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Smith and Sword
Posted: 30 Jul 2005 06:49 AM |
DAIMON RABIANARA
"I can't strike you, you're too fast..." his student panted, his face red with exertion. "Every time I try to swing again, you've already parried the next strike, and I cannot break your parries..."
"Have not," Daimon replied, lowering his practice foil with a twirl. "The world is filled with many fighters who, the young ones in particular, become obsessed with fighting fast, thinking speed and power are measures of ability; the faster the swings, they believe, the better the fighter. The more crushing the blows, the more they can kill. This shows their immaturity."
Daimon shook his head slowly. "Swordsmanship is not a race. One does not gain points for taking more swings in battle then the rest. Speed and power are byproducts of technique, not an end to be pursued in itself. It is far more important for a swordsman to understand rhythm, timing, quickness."
"Quickness?" The student asked. "But you just said that being quick wasn't important."
"Quickness, my friend, is much more important than speed. Quickness is the rate of transformation between thought and action, the time it takes for an idea to become a work of art. It is a vital factor in improvisation, and is valued much more than speed."
"I think I understand, but what about power, Is it not important for a warrior to give each of his blows enough killing strength?" The student waited patiently for his master to explain.
"Consistency is important, as is determination, but no two battles are the same. I've seen Gargantuans fall to halflings, dragons slain with wooden arrows. Sometimes when one focuses on their ultimate goal too much, they lose track of their present. Every swing has its own goal, and not all are to kill. If too much force is put into a swing that is only meant to create room, or scare an enemy, an opponent can take advantage of the overswing, and close the distance before you can recover your balance.
"As the situation changes in the middle of the heat, you must be prepared to account for new factors, new aspects of the same battle." Daimon continued. "That does not mean, however, that you don't have to commit to every swing. You must learn when to shout, and when to whisper, but you must always be saying something important. You spirit shows through every action you make, and an opponent will see a weak spirit, and quickly take advantage of it."
* * *
"Daimon, I just don't like the idea. Malakai is too dangerous." Evaramir said, adjusting his Elven robes beneath him on the chair.
"I no longer have the luxury of options, Evaramir, Malakai is the only living man in Vives who knows about the intricacies of the gates of Nethar'u." Daimon feet were propped up on the outdoor table of the Cafe del Mar, his wearied face looking up at the skies.
"Only because he betrayed the rest of the mages who Sacrificed themselves to seal it Daimon! He's a power-hungry archmage, and I cannot let you help him. If you had any sense in you, you'd realize what I'm saying and give up this foolish Idea of yours."
Daimon's eyes followed a passing seagull above the rooftops, before resting on Evaramir once more. "If the demons get a hold of the last stone, the seal will be broken and Hell will be loose upon Vives, now I have to go." He adjusted his boots, before springing to his feet, straightening out his mailed tunic. His eyes drifted up to the rising figure of Evaramir.
"I cannot let you leave, Daimon." Evaramir stated quietly, lifting his staff in front of him. "Not if you're going to do this"
"Get out of my way Evaramir," Daimon stated coldly, moving for the door.
"Daimon!" Evaramir stepped in front of the door, holding his staff high, its arcane gem glowing with intensity.
"Move." Daimon folded his arms, shifting his stance. For a brief second the world stood still as the two watched each other's eyes, searching for the first movement. Then all at once, Daimon lifted his foot, and Evaramir's Staff flared, sending Daimon a beam of white energy. The beam hit Daimon square in the chest, and fizzled, turning into dusty smoke.
All at once, Daimon's arm came around, rapier in hand, and connected with the midsection of the staff, tearing it away from the hands of the open-mouthed sorcerer and sending it skittering across the cobblestones in rough bounces before colliding with a stack of empty casks in the corner.
"Out of the way, now" Daimon said quietly, the tip of the rapier now leveled motionlessly inches from Evaramir's throat. Evaramir begin to mouth a small protest, but moved aside quickly, and Daimon stormed out of the courtyard.
* * *
"Daimon, where are ye laddie!"
"Over here." Daimon looked up from the stack of papers, setting his quill down as the dwarven wizard shuffled into the room.
"There ye are! Daimon..." The dwarf scanned the room, looking at the papers, briefly, and glanced in the display case.
"What is it Balthor?" Daimon stood, and pushed in his chair gently.
"It's that Gnome, Romulus, he attacked Blanche!"
"The little ugly gray one?" Daimon asked, running a finger along the glass on one of his display cases with a frown.
"That's 'im! He cursed somebody else too, Daimon, we're going to attack him, and I need yer help." Balthor wiped his forehead with a meaty palm, and then sat down in one of the chairs used to wait customers.
"Go on" Daimon replied curiously. As he asked, he leaned over on the display case, directing his attention to Balthor.
"Well, we were going to lay siege to the Keep"
"Gorlath's Keep? Isn't that a little assertive?"
"Well yeah, but we figure we get him there, and well, he'll have nowhere to run to."
"But isn't the Keep the center of his powers?" Daimon mused. Balthor frowned for a second, before his gaze wandered to an unfinished green breastplate standing on top of a table. "...Work in progress." Daimon said, following his gaze.
"Laddie, we need yer help, you always got yer designs and stuff, and you know about buildin stuff and such, I want your help tearing the castle down. Whaddya say?"
"Well, it's not going to be an easy task, simple stones won't bring down a keep like that, especially not one as heavily enchanted."
"I figure we make a few batches of firebombs, a little bit of dispelling, I think we got a chance, we can't let the little bastard get away this time." Balthor practically spit the last few words through his teeth, the mage obviously had been growing impatient with the little necromancer's shenanigans.
"I'll think about it Balthor." Daimon finally nodded.
"Great! I got to be off then, you got any more of them Malar pelts?" Looking around the room, Balthor began walking towards a stack of skins, bundled with some hemp rope.
"Yeah, even cured them for you. Oh, Balthor, I'm running low on Adamantium... do you think we could..."
Balthor grabbed the stack and shoved them into his pack. "Well, what are you doing now?" Daimon looked back at the papers slowly, and then back to his bearded colleague.
"Nothing, really," Daimon replied, grinning sheepishly.
* * *
"What's so funny?"
The sweaty man staggered back a few steps, almost dropping the rapier he held in two hands, as his eyebrows creased curiously.
"I'm sorry, I was thinking of something else," Daimon replied, lowering his blade once more. "... look, look, you're thinking too much. Sometimes the conscious mind over considers your efforts, and it foils the natural rhythm of your battle. You can make a lot of mistakes that way, as it stems from self-consciousness. When the mind becomes preoccupied with what the hands are doing, it shuts out your spirit from your battle."
"But I'm so tired, I haven't hit you once yet, why must I continue?" His student looked up at the sky to locate the sun's position in the sky. "... and How much longer is my lesson to last, It feels like I've been swinging for hours, weren't we only going to have lessons for 2 hours?"
"It is natural to anticipate the finish, but in so doing, we often lose track of the task at hand. Do not focus on the goal, focus only on the process by which you arrive at the goal. The only way to overcome self-consciousness is through practice. With practice our muscles develop their own intelligence, to a point where thought and action occur simultaneously.
"Our skill becomes natural, part of what the Asashi masters call our Ordinary Mind" Daimon smiled, and slid his rapier away, offering his hand to his student. "You are correct, though, today's practice is done, as it has been just about two hours since we began. Go, and get some rest. Remember what you have learned today, study on your own, and for Good-sakes, Don't die."
"I'll try not to, master Daimon." The student wiped the sweat off his training foil with a rag that hung off his sash. "A bit of rest and a drink of two sound very pleasant right now, however."
"You know, when I began to give lessons, I lost most of my students, most of them died in the wilds, in combat with giants, and ettins, and such. Originally, I had thought it fault of mine, poor teaching, practically half of my students died while they were still just learning."
His student's eyes widened slightly, and he gulped quietly. "But?"
"...but then I realized that it was not half of my students that were dying, but many warriors in these lands do not live to return to town, student or not. I'd advise you to be careful." Daimon laughed and clapped the stiffened student on the back. "I'll see you next week then, same time, same place."
Daimon Rabianara
Elven Male; Age 204
Origin: Unknown
Occupation: Bladesmith, Swordsman, and Teacher
Talents: Tactics, Metalworking, Swordsfighting, Keen Senses.
Quote: "Quick, and Quiet." |
The Legacy Saga |
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Re: Smith and Sword
Posted: 30 Jul 2005 12:23 PM |
| ((very nicely done)) |
Purpose in life: finding better ways of allowing players to kill themselves. Repeatedly.
--
"...Cause he mixes it with love
And makes the world taste good."
--
<@James42> Lawful good isn't in your vocabulary, it's on your menu.
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Re: Smith and Sword
Posted: 30 Jul 2005 08:07 PM |
((great read )) |
- Solitaire, Wizard
- Ilyana Fiirhaart, High Priestess of Naruth |
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