24 Ymiden 718
(Attacks for the dagger are basically the same as sword attacks – aiming to deliver a pulled blow to a legitimate target area. There is one exception, that thrusting is allowed. Speed is of the essence - get your weapon in and out as quickly as possible to get back out of distance. Much of the art of dagger fighting lies in feinting to confuse the opponent, a feint is a partially delivered attack, stopped short and withdrawn, or an off target (missing) attack stopped and withdrawn, or a grapple, or other sudden hand movement to threaten a grapple. A grapple involves catching the opponent’s hand or wrist with your hand, this not only prevents your opponent from attacking properly and allows you to move their arm about to maneuver for a good position to strike them. It is possible, even with unarmored hands, it is possible to bat aside thrusts with the back of the hand.)
Navyri flexed her fingers, setting down the quill and massaging her wrist. She yawned and leaned back, the old chair squeaking beneath her weight. Shivering in her spot, she shifted and wrapped the thread bare blanket around her tighter, taking a moment to look around the desolate mansion. Seeing the faded and moth eaten wallpaper, the dirty curtains turned yellow from arcs of abandonment, she felt she had made the wrong decision.
And The Nightingale never made the wrong choice. A strange sort of helplessness washed over and her shoulders slumped forward, and then her head followed suit. She buried her lovely face in her hands, the bun atop her head deflating, “Delroth,” she whispered, laying her cheek against the scratched wooden desk, “Delroth…” Idly, she tapped a nail against the parchment before her. Then her blue eyes lifted and she stared at the vial of murky ink, “It’s my fault, isn’t it?”
Wasn’t he the woe of her troubles? Or would she ever answer to the sins of her choice? (I’m tired and I’m hungry,) she thought suddenly, taking a deep breath and regretting it. Dust flew to her throat and clutched her windpipes. She began to cough, eyes watering, and then rose to her feet, hating the room around her.
Navyri needed to change her circumstance; to work as tirelessly as she had the day she purchased this Fates forsaken place. She went to the closet and rummaged through the remaining things, finding a bucket and horsehair brush; then to the backyard she wandered, drawing water and returning only after her container was full and she shook from the cold of Zi’da. She dipped the brush in the water and lowered herself to the ground, scrubbing at the old floors, pushing all her regrets and hatred in the motion of her arms, feeling her anger and sadness and loneliness create a muck before her. Furiously, she submerged the brush and repeated this motion over and over, until her bucket became dirtied and even these things were washed away.
(Attacks for the dagger are basically the same as sword attacks – aiming to deliver a pulled blow to a legitimate target area. There is one exception, that thrusting is allowed. Speed is of the essence - get your weapon in and out as quickly as possible to get back out of distance. Much of the art of dagger fighting lies in feinting to confuse the opponent, a feint is a partially delivered attack, stopped short and withdrawn, or an off target (missing) attack stopped and withdrawn, or a grapple, or other sudden hand movement to threaten a grapple. A grapple involves catching the opponent’s hand or wrist with your hand, this not only prevents your opponent from attacking properly and allows you to move their arm about to maneuver for a good position to strike them. It is possible, even with unarmored hands, it is possible to bat aside thrusts with the back of the hand.)
Navyri flexed her fingers, setting down the quill and massaging her wrist. She yawned and leaned back, the old chair squeaking beneath her weight. Shivering in her spot, she shifted and wrapped the thread bare blanket around her tighter, taking a moment to look around the desolate mansion. Seeing the faded and moth eaten wallpaper, the dirty curtains turned yellow from arcs of abandonment, she felt she had made the wrong decision.
And The Nightingale never made the wrong choice. A strange sort of helplessness washed over and her shoulders slumped forward, and then her head followed suit. She buried her lovely face in her hands, the bun atop her head deflating, “Delroth,” she whispered, laying her cheek against the scratched wooden desk, “Delroth…” Idly, she tapped a nail against the parchment before her. Then her blue eyes lifted and she stared at the vial of murky ink, “It’s my fault, isn’t it?”
Wasn’t he the woe of her troubles? Or would she ever answer to the sins of her choice? (I’m tired and I’m hungry,) she thought suddenly, taking a deep breath and regretting it. Dust flew to her throat and clutched her windpipes. She began to cough, eyes watering, and then rose to her feet, hating the room around her.
Navyri needed to change her circumstance; to work as tirelessly as she had the day she purchased this Fates forsaken place. She went to the closet and rummaged through the remaining things, finding a bucket and horsehair brush; then to the backyard she wandered, drawing water and returning only after her container was full and she shook from the cold of Zi’da. She dipped the brush in the water and lowered herself to the ground, scrubbing at the old floors, pushing all her regrets and hatred in the motion of her arms, feeling her anger and sadness and loneliness create a muck before her. Furiously, she submerged the brush and repeated this motion over and over, until her bucket became dirtied and even these things were washed away.
Word Count: 496
Blades: How to Feint an Attack
Blades: The Techniques of Dagger Fighting
Blades: The Comparison between Daggers and Swords
Unarmed Combat: A Proper Grapple
Acrobatics: Skipping
Endurance: Tolerating Icy Conditions
