necessary and darting out when his attack is complete.

as such, francel makes the first move. once he has said his piece, he lunges, rushing zephirin with surprising ferocity. he keeps his weight low to the ground, trying to capitalize on zephirin's tendency towards a higher swing.]

[ Francel's appointment to the Heavens' Ward was unprecedented, for Thordan's knights have ever numbered twelve. The recommendation that Zephirin put forth met with some initial resistance, but Francel's value proved indisputable, and the archbishop's word was final: Ser Francel de Haillenarte was deserving of a seat among his personal guard, where he might be honoured for his devotion to Ishgard's holy crusade, to the Fury.

Francel's driven pursuit of vengeance reached Zephirin's ears. The young knight's bladework caught Zephirin's eye.

Since that day, the Ward's commander has had many an opportunity to witness Francel's skill, documenting his observations for the sake of future assignments. Francel's speed is his chief asset. Though he is yet unaccustomed to the range of a mage's spell, crossing blades with a fellow swordsman, he has the freedom of movement to react instantly to each visual cue signalling the need to evade an attack or an opening to slip past his opponent's guard.

And Francel is sufficiently familiar with the cues in Zephirin's stance, in the angle of his blade, to recognize their meaning.

Anticipating Francel's intent, Zephirin raises his arms as if to swing his sword in a high arc, but he drops lower himself as Francel draws near, sidestepping and adjusting his blade's path for its flat to meet Francel's rapier. His aim is to test the speed of Francel's decision-making, faced with the choice to fall back or press on. ]

[at the sudden drop of zephirin's stance, francel's feet press firmly against the ground, halting the velocity of his lunge. faced with the choice to fall back or press on, the young knight jumps. his leap is a gentle rabbit-hop compared to the soaring arcs of the ward's dragoons, but its purpose is to send him flying over the path of zephirin's blade, over zephirin himself. he doubts that his rapier would withstand a direct collision with zephirin's greatsword.

francel lands some ten yalms behind zephirin.

this is the end of their first exchange.

in a real fight, perhaps, francel would not show his opponent mercy; he would whirl around, lunge again. but this is a practice battle between himself and his commander, and there is no pressing need to win or lose. he stands his ground, his rapier elegantly poised in a ready stance, awaiting zephirin's move.]

[ When Zephirin turns to face Francel again, approval tints his expression a touch warmer. Francel has surpassed his expectations, opting for a move neither too cautious nor so bold as to become foolhardy, and in a true battle, his agility would have allowed him to swiftly resume the offensive from his new position.

On the other hand, were they foes, Zephirin would have timed a strike to catch Francel's legs.

He offers no praise yet, far quieter a training partner than some of their brothers. Francel has landed out of range, forcing Zephirin into a chase, opening with an obvious lunge in his direction in order to close the gap between them. Zephirin's blade twists upward at a diagonal, feinting a slash to target Francel's grip on his weapon. ]

[the subtle warmth in zephirin's expression holds francel's attention for just a little too long. the young knight's step back comes a fraction of a moment later than it should have, though he nevertheless manages to narrowly avoid having his weapon forced from his hand.

now caught in close proximity to zephirin, and well within the reach of his formidable blade, a more cautious francel might leap out of range once more. instead, the knight opts to take advantage of their close quarters, and aims a warning thrust towards the empty air beside zephirin's neck.]

Edited 2017-06-19 23:47 (UTC)

[ Zephirin seizes the opportunity that Francel's distraction grants. He tilts his blade as it approaches Francel's, bringing it around to make a barrier against the rapier's point. A leap to the side moves him beyond its reach, and from there he extends his arms, and aligns his sword's tip with the crest on Francel's breastplate.

Again he awaits Francel's decision. ]

[thus checkmated, francel vaguely resembles a cornered mouse. zephirin may be sure of one thing: the boy might survive a loss, if only because the injured look on his face is so vulnerable that it might inspire pity from an appropriately sympathetic enemy. francel runs through possible escape routes, but in the end, he knows he has lost. he lowers his blade.]

...I yield.

[it was over in seconds, he thinks.

then again, most of his battles are — and not with this outcome.]

Another match, Ser Zephirin?

[ Zephirin, too, lowers his blade. He regards Francel in contemplation, committing the sequence of actions and reactions of their two matches to memory. None reveal why Francel's focus faltered even fleetingly — that may need addressing alongside his reaction time when facing spellcasters. ]

Another match. [ One more should suffice, and then they have the choice whether to rearrange into other opponent pairs for the remainder of the session. Zephirin nods his agreement, readying himself to let Francel begin. ] You know your strengths, Ser Francel — continue to use them to your advantage.

Yes...

[but there is something faintly sheepish, even embarrassed, in francel's reply. his eyes are lowered; his head hangs. it is as if he has been chastised, not praised.

distraction again rears its head in the form of a loud clanging noise from across the room. ser grinnaux has cast aside the top half of his armor, complaining loudly of a dented breastplate and several loose rings on his chainmail shirt; evidently, ser paulecrain has lost himself in the heat of battle, and rent ser grinnaux of his armor with a spear of aether. even "blessed" by thordan, the knights of house dzemael play their usual games: though grinnaux calls paulecrain a cheating whoreson now, cursing him through all seven hells, they will be friends again within the next bell, laughing and joking, youths of sixteen and not men of twenty and eight.

of all the knights in the ward, perhaps ser grinnaux's appearance is the most striking. the man has surprisingly clean blond hair and eyes that shine in the night; his dark body gleams from across the room, hard-angled and immaculately carved. francel allows his gaze to rest on the beads of sweat on the man's swarthy skin for just a few moments too long before he realizes he is trying to imagine zephirin similarly undone.

francel recollects himself, anxiously shooting the archimandrite a glance.]

Are... are you ready?

[absently, he wonders if the man will discipline grinnaux and paulecrain or let their behavior slide.]

[ The commotion, though the norm for Sers Grinnaux and Paulecrain, temporarily pulls Zephirin's attention away from Francel. Head turned over his shoulder, he straightens from his stance, holding up one hand to bid Francel wait while he assesses the scene. No part of it surprises.

There is no need to intervene and discipline the two knights like children, provided they know not to go too far. Both are known for their brawls, their unseemly habits — but they will not kill each other.

Ultimately, the Heavens' Ward in its current incarnation unites a diverse, in some ways mismatching group of men for one purpose, and naught else matters, not any longer.

Zephirin merely fixes the quarrelling pair with a long look, a silent warning in the manner of the archbishop himself. ]

We wield our power against Ishgard's foes, brothers.

[though grinnaux protests, and paulecrain grumbles under his breath, the two knights lapse into disgruntled calm at zephirin's words, like tomcats distracted from their battle by the call for food. "he started it," grinnaux mutters, shedding the last of his torn chainmail — but that is the end of that.

evidently grinnaux is fit to practice without his armor. they stay in their chosen groups: grinnaux with paulecrain, and adelphel with janlenoux, and so forth.... zephirin with francel.

francel glances at grinnaux one last time before he fixes his eyes on zephirin's mouth.]

...Shall we, commander?

[ Fortunately for Grinnaux and Paulecrain, as Zephirin stands yalms away on the other side of the room, even his keen hearing cannot discern the exact words that the two knights mutter, less rowdy and more sullen for the moment. He watches briefly as they return to crossing arms, soon goading and needling each other anew. Turning back to Francel then, Zephirin nods, but he notes the younger knight's lingering distraction.

This potential issue is set aside to pursue as needed. ]

Begin at will.

[a deep breath, and francel wills himself back into clarity again, free of unwanted fantasies. he is battle-lucid. this time, he tells himself, he will corner zephirin, and win his praise.

his eagerness translates into a lethal recklessness. francel's first move is again to lunge, but this time he does so at a dangerously tilted angle, his blade meant for zephirin's side, weight not at all centered but slanted. the thirteenth seat has chosen an uncharacteristically daring position — more vulnerable, but much more difficult to parry, both because of his position and because of his blazing speed.]

[ This time, Francel chooses unpredictable brashness. Whether he does so knowingly, a strategy in mind, or succumbs to wounded pride and some hidden similarities to the wilder warriors among their brothers, he succeeds in taking Zephirin by surprise. Francel retains his advantage of speed and agility, darting close enough that it limits Zephirin's options to two things: either he moves closer still to hinder Francel's ease of movement, bearing down upon him where he must rely on his rapier's edge over its point, or he retreats.

At close quarters, the maneuverability of Zephirin's own blade is restricted; he would risk injuring Francel. He permits Francel to drive him back, into a half circle around the young knight.

There, sword raised, Zephirin gives Francel another opening to continue. ]

[a fraction's hesitation as zephirin pulls back, and then francel tempers himself. at this vantage, the knight and lord has many options — but he chooses the one that is least predictable and yet most familiar. once more, the young knight vaults into the air, but this time, his aim is not to soar over zephirin, or to get behind him. this time, his aim is to strike.

at the apex of his leap, francel plunges: a hunting falcon, sighting prey. his rapier thrusts deadly downward — the falcon's claws.]

[ There is time enough to evade, to spring away from the path of Francel's rapier, and to strike in turn when Francel lands. There is time enough to parry, but the impact would damage Francel's blade.

This time, Zephirin does nothing.

Standing still, he dares Francel to see his decision to the end, his intention to learn the young knight's reasoning. Yet he observes him closely, poised to move. ]

[in the last moments before his descent, francel becomes visibly flustered. evidently he made no plans for what would happen if zephirin simply remained still. right before contact, he manages to pull his sword arm back, but he lands like a squirrel thrown from its tree, his arms wrapped around zephirin's neck, breastplate crashing into his commander's with a clang.

it is not so loud as the clang produced by grinnaux's throwing his armor to the floor, but to francel, it seems so loud that all the eyes of the ward must be upon him. flustered and pink-cheeked, he angrily demands of zephirin:]

...Y-You were supposed to dodge!

[ The elegance of Francel's leap is marred, and Zephirin's plans change from last-second evasion to remaining in place, his sword held lowered and out of the way, freeing one arm to steady Francel and himself when they collide. For a moment, they are entangled in a graceless embrace. They stand too close, nearly cheek to cheek, until Zephirin draws back to meet Francel's gaze, releasing him.

The knight's expression is calm. ]

Rest assured, I had no desire to impale myself upon your blade. Nevertheless, Ser Francel, I thank and commend you for your swift change of heart. You should evade even spells with ease.

[ Each match has displayed Francel's ability to adapt in an instant. ]

[francel has the distinct sense that he is being made fun of. it does not help that he actually hears someone laugh from across the room — ser charibert, perhaps, or else ser noudenet. he scowls and draws back — though given that zephirin already stepped back, the effect is merely that francel now creates too much distance between them.]

Don't do that...

[this is not the grumbling of a knight to his commander, but more so the grumbling of a knight to his exasperating friend. francel's expression is not calm. strangely, he rubs his cheeks with the backs of his gauntlets, as if trying to self-soothe. he sighs and recomposes himself.]

...I will endeavor to do my best...

[ The laughter's source receives an arched brow, which Zephirin then turns upon Francel for his grumbling, questioning. Now the young knight's pride truly seems wounded, as though his commander sought to startle him into abandoning his chosen maneuver, and his brothers find amusement at his expense.

Across the widening distance between them, Zephirin offers Francel his hand, a conciliatory gesture. The thirteenth seat is no outsider in the Ward's midst. ]

You did well. Repeat the selfsame move, if you wish, or choose another opponent.

[the young knight hesitates, but in the end he clasps his superior's hand in his: a gentle and polite handshake. francel looks around the room, but most of the knights he would be willing to pair up with yet remain occupied with their original partners. he sighs.]

...I do not wish to wind up in Ser Guerrique's arms. Let us maintain our match.

[ser guerrique's formidable arms would likely crush francel...

at length the cherub-faced knight releases zephirin's hand and takes a few steps back. his hand rests lightly upon the hilt of his sword once more.]

...This time I would like to see you on the offensive, Ser Zephirin.

[ Guerrique is within earshot, during a lull in his own matches. The Cleaver bursts into booming laughter, lifting his axe as effortlessly as a feather. "Now, now, first you would have my Anne for your dance partner, and she never tires!" He settles to mop his brow and give the Ward's first and thirteenth seats an audience, apparently waiting his turn.

Zephirin secures his fingers around the grip of his sword. Francel most likely expects a strike from above, and so Zephirin takes another route, lunging to direct a thrust at Francel's thigh, a feint intended to occupy Francel's attention and leave his other side vulnerable. ]

[true to form (and to ser guerrique's consternation or delight — from the sound he makes, it is difficult to discern precisely which), francel evades as one might expect him to. he sidesteps, turning out of the way, his hands up at his sides like a dancer on a pirouette.

perhaps he has taken lessons from adelphel. it is an elegant dodge, but one that does not allow him the luxury of striking back.]

[ Immediately on the heels of his opening move, Zephirin steps to one side, pulling his arms back and swinging his blade at Francel's shoulder in rapid succession. He predicts that Francel will dodge again, indeed light-footed as a dancer.

For his part, Zephirin's tactic is to chase the young knight and confine him to his dodging, until Francel is backed into a corner from which he cannot escape with his usual ease. ]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject