The language preferences of peoples of various city states never ceased to amuse Woe. In Etzos, Ith’ession was the main language, yet most everyone spoke some form of common. In fact, in his time there he’d not heard one word of Ith’ession, to his knowledge. Then there was Quacia, so cut off from the rest of the world, on self-imposed, xenophobic isolation. Finally there was Nashaki, a land of a thousand tongues, where all came together in the middle with an understanding that practicality dictated that one speak common when it came to matters of trade.
Such a trade was about to occur in the courtyard of the Tower of Arms, as Woe had signed on to teach some of the Nashaki cavalry squads how to use a bullwhip. Interesting enough, the cavalry didn’t use such implements to train their camels. According to the trainer of the beasts, the things were very amenable to domestication, training, and tended toward obedience to their handlers. Woe could appreciate such a trait, having a soft spot for animals that were loyal to their masters.
So why would the infantrymen want to teach their men to use a bullwhip? Woe wasn’t quite sure. He supposed it must involve some tactical quirk to their role in the Nashaki military. Perhaps they were more for breaking up ranks and sowing discord in a potential charge by enemy cavalry? Or they would do double duty as slavers. Whatever the case, he was set to train them, having his braided, rawhide bullwhip coiled at his hip.
He was wearing his finest outfit for the desert climate. A rich brown velvet tunic around his shoulders. On his legs, a pair of loose-fitting velvet trousers of the same fabric. Around his shoulder and waist, a tied sash of deep blue, to which was attached a shoulder cape of black velvet, trimmed with dark wolf's fur. On his feet, a pair of black riding boots. His hands were covered by a pair of deep blue gloves, the same color of his sash. Around his head, he wore a black turban, with some slack trailing behind it in the wind. His shaded goggles were fastened to his eyes, to keep the sun from shining too brightly into them. It also had the happy effect of guarding him against the dust that was kicked up now and again by the breeze.
He stood in front of the ranks of green soldiers. They didn’t have their sergeant with them today. Woe had been promised, as a method of payment, to have lessons in the ways of stealth, but that would only come when he demonstrated his expertise with a whip.
He wore no armor that day, it would only have added to his exhaustion to do so. He only needed his whip for these green soldiers.
They all looked fairly nervous, probably anticipating a painful flogging if they stepped out of line. Woe met them with an impassive glance over their lines, as he stepped along in front of their ranks.
”Well then. A demonstration, perhaps?” He suggested, pointing to their weapons. ”Four or five of you, or however many you think you can manage without overcrowding...”
The leather-clad and masked soldiers glanced at each other skeptically, wondering if the man with a whip could really be a match for five well armed and armored fighters. Some of them shrugged, and then a few stepped forward. About five soldiers volunteered, separating themselves from the ranks.
Woe stepped backward, as they all circled around him, drawing their long knives. With a swift motion, Woe uncoiled the whip at his side, then sent it slashing forward at the nearest soldier with a loud crack against the air.
Their uncertainty gave Woe entirely too many openings with which to exploit their indecision. Perhaps it was the advantage of having a weapon that could inflict such terrible pain without much actual harm, or the loudness of the crack that they were unused to, but the men seemed all the more hesitant to close the distance. This was their mistake.
However, eventually they did find their courage, and one of their number rushed Woe as he whipped the weapon in an opposite direction. It was a simple matter once it connected with the one soldier, to redirect it, side-stepping the rush of the soldier and connecting the end of the whip with his groin. He went down in agony. There would be no permanent harm, thankfully for his future children, but he would be in pain for quite a while. Doubtless the city’s harlots would go without their bread tonight.
That left four more of the buggers who wanted to see what could be done with a whip.
These soldiers didn't approach as one would expect an organized line to do so. Woe suspected they were not trained for mass organized engagements. Perhaps they were more like intelligence agents, or scouts. In any event, they were anything but infantrymen, but he felt that would work in his favor as he began to move his whip through the air.
The cord of the whip turned and twisted above his head, and came to snap back forward. The first man blocked it with a buckler, but the whip hit with the force of a mace, as Woe intended. The force of the blow surprised the first man, and gave him pause as the other three closed in.
Woe went into his motions, planning his motions several trills in advance as the whip flew around his head in chaotic coiling loops. He exposed his back to the second attacker, and was about to get shanked, within trills of his blade when the cracker of the whip came back and hit him full in the sternum, again hitting with the force of a bludgeon. It cracked against his chest, the sound of cracking ribs rending the air as he fell on his back.
The next two attackers, the first deciding to stall and hold back his assault as he observed, closed in on Woe. To their credit, they approached in unison, adapting well to his tact. Yet Woe was ready, feigning a backkick at the man approaching from his flank, but then snapping his whip over his shoulder to collide with the man's collarbone. The force of the contact prompted him to drop his long knife, while the man in front came forward, dangerously close to Woe and almost within striking distance. Woe reversed his torso's alignment, and snapped forward with a kick at the man. He side-stepped it, however, as it was very telegraphed.
Woe recovered his footing soon after, and began moving again, ready for the remaining two combatants to try more of the same tactic. Woe doubted their ability to communicate nonverbally behind their masks. They could make gestures at each other, but such pauses would only give Woe more time to move, more time to do his own thinking, and lash out at his 'pupils'.
The one in front of him was the first to make a move. Woe would've heard if the other to his flank had tried to advance. He rather seemed to like watching and waiting, and wasting his advantage in numbers. His mistake.
Woe drew his whip upward in a high snap at the man's wrist, slashing well into the leather, skin and bone with blade-like keen. It was a superficial wound of course, as Woe had no intention of taking his hand off. But the bleeding was enough to give him pause, long enough for Woe to consider his next strike. He opted for a non-lethal strike to the man's face, crossing his whip in a reversal, across the cheek. The agony of the strike was amplified by the lack of deadly intent, causing it to simulate the feeling of losing his skin, though in truth the lash left little in the way of a mark.
Woe almost forgot about the one who'd been waiting, but as he just finished the last man, the first rushed him, his buckler held high to intercept any such strikes from Woe's whip.
Woe had no intention of going high, or tangling it with his weaponry or buckler. He drew backward from the man's charge, skipping on his toes. With one final swipe, he lashed the ground beneath the man, striking at his shins and feet with the force of a mace. The bones crunched beneath the weight they were supporting, and the first attacker crumbled to the ground.
Woe stood triumphant, though he wondered if the men there weren't skeptical that he might be able to teach them such sublime techniques with such a noodly weapon.
In the end, the captain declined to give Woe credit for the commission in training, and forced him to pay their medical bills. He gave up the nels reluctantly, but willingly in the end.
But in truth, it was their loss.
