The Dead Dove Locker -- "I don't know what I expected."

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The Dead Dove Locker -- "I don't know what I expected."

Mamorien Offline

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RE: The Dead Dove Locker -- "I don't know what I expected."

#123

2 hours ago

Another day, another brace. (Fun Headless Over Heels fact, FSVO "fun": Duke said on the Discord that the name of that particular United Territories coin comes from an avian collective noun, honoring the days when a major medium of barter was the hexis contained in still-live animals.)

Dukerino Wrote:Tiago edged a map of West Plainland and its criss-crossing iron arteries aside, and found Polecat’s cutlass beneath it. “This is you?”

“Yep.”

Tiago pulled the sheathed cutlass out and handed it to him, handle-first. “In an actual fight, we’re gonna just hand you a gun or a spear and keep you back.”

“I love that.” Seth cinched the braided buckskin belt around his waist and felt the weight settle on his hip. “Great idea.”

“But you can carry that chopper there into a lot more spaces than you can bring a spear, so you might as well know how to use the thing.” Tiago swung his sword up to his shoulder. “Now, you’re a little guy—”

Prey-Type Face
“We’re the same height.”

“I’m physically sixteen and you’re a little guy—don’t interrupt, by the way—and you’ve got a blade fit for drunken stormshippers and a prey-type face.”

“A what-type, now?”

“So if you draw blades with someone, don’t look brave and don’t act tough. Look afraid. They’ll underestimate you. And the best way to win a sword fight is very quickly.”

“Look afraid to swordfight?” Seth wiped his bangs from his face. “I’ll do my best.”

“A lot of what you’ll learn, keep under your hat until you’ve got your range and your opportunity just right. Don’t wanna stance up and spin a moulinet when someone thinks you’re about to go at them like you’re chopping steaks.”

“A moulinet being?”

Tiago’s sword flickered in a balletic figure-eight across his body and then snapped back to its position. His face registered no effort.

“Oh,” Seth said.

“It’s mostly for peacocking and getting your wrist up to snuff. You’ll get there.” Tiago held up a hand as Seth went to draw his blade. “Don’t draw. We’re not using it yet. Just wear it around wherever you can; get used to the weight and the feeling.”

“That’s lesson one?”

“That’s lesson one-half. Pass me the broom, Feeli.”

A lacquer-handled broom shunted from the carriage’s roof and plopped into the dirt.

“Good pass, Feeli.” Tiago picked up the broom and tapped it against a carriage wheel, dislodging a cloud of dust. He held it out in front of him, headfirst, and dropped into a lithe combat stance, off-hand held behind his back.

“Mirror me,” he said.

Seth did so, and felt like a wading duck.

“Foot’s too far out.” Tiago indicated it with the head of the broom. “Straight under your knee. Good. Now what we’re—”

Tiago took a sudden lunge forward and the broom shoved hard into Seth’s midsection.

Seth stumbled backward a pace and wiped hastily at the streak of pale dust that Tiago had marked his borrowed shirt with. “Ouch. Bastard.”

“Not a bastard, il Gutierre. Dad’s a dead drunkard, but he had a ring.” Tiago took a slower step forward and rested the broom head against Seth’s chest. “So what we’re gonna do is this. Without crossing your feet or dropping out of stance, keep the head of this broom right where it is. Just barely touching you. Don’t let it get too far away, and don’t let me—”

He took another sudden flickering step. Seth staggered back this time and the broom danced with him upon his sternum.

“Good.” Tiago returned to stillness. “But don’t cross those feet.”