lifeaftr | Let's Train in 100 Times Gravity

Entry tags:

Let's Train in 100 Times Gravity

Who: Anyone who wants to come by! Tag in, thread with Yuka, thread with each other, whatever you want.
What: Combat training/practice.
When: Sunset, each night for a week minimum.
Where: East end of Islet 1.
Warnings: Possible blood if things get out of hand, implied 80s training montage songs

Yuka chose this location because the ground was level, there was enough space for people to move around, and nobody was really using it for anything else. No wild beasts, no fish people to disturb, no strange psychological effects... the ideal place for people to gather for an hour or two and get some good-natured fighting in. The snow on the ground wasn't ideal, she supposed, but that stuff was everywhere, so they'd just have to make do. It'd probably be snowing during the invasion, anyway.

Each evening, as the sun inched towards the horizon, Yuka set her other tasks aside to come out and wait. Jug of wassail sitting at the edge of the space, bundled in warm clothes and scarves, Yuka paced, wondering if this was really going to be worth the time. Are there people willing to spend that much time to train others when there's so much else that needs doing? Can someone even learn enough to make a difference in this little time? For that matter, are these shadow monsters something you can even fight with your fists? If nothing else, it would be good to do some physical activity in just to get her mind to stop going in circles.

For those who arrived early, there would be less to do, but even just talking through what different fighting skills people had would be useful for later on. Once more people arrived, those who use similar weapons could work together, and those with more combat experience could work with those with less. Or, people who know each other or are curious about each other's abilities could seek each other out for a sparring match.

So: Fight, teach, learn, take breaks, drink, chat. Bring your own wassail if you can - Yuka's can only stretch so far.

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Admittedly, they're unaccustomed to having an audience of the smaller variety, and even less are they accustomed to that audience being participatory. Yet participating they are, a little shadow-flicker of mimicry as the Drifter goes through each of the motions in turn.

Eventually it comes to their attention, and the Drifter stops to tip their head to one side as they regard the Knight curiously.

can fight?

In response, the knight draws their weapon, offering it for the Drifter's inspection. Small though it is, it has a sharp edge; it has the worn but polished look of something that has been carefully tended to.

They give a firm nod, and whisk the nail away; just as quick to sheathe as they are to draw. They are certainly capable of fighting.

It is a simple weapon, but simplicity is no obstacle. Sometimes that is all you have; for want of a nail. It may be small, but size is also no object. They have defeated creatures countless times larger than themself, and they're certain they are not the only one.

spar?

They nod, putting a hand on the hilt of their sword but making no other movements. They don't seem to feel the need to take a stance; they simply wait for the Drifter to make the first move, hopping backwards a few steps instead of advancing.

Herein lies the first obstacle: how does one prepare to spar against someone so obviously smaller than themself? The difficulty is not in the size disparity, but rather in ensuring they do not inadvertently bowl them over - the Drifter's method of combat, after all, is rather reliant on speed and agility, and the force of those momentum-fueled strikes are more than enough to throw some opponents against the walls and over edges.

It would not do to risk injury or death, so soon before a cataclysmic event.

So it is that once again, they hesitate.

must not risk injury

The knight stares with some confusion. As far as they can remember, nobody has hesitated to attack them before. This is a new and novel experience.

After a moment, they shrug and demonstrate their resilience in the only way they can figure out; they hold out their free hand, and with no effort whatsoever stab it with their sword, before pulling it out again.

There's not even the slightest amount of blood. Instead, shadow pools together to make the wound - more like an indent - whole again. There is no mark, no scar.

They sort of...gesture. What more can they do to prove they're capable? They've taken greater blows.

This, too, is new. The Drifter leans forward in slight awe. Their eyes widen only incrementally in dark, perplexed pools as they watch the wisps of ghostlike dark gather around the point of contact and soothe it over.

The Knight does not bleed.

The Knight does not risk the sort of illness that plagues their lungs. The Knight is not the same manner of creature as they, and that had been an assumption they had not realized they were unconsciously making. They had mentioned - they had said that they were made. It would stand to reason that there would be differences. Dwelling upon them does not count as a productive use of time.

If the Knight is content, then so are they. The Drifter nods.

ok

And without further hesitation, they streak forward in a shadowed hum of purple and gray, the flat of their blade swinging sidelong.

This is more like what they're used to; no quarter asked for, no quarter given.

(But from the Drifter's concern, they know anything will stop short of death or serious injury, and so there's less stress.)

They swing the nail in response, meeting strike with strike in a parry that pushes the little bug backwards some distance; to make up for the knockback, they dash forward and strike upward instead.

They're fast, which is fortunate. They also opt to parry the strike instead of outright avoiding it, which is generally the Drifter's own preference.

Their retaliation comes swiftly; the Drifter scoots back several paces, throwing puffs of snow-powdered sand behind their feet as they skid across the ground. Their offensive maneuver falls away in favor of circling slowly, warily, experimentally - testing to see if the Knight will pursue them, and press an advantage if it reveals itself.

They've long since learned the only way to triumph in a fight is to pursue the opponent. Their small stature grants them few favours; their lessons in combat have been to swing as hard as possible, as fast as they can manage. To always try to anticipate the opponent's next move.

They step back and forth for a moment, considering, tracking the Drifter's movements; then they dash forward. Feinting an attack in one direction and then striking where they think the Drifter will move to, cloak swirling with shadow.

Pursue they do, though not recklessly. That, the Drifter can appreciate. They are observant, too, taking care to note their opponent's motions before streaking forward with their weapon cleaving neatly through the air.

The Drifter does not anticipate a feint; most, where they come from, may occasionally telegraph their attacks, or be particularly adept at evading the Drifter's own, but very few employ purposeful deception. Such strategies are so few and far between that it catches them off guard.

The Knight's weapon lands a blow on the Drifter's shin. Immediately, they skip backward to regroup.

They're almost surprised themselves to have landed a hit, but any potential savouring of their small triumph doesn't last long. They press their advantage, dashing towards the Drifter and holding their swing to release a fierce strike; the arc of it is bigger than their normal attacks.

They don't stay dashing forward for long. They skip to the side, retreating again, always mobile. It seems they don't prefer to be stuck in one place too long if they can help it.

Like them, the Knight has access to a wider pool of attacks than their simple arsenal would imply. The Drifter recognizes the necessity to hold still to charge a blow in order to strike harder, wider. If they'd been incorrect in that assumption, doubtless there would be consequences to pay.

The movement is easier for them to chart in its familiarity, and the cyan of their blade whips upward with the intention to parry. It is not often that they effect this sort of direct measure, preferring instead of evade and strike when there is an adequate window.

But they wish to see what happens when one or both of them elects to stand their ground.

Blade meets blade with a surprisingly small ting; the knight doesn't hesitate or attempt to withdraw their blow. If nothing else, they have to commit to the attack, and they have scarce space in combat for faltering.

But the knockback of the parry drives them back enough that they stumble and fall over backwards as they land, sending up a puff of snow. They have to take a moment to recalibrate themselves, it seems, even without sustaining an injury. It might be comical.

But they're ready for anything once they get back to their feet again! It's fine, they're okay. They brandish their sword fiercely to indicate how Ready they are.

Resilient, fast, adaptable - they can acknowledge a warrior’s fierceness despite their diminutive size. The Knight is admirably swift in recovering from the stonewall, even if those precious moments it takes to recover leaves a fraction of a window.

If this were not some sparring session, perhaps the Drifter would have drawn their railgun to see how the Knight would contend with a ranged weapon. But ammunition is limited, and it does not do to waste it here.

Instead, they press a new offensive, shooting forward to slam several successive swipes of their blade in the Knight’s direction.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Let's Train in 100 Times Gravity

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