On the 30th trial of Ymiden during the 718th arc...
It was the first trial wherein he had been allowed to explore the streets of Ne'haer without his brother in close attendance. He had imagined it should have been freeing, but as he made his way through the crowded, sweltering streets, he found himself wishing for Ziemko's shadow by his side. Where he had once wandered such bustling alleyways in the far less unbearable heat of his homeland of Rynmere, now safety was a precious commodity, one that could vanish in the blink of eye. He was unprepared, unskilled. Any man or woman within the ever moving, sweating throng of passersby might be the one to take his life, and he had no idea of knowing who or how or when.
Paranoia would have insinuated his fears were baseless - jumping at shadows or fretting over events that would never come to pass. No, he was wary, and it did his frayed nerves well to know his stronger, calmer, faster brother was there by his side. It was, he had come to realise, much like walking about without shoes on a hot, sunny day or swimming without really knowing how. He was at a disadvantage purely by his lack of company. It was something he needed to rectify, and something he'd long since been mulling over in the quiet, seemingly endless breaks he'd spent cooped up in the house. He'd read books, talked to the plants, bothered Ziemko until he would recite a few poems, but the time had been wasted.
In spite of himself, as he pushed and dodged and weaved his way through the teeming streets, he found himself smiling at the irony of the situation. He'd always though of time as something fluid - not a resource to be spent and frittered away. He supposed he'd never had much of a reason to worry about time; his days had been filled with quiet thoughts and gentle evenings - melancholic and nostalgic, but peaceful in their own way. Now, however, he was faced with the looming certainty that somewhere someone wanted him dead for reasons far beyond his control. Ziemko had burdens enough to bear without needing to worry about his defenseless sibling - and so he planned to change things.
Earlier in the season, he'd spotted the coliseum and its appended training grounds. They'd been difficult to miss, and the raucous, ever present babble of the people around them had suggested there were ways he could train himself without needing to further rely upon his brother - who had taken the trial, and may of the trials before, to see if he might be able to learn more about the people who hunted them. Though Doran had offered his assistance, it had quickly been brought to light he knew so little about traders and merchants and those of the same ilk he was more hindrance than help.
So, as he rounded a corner, body already drenched in a steady sweat, the moisture having nowhere to go with the air so heavily saturated, Doran settled his gaze upon the tall arches of the stone building ahead. He was well aware of the training he sought, though he wasn't certain if any within might be able to offer it to him. After all, most who engaged in such gladiatorial endeavors did so as both a show of strength and lethality. While he needed the prior, the latter was something he wished to avoid if at all possible. He imagined there were a bit of a joke to be found somewhere in seeking a mentor in a non-leathal form of anti-weapon, bare-handed combat within the sandstone halls, but he figured if there was anyone who might know of such a way, that one might most likely be found in such a place.
It was far more spacious than he'd imagined it might be - and loud. The sounds of shouting - both in triumph and in pain - were accentuated by the dull clack can crack of wood against wood. Many conversations intermingled in within the fray of bodies, and while it was far less crowded than the streets outside, there were people enough that is seemed more chaos than anything else. He stood by one of the large, stone walls, muddy green eyes surveying the scene and uncertain how exactly he might proceed.
From what he could tell there was no real rhyme or reason to anything. Some trained alone, others with instructors, and others still seemed to pick out and spar with whomever had the will or patience to entertain them. Wooden weapons were stacked in racks along some of the walls, and nearly all the combatants were armed with such. Some, those who drew Doran's attention, held nothing in their hands, using their fists and feet instead. Yet, most of those who fought without weapons fought others who did the same. He continued to watch, chewing gently and contemplatively upon his lower lip as did so.
His patience was rewarded.
Towards one of the back corners, that which was closest to Doran, stood an elderly woman. Far enough away as he was, he couldn't venture a true guess at her age, but she was somewhat bent and gnarled and her hoary head of wispy hair suggested she was hardly in what so many considered the "prime of life". What struck him was that the woman simply stood in place, her opponents two young men with wooden swords and red, aggravated faces. Finding her the most peculiar - and the only who's hands were empty when faced with those who were not - Doran carefully picked his away across the smoothed, stone floor, his curiosity well piqued.
When she moved, Doran found his own feet stopped as his eyes widened in surprise. Two opponents, both seemingly her superiors in strength and agility given their relative ages, rushed toward her, their swords brandished and steps sure. She made no move to avoid them, standing as still as she had prior, but the moment they were upon her, her body blossomed into movement. Sidestepping both of the well-aimed swings, the swords seemed to just barely skim the surface of her robes as her gnarled fingers wrapped around one of the man's wrists. In the next moment, the man was in the air while the other tripped over his own feet in an attempt to avoid his ally turned projectile.
The woman had returned to her deceptively casual stance, calmly eying the two men who had collapsed into a pile of arms and legs and cursing. She looked frail, not in the sense of illness, but in that her body was slight and age apparent. The closer Doran got, as the men staggered back to their feet and exchanged words with the woman that were too quiet to make out over the constant din of the training grounds, the more he found the woman an impressive - if not entirely peculiar - individual. She hardly seemed to match the more wild, dangerous displays around her.
Readied once more, the men tried a different approach, slowly circling in opposite directions around the woman until they had her pincered between them. Though they charged together, the woman took a deliberate step forward, meeting the short of the pair first. The sword moved in a quick, horizontal slash, but the woman's torso dipped down low, a lightning-like shock of speed, as her back foot swung forward in a tight arc, catching the man's foot and compromising his balance. In the next trill, the woman stood back up, the movement incredibly fast, fluid, and causal. With her positioning, her back pressed up and into her attacker's chest, and though she seemed not to possess strength enough to lift him on her own, the man's forward momentum propelled him over and across her shoulders, sending him flying into his partner who realised what was happening a trill before it happened, halting his own attack in favor of bracing himself for the impact.
Again, the pair, entangled in one another, fell to the ground, the woman calmly staring down at them without so much as a rise in her breathing, though as Doran was now well within earshot, he could see that her face was slicked with sweat - whether it was due to the strain of the fight or the heat of the day or both in equal measure, he couldn't say for certain.
When the taller of the pair stood once more, he shook his head, auburn hair slicked flat against his ruddy, freckled skin. "I'm beat, and not a strike landed yet, eh?"
The woman chuckled, shaking her head. "No. No strike this trial." Her accent was heavy, one Doran couldn't place - though his knowledge of such things was limited at best. "Finish?"
"Aye. I cannae have me arse beaten down time and time again by a fossil such and yerself without nary a wound to me pride, eh? Appreciate the lesson still." He reached into his coin purse and withdrew, what Doran assumed to be, the proper payment for her services.
With a polite incline of her head, she grinned as the man helped the other to his feet before they both returned the same gesture. As they shuffled away, speaking quietly in a language Doran didn't recognize, the woman caught sight of him and beckoned him over with a wave of her hand, an expectant light in her eyes. He obliged, interested to know how it was she had dealt so effectively with opponents who - by all appearances - should have bested her without trouble.
"Boy. You see Wayan? You see how Wayan dance?" Her wrinkled face was light with an interest of her own as she eyed him, her dark, olive eyes bright with a vivacity that far outshone her weathered frame.
"You are... Wayan?" His tentative assessment received a nod. "Then yes, I most certainly did. How did you-"
"You tell. You tell Wayan: what you see?"
Doran took a moment to consider what he'd seen, and when he spoke, he did so slowly and thoughtfully. "You used their motion against them; the should have been too heavy for you to lift them as you did, but you... redirected their- their attacks. And you wasted none of your own movement." His head tilted slightly. "...how though? You watched them and... anticipated what it was they were going to do?"
She grinned wide. "Pay Wayan? Wayan teach. No pay? Mystery for long time."
It was the first trial wherein he had been allowed to explore the streets of Ne'haer without his brother in close attendance. He had imagined it should have been freeing, but as he made his way through the crowded, sweltering streets, he found himself wishing for Ziemko's shadow by his side. Where he had once wandered such bustling alleyways in the far less unbearable heat of his homeland of Rynmere, now safety was a precious commodity, one that could vanish in the blink of eye. He was unprepared, unskilled. Any man or woman within the ever moving, sweating throng of passersby might be the one to take his life, and he had no idea of knowing who or how or when.
Paranoia would have insinuated his fears were baseless - jumping at shadows or fretting over events that would never come to pass. No, he was wary, and it did his frayed nerves well to know his stronger, calmer, faster brother was there by his side. It was, he had come to realise, much like walking about without shoes on a hot, sunny day or swimming without really knowing how. He was at a disadvantage purely by his lack of company. It was something he needed to rectify, and something he'd long since been mulling over in the quiet, seemingly endless breaks he'd spent cooped up in the house. He'd read books, talked to the plants, bothered Ziemko until he would recite a few poems, but the time had been wasted.
In spite of himself, as he pushed and dodged and weaved his way through the teeming streets, he found himself smiling at the irony of the situation. He'd always though of time as something fluid - not a resource to be spent and frittered away. He supposed he'd never had much of a reason to worry about time; his days had been filled with quiet thoughts and gentle evenings - melancholic and nostalgic, but peaceful in their own way. Now, however, he was faced with the looming certainty that somewhere someone wanted him dead for reasons far beyond his control. Ziemko had burdens enough to bear without needing to worry about his defenseless sibling - and so he planned to change things.
Earlier in the season, he'd spotted the coliseum and its appended training grounds. They'd been difficult to miss, and the raucous, ever present babble of the people around them had suggested there were ways he could train himself without needing to further rely upon his brother - who had taken the trial, and may of the trials before, to see if he might be able to learn more about the people who hunted them. Though Doran had offered his assistance, it had quickly been brought to light he knew so little about traders and merchants and those of the same ilk he was more hindrance than help.
So, as he rounded a corner, body already drenched in a steady sweat, the moisture having nowhere to go with the air so heavily saturated, Doran settled his gaze upon the tall arches of the stone building ahead. He was well aware of the training he sought, though he wasn't certain if any within might be able to offer it to him. After all, most who engaged in such gladiatorial endeavors did so as both a show of strength and lethality. While he needed the prior, the latter was something he wished to avoid if at all possible. He imagined there were a bit of a joke to be found somewhere in seeking a mentor in a non-leathal form of anti-weapon, bare-handed combat within the sandstone halls, but he figured if there was anyone who might know of such a way, that one might most likely be found in such a place.
It was far more spacious than he'd imagined it might be - and loud. The sounds of shouting - both in triumph and in pain - were accentuated by the dull clack can crack of wood against wood. Many conversations intermingled in within the fray of bodies, and while it was far less crowded than the streets outside, there were people enough that is seemed more chaos than anything else. He stood by one of the large, stone walls, muddy green eyes surveying the scene and uncertain how exactly he might proceed.
From what he could tell there was no real rhyme or reason to anything. Some trained alone, others with instructors, and others still seemed to pick out and spar with whomever had the will or patience to entertain them. Wooden weapons were stacked in racks along some of the walls, and nearly all the combatants were armed with such. Some, those who drew Doran's attention, held nothing in their hands, using their fists and feet instead. Yet, most of those who fought without weapons fought others who did the same. He continued to watch, chewing gently and contemplatively upon his lower lip as did so.
His patience was rewarded.
Towards one of the back corners, that which was closest to Doran, stood an elderly woman. Far enough away as he was, he couldn't venture a true guess at her age, but she was somewhat bent and gnarled and her hoary head of wispy hair suggested she was hardly in what so many considered the "prime of life". What struck him was that the woman simply stood in place, her opponents two young men with wooden swords and red, aggravated faces. Finding her the most peculiar - and the only who's hands were empty when faced with those who were not - Doran carefully picked his away across the smoothed, stone floor, his curiosity well piqued.
When she moved, Doran found his own feet stopped as his eyes widened in surprise. Two opponents, both seemingly her superiors in strength and agility given their relative ages, rushed toward her, their swords brandished and steps sure. She made no move to avoid them, standing as still as she had prior, but the moment they were upon her, her body blossomed into movement. Sidestepping both of the well-aimed swings, the swords seemed to just barely skim the surface of her robes as her gnarled fingers wrapped around one of the man's wrists. In the next moment, the man was in the air while the other tripped over his own feet in an attempt to avoid his ally turned projectile.
The woman had returned to her deceptively casual stance, calmly eying the two men who had collapsed into a pile of arms and legs and cursing. She looked frail, not in the sense of illness, but in that her body was slight and age apparent. The closer Doran got, as the men staggered back to their feet and exchanged words with the woman that were too quiet to make out over the constant din of the training grounds, the more he found the woman an impressive - if not entirely peculiar - individual. She hardly seemed to match the more wild, dangerous displays around her.
Readied once more, the men tried a different approach, slowly circling in opposite directions around the woman until they had her pincered between them. Though they charged together, the woman took a deliberate step forward, meeting the short of the pair first. The sword moved in a quick, horizontal slash, but the woman's torso dipped down low, a lightning-like shock of speed, as her back foot swung forward in a tight arc, catching the man's foot and compromising his balance. In the next trill, the woman stood back up, the movement incredibly fast, fluid, and causal. With her positioning, her back pressed up and into her attacker's chest, and though she seemed not to possess strength enough to lift him on her own, the man's forward momentum propelled him over and across her shoulders, sending him flying into his partner who realised what was happening a trill before it happened, halting his own attack in favor of bracing himself for the impact.
Again, the pair, entangled in one another, fell to the ground, the woman calmly staring down at them without so much as a rise in her breathing, though as Doran was now well within earshot, he could see that her face was slicked with sweat - whether it was due to the strain of the fight or the heat of the day or both in equal measure, he couldn't say for certain.
When the taller of the pair stood once more, he shook his head, auburn hair slicked flat against his ruddy, freckled skin. "I'm beat, and not a strike landed yet, eh?"
The woman chuckled, shaking her head. "No. No strike this trial." Her accent was heavy, one Doran couldn't place - though his knowledge of such things was limited at best. "Finish?"
"Aye. I cannae have me arse beaten down time and time again by a fossil such and yerself without nary a wound to me pride, eh? Appreciate the lesson still." He reached into his coin purse and withdrew, what Doran assumed to be, the proper payment for her services.
With a polite incline of her head, she grinned as the man helped the other to his feet before they both returned the same gesture. As they shuffled away, speaking quietly in a language Doran didn't recognize, the woman caught sight of him and beckoned him over with a wave of her hand, an expectant light in her eyes. He obliged, interested to know how it was she had dealt so effectively with opponents who - by all appearances - should have bested her without trouble.
"Boy. You see Wayan? You see how Wayan dance?" Her wrinkled face was light with an interest of her own as she eyed him, her dark, olive eyes bright with a vivacity that far outshone her weathered frame.
"You are... Wayan?" His tentative assessment received a nod. "Then yes, I most certainly did. How did you-"
"You tell. You tell Wayan: what you see?"
Doran took a moment to consider what he'd seen, and when he spoke, he did so slowly and thoughtfully. "You used their motion against them; the should have been too heavy for you to lift them as you did, but you... redirected their- their attacks. And you wasted none of your own movement." His head tilted slightly. "...how though? You watched them and... anticipated what it was they were going to do?"
She grinned wide. "Pay Wayan? Wayan teach. No pay? Mystery for long time."