((starter for @dreamsofknighthood ))
Many outsiders looked at Gray’s upbringing and assumed one of two things: he was a spoiled only son with little practical knowledge of the world outside his village or he was a backwoods country bumpkin with no formal training in the finer arts of the sword he carried on his belt.
They were wrong. (Ok, he may have been a little spoiled, but that wasn’t the point.) Gray was a skilled merchant with an astute knowledge of wilderness survival and years of training with Sir Mycen alongside Alm. He’d been facing down threats more powerful than himself for years, had helped win a Mila-damned war, and yet…
The training dummy in the courtyard seemed to be laughing at him as the attached sandbag swung around and hit him directly in the face. Gray reeled backward, hitting the ground hard and tasting blood from where he’d bit the inside of his cheek. He grimaced and thought about just calling down lightning and burning the wooden dummy to ash. Satisfying, but ultimately just another costly thing for the kingdom to replace. He’d gotten too reliant on the distance his sword afforded, too complacent on the battlefield. The techniques he’d learned in childhood had been excellent building blocks, but he was nowhere near the skill level of the knights that now surrounded him.
He had to do better if he were going to remain at Alm’s side. He had to prove himself if he were to gain the approval of a certain Pegasus knight and his best friend. He had to be able to combat any threats against the newly reunited kingdom.
He had to stop getting hit in the face by a stupid wooden man with sandbags for arms.
Picking himself up off the dusty ground of the training yard, Gray eyed the training dummy with distaste. He came down early in the morning to avoid the seasoned fighters and recruits that still outclassed him. He didn’t want anyone to see how badly he was lacking. But how was he supposed to learn without a live opponent? Maybe he should just stick to drills for the time being.
With that thought in mind, Gray turned away from the dummy to face the empty expanse of the training yard. Dawn light was just starting to spread out across the bare earth, a light breeze kicking up puffs of dust that caught the light and became golden. Gray’s lips quirked upward in a small smile: Rather a poetic setting in which to train for combat.
Assuming a pose drilled into him from early childhood, he began working through one of the most basic sword forms. Steps and blocks almost like a dance at the village festival flowed through him and he lost himself in the rhythm of long-remembered patterns.
By the time he stopped to catch his breath, the sun had risen a little higher in the sky and streaked light beside the dark shadows of the walls. Gray wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, turning to grab his water pouch from where it lay on a bench by the wall. He froze when he discovered he was no longer alone, Forsyth now occupied a bit of wall along the formerly empty training yard.
“Mornin’,” Gray managed to squeak out, mortified that his training had been discovered by someone with much better combat discipline. “Uh… how long have you been standing there?”
