Perfect Ten (February 3010) - [OPEN]
Oct 15, 2017 15:55:10 GMT -5
Post by Runa on Oct 15, 2017 15:55:10 GMT -5
The cold February morning was clear skies and relatively mild wind, for Edoras. The sun was bright overhead, and the day beautiful. For a while, Runa had worried she would not feel able to pull herself from bed and head to the training grounds, but whatever she had caught at the Healing Hall was soon to pass, and the woman had dressed in one of her basic dresses, taken a shield and axe, and headed down to work with the pells.
A few of the Eored had left at the start of the week for a ride on the plains, and she suspected that the training grounds would be relatively empty because of it. When she arrived, she was not disappointed. The pells were not being used, so there was plenty of space for her to run her drills.
A few of the king’s men were there and sparring amongst themselves, and they paused just long enough to eye her as she passed. Runa was used to the curious, almost judgmental expression they wore. Perhaps they had forgotten that Rohan was not a country built on mild ladies.
Not that it ever dissuaded her.
Without even offering a backward glance, she lifted her sword and determined a measure for the pell, and dropped into a guard position, shield raised before her, as if the wooden piling was an enemy.
Runa drew the axe from the frog at her hip and twirled in loose in her hand. “One,” she said. She swung, the axe coming from behind her, swinging high over her head and down before her at an angle. The axehead bit into the wood, and it sent a few splinters flying. “Two.”
The woman grunted, pulling the axe back, and swinging it about her to the other side, tucking her shield behind her extended arm as the weapon carved downward to mirror her first strike. Again, the wood splintered. Absently, she wondered how often the pells were replaced. With as much wear as they received, it could not be that they lasted overly long.
She went through all eight strikes, crawling her way down the length of the pell in her contact points. When it came to nine, the woman hid the axe behind her shield and lunged, moving the cover away from the head at the last moment to thrust it directly into a lunge. “Nine,” she grunted definitively.
With a great swing, she brought the axe down straight in a carve before her body. The head stuck in the wood. “Ten.”
Runa worked the axe from the piling, smiling to herself. Her axe arm was improving. It was almost freeing to not worry about a sword; perhaps the axe was a glorified club, but the more the woman worked with it, the more she loved its simplicity.
A few of the Eored had left at the start of the week for a ride on the plains, and she suspected that the training grounds would be relatively empty because of it. When she arrived, she was not disappointed. The pells were not being used, so there was plenty of space for her to run her drills.
A few of the king’s men were there and sparring amongst themselves, and they paused just long enough to eye her as she passed. Runa was used to the curious, almost judgmental expression they wore. Perhaps they had forgotten that Rohan was not a country built on mild ladies.
Not that it ever dissuaded her.
Without even offering a backward glance, she lifted her sword and determined a measure for the pell, and dropped into a guard position, shield raised before her, as if the wooden piling was an enemy.
Runa drew the axe from the frog at her hip and twirled in loose in her hand. “One,” she said. She swung, the axe coming from behind her, swinging high over her head and down before her at an angle. The axehead bit into the wood, and it sent a few splinters flying. “Two.”
The woman grunted, pulling the axe back, and swinging it about her to the other side, tucking her shield behind her extended arm as the weapon carved downward to mirror her first strike. Again, the wood splintered. Absently, she wondered how often the pells were replaced. With as much wear as they received, it could not be that they lasted overly long.
She went through all eight strikes, crawling her way down the length of the pell in her contact points. When it came to nine, the woman hid the axe behind her shield and lunged, moving the cover away from the head at the last moment to thrust it directly into a lunge. “Nine,” she grunted definitively.
With a great swing, she brought the axe down straight in a carve before her body. The head stuck in the wood. “Ten.”
Runa worked the axe from the piling, smiling to herself. Her axe arm was improving. It was almost freeing to not worry about a sword; perhaps the axe was a glorified club, but the more the woman worked with it, the more she loved its simplicity.