Fantasy RPG Forum - Standing Trials

He was back in Andaris; returned to responsibilities and the knighthood, but his heart wasn’t in it. He missed Rharne and the drinking. He missed the freedom, the priestesses, and the electric buzz that gave life to his bones. Without it, he was tired and stared at the dull blue drink in his hand, sloshing its thick contents around and grimaced. Reaching into his back pocket he unfolded a piece of paper and reread the recipe he had ripped from a library book. Athlete’s Blend: Bananas, aloe vera, milk, blueberries, chia seeds, and wheat grass…. How could it have so much fruit in it and still smell like ass?

“Ilaren give me strength.” he prayed, apprehensive as ever.

The noble looked around at the training bodies, men with even more definition than himself, and knew they had to make sacrifices to get such a body. He wanted to be that way, that… Powerful. Sucking in a deep breath through his nostrils, he exhaled and followed it with a chug of the drink. When it first touched his tongue, it was sweet, but it quickly soured, coating his mouth with an earthy taste and slimy texture. He swallowed, a shudder racking his body and turning his stomach, the worst part being the seeds that stuck to teeth and the crunch they provided, “Ugh,” he clutched his stomach, feeling as dramatic as Tristan, and powered through another drink before he thought he might very well throw up.

His body seemed to have a preference for the toxins and abuse it seemed to receive from the lord on a daily basis, giving more resistance the semblance of a healthy lifestyle. Andráska vowed for his next workout, he would just bring a bottle from the local tavern and call it a day. Some people weren’t meant for greatness. Not if it meant this.

Setting the drink down, he pushed himself away from the wall, and headed over to where people were pairing up or utilizing dummies for practice. Andras pulled his sword from the hilt hanging from his side and rolled it in his palm, familiarizing himself with the weight. The young noble wasn’t a swordsman by nature, and it didn’t come as easily to him as it did with others. He had to work at it a bit more, preferring his fists or a swift kick.

Wearing his leather armor, Andraska waited to use a dummy, eyes scanning the men and women training around him. He watched their form, noticing how they shifted their weight and aligned their blade with their target. He pulled out a hand rolled cigarette from his pocket, sliding it between his lips and retrieving a match from the back of his glove. Striking the sulfur, the small flame flickered and glowed obviously in the dark of Cylus. He lit the tip, shaking the flame till it extinguished and tossed the piece of charred wood to the cold ground. A few plumes of smoke erupted from his lips, but it did not smell like the familiar sweetness of tobacco. A stronger, muskier smell - something like a skunk – permeated the air, and a few heads turned to glare at the off duty officer.

“Enjoying the view?” he purred, winking at those who looked irritated or surprised, and his green eyes were alight with amusement. It wasn’t that weed wasn’t legal… just not quite expected. Ashan’s tits, Andras hadn’t intended to get high, he had simply grabbed the wrong inhalant. Everything was so hard to see in this damnable darkness.

Andraska rolled his shoulders, each inhale giving him a familiar relaxation, and his mind started to wander to Ilaren smoking. Did she? Would she? He started making internal bets with himself on what vices each immortal was amiable towards, and soon enough it was his turn to step forward and he readied his sword.

Practice as usual.

A voice carried into the air, addressed to him, and Andráska turned slowly, one hand rising to his mouth. He looked to the owner, eyebrows lifting in surprise. Now here was someone who wasn’t judging him, or at least it didn’t feel that way. The way he greeted was amiable, and it pulled a slow, lazy smile from the noble’s lips. Was he looking for a sparring partner, or a good time? Very good question. He began to take a drag as he appraised the stranger.

The man was tall, with dark hair and brown eyes with a broad and strong build. Good looking, and confident, but not as posh as those in Venora or as serious as other knights. Already Andraska liked him more because of that and tendrils of smoke rose from his mouth as he answered, “A lil’ bit of both?” he grinned and plucked the joint from his lips and held it out as an offering, blowing the rest of the air from his lungs above their heads with a chuckle.

Whether or not Duncan would accept a hit was up to him, but the younger man shrugged, very relaxed and at ease, “András,” he introduced, glancing at the dummy he had waited in line and then at what he assumed was an offer to pair up. Why else would you bring that up when you approached someone? He cocked his head to the side, motioning for them to step aside and lead them to a more open area where they could spar, “You got a name, partner?”

He hummed, lifting a foot and extinguishing the joint against the sole of his boot casually. When the flame was dead, he tucked it back into his pocket and lifted his sword straight into the air, balancing the pommel on his palm and trying to keep it there. A dangerous game, “Life’s too short not to try new things and have fun, don’t you think?”

A man shouted, scolding Andraska, who in response, caught the bastard sword’s handle and tried to fight the smile that was ready to be a permanent fixture. He rolled his shoulders, cleared his throat, and took the appropriate stance, green eyes watching Duncan with bright interest, “Engarde.”

Duncan.

Nope, never heard of him.

They took their stance and Andras noticed the change in their body language. His smile faded into a mischievous smirk, and they circled one another, sizing the other up. Andráska lifted to the balls of feet, putting most of his weight on his front foot, a habit he picked up from fighting to get out of the way faster. He hoped it could be applied to sword fighting, but before he could analyze it, Duncan gave a testing stroke, and Andráska was quick to block, bringing his sword downward.

Duncan's arm moved quickly, and Andráska's green eyes flashed, and he leaped backwards, dodging the close attack and a laugh spilled from his lips, “I'll admit,” he began, circling, looking for some opening. He imitated Duncan's stance, but kept moving, keeping the distance between them wider, where it was safer, “I'm not much of a sword fighter.”

He tried to remember what his instructor had told him as a child and the training he received as a knight, but he knew he was better at hand to hand. If Duncan did manage to close the distance, the man would have a short time in besting him. If however, Andráska could get him unarmed...

He lifted the sword, going on the defensive, the weapon weighty in his hand. He didn't really have many other options, Duncan moved far more comfortably with his sword, and Andras did his best to jump out of the way or block what he could. He was looking for a very specific move, one where Duncan could lunge or extend. If he did that, perhaps it would allow Andras to swing and then -

Whatever attack Duncan did would bring him up short, and his eyes widened at the realization that had he not been sparring, he would be quite injured. Andráska gave a low chuckle, nodding and waiting for Duncan to lower his weapon so that he could give a noble bow, “Congratulations,” he was slow to rise, glancing at a trunk on the side of the training yard, holding various equipment, “Would you like to make it interesting?”

He knew what his mistakes had been. He had gotten too distracted, too lost in his own head. When fighting with his hands, he didn't second guess things. He needed to practice more. Practice made perfect. “Another spar, but without our blades... If you win, you can have whatever you want. But if I win...” Hmm... What did he want? He stuck the tip of his blade into the hard soil, leaning on the pommel in thought, “What are you willing to lose?”

Duncan was willing to play. Excellent.

Andráska Venora stood proudly as the other man assessed him and debated the challenge and when he offered the round of drinks, Andras clapped his hands together, “I was hoping you'd say that. Stay here.”

The young noble didn't immediately go into his fighting stance, moving to the trunk he had been eyeing and crouched before it, opening it up and pulling out a few things. Two of which, were padded helmets and he cracked open a smaller box that was inside, pulling out a pair of unused mouth pieces. They looked strange, made with a sort of molded chicle that had yet to be carved by use. He snatched them up, as well as some wrapping bandages and sauntered back to his training partner, “Here,” he tossed the other man a head covering and held out the mouth piece, “Laugh if you want, but I can't go risking my looks. My family is.... sort of known for being presentable,” he rolled his eyes, a bit embarrassed, “And I don't need my brother chewing me out. He's kind of a dick sometimes.”

He shrugged with a taunting smile, “I like to pick my battles, which is why I'm very much looking forward to those drinks.” Measuring out a bit of bandage, he held it out to help Duncan wrap his hands if he would allow it, “These are to keep your knuckles from splitting,” he explained. Protection was important, and if it wasn't a street brawl, precautions were always beneficial.

Andráska's own hands knuckles were covered in fading bruises, a few scabs on his hands from his time in Rharne. For the most part, the injuries didn't hurt, and he was far more familiar with the sensation. He stepped back, taking his own stance and worked on wrapping his own knuckles, using his teeth to hold the fabric in place with a bit of difficulty.

Once they were secured, he slipped on his own helmet and popped the mouth piece in, using his tongue to position it into place. And then he cracked his neck, rolling it from side to side, before settling into his stance. He was far more confident, circling like a cat watching prey before shooting outwards, swinging his arm towards Duncan's head and jumping backwards. His eyes were bright and alert; focused. Andráska was more in his element now and it showed, having been fighting since he was a boy.

.Unsure of Duncan's own skill, he observed his opponent, trying to get a feel for the other man's fighting style, trying to coax a few hits and dodge them. Andráska was that of a kick boxer, usually – fast, unrelenting, and determined. Had it been a more serious brawl, he would have shown no mercy, but this was a bit different, and he practiced patience. They were here to exercise and learn, but.... Andráska really wanted that drink.

Andráska was enjoying the little sparring session with Duncan and said as much with the smile that lifted at the comment about blood. He nodded without saying much else and completed the preparations, popping the mouthpiece in and moving it with his tongue. His voice was muffled, but clear enough,“Maybe.” As he fell into rhythm and his he threw his punches at his opponent, Duncan's arm came up and blocked him, but he was slower than the noble had anticipated. 'Interesting, he thought, realizing his opponent was much more of a swordsman.

Duncan grinned, the mouth guard showing, and launched an attack at his head. Seeing it flying from the corner of his eye, Andráska dipped his head, lifting his arm and absorbing the blow with his forearm, immediately side stepping and following up with a right hook and then a left. The other man was doing well in exchanging blows, and when he attempted a kick, it almost caught the noble off guard. Duncan's thigh rose quickly and he twisted his body to control the impact, one arm hooking under his knee to try and holding it at his hip, so that the other man would be forced to balance on one leg.

He attempted a few punches at Duncan's ribs and pushed forward, forcing the man to hobble backwards. He could feel the effect of the enormous mercenary's blows, particularly the one that had hit his arm, as holding the man in place was more challenging than he imagined and his footwork closed inwards.

Finally, after a bit of back and forth struggle, he twisted his weight and pushed forwards, aiming to cause the man to fall backwards and onto the cold earth. If he could get some leverage, maybe he could get tap out.