Dal
New member
Five days the same. Routine. Hands pressed against the hips, staring down the stream awaiting Dal's wading and striding. The weight upon him comfortable until water soaked, made all struggle and challenge once he took the plunge. It's what he signed himself up for. What he demanded of himself.
Yet he stood, waiting.
Boots still when he knew he could be throwing himself in.
Should be acting with drive. It wasn't reticence. Something else. Stillness now. Mulling.
Yet the challenge met his eyes, quick flowing water that sparkled in the height of sunlight.
Should be pressing against the pressure. Gaining endurance, knowing the trial better.
Yet, he was caught watching the spray, listening to the collisions of the water. Grew more ponderous as he bathed his eyes in the thinking water. Crumble did his plans, beset by this, and emerging priority. Five days was enough.
I've been putting off what I should be doing with this.
He rearranged the day slow as his eyes fixed on stone and stream and rush. Listened to the need buried aside the conditioning he realised was duty, and distraction from another duty. Turned away from prospective wading, shouldered his burdens with quick heft, chain shirt and rock in satchel swaying. Something else entire must be attended, Dal resolved, and turned.
The stream sparkled on, Dal's eyes fixed in his dour way back to Monastery proper, nature giving answer when soldier conditioning was not enough to give honest lustre.
His stature felt best when beset with weight, his gait well accustomed to placing boot right to maintain movement with burdens. He made no move to remove the stones that were training instruments about his belt, his mind rearranging furniture of his time to host. A Squire amongst Squires who taught many how to bear the sword and harshness of the battle, being long in tooth in battle before accepting knightly company and stewarding occupation. He knew his aptitudes. Knew that what had kept him alive in martial ways should be imparted.
He shifted the cargo of a backpack he wore, one quick shrug of shoulders that was enough to lift it, despite the mass of heavy things that were meant to be hefted upon him up stream. Rock grinding soft against rock, a myriad of shotput lumbered.
Another shrug, unsaddling himself of the weight, palm now gripped and muscle demanded with the single handed carry. One more moment with the weight, strain always welcome. And then discarded at a wall he himself had constructed as he made his way into Monastery. Boots lighter treading, mind bracing for a different kind of struggle.
Distant smack crack of wooden wasters luring his attention a moment. Shaked away, a smile.
Distractions doing what you're good at are easy to hide as worthy.
Can't remember who told that to me.
Dal rubbed his jaw, as if the place his tusks did jut from could be coaxed of an answer historical. Nothing came.
Truth was, it was his own thinking misplaced as another's in origin.
He pressed a palm to library door, and opened it soft and quiet, as if it were a trapped thing in need of gentleness. Stopped a moment, removed his satchels of stone. Felt lighter and less grounded for it. And entered, door creeping without sound at soft touch from tough hand.
He knew this place casually, having no long patience for the reading nor the scribing. Some delving he had made, some inquiries. Some withdrawals of fighting texts which felt more comfortable to withdraw than to place his head against the wall and tap his forehead against fruitlessly. Some other squire who might conjure a damn thing would need them more than me, Dal had thought as he placed initiate texts on weaving aside to withdraw the written sketches of forms of steel wielding.
He had much sympathy of the things told to him about those who had never lifted weights upon his first arrival to the library. Of anxiety and shame arresting action. Just dive in, Dal had said to those lithe and nimble who sought broader shoulders and tougher armours. And so, he had followed his own advice, understanding his fellow's better for it. And now, he did so again, understanding the nature of what he would contend with better for his exposure to the difficult and strange.
Respectful to the sages, meeting the frustration he would no doubt feel with preperations, he returned to books he had returned, waiting in shelf arranged in formation. Treatsies, introductions, orientations and warnings on the weave. Much divorced from combat, yet promising a clash against his nature all the same. He felt the grain that held the knowledge beyond his brain with calloused hands of sandpaper. Feeling the carpentry, delaying the page opening for an indulgent moment.
Another rub of jaw, taking books gentle as if fragile glass, placing them in frame of study table. Testing chair as if it might give way. Replacing it with another more suited for his bulk. He had already fashioned one to replace a chair that had cracked loud at ignorance of himself.
Never again if I can help it.
He sat. And read. And stared. And turned. And stared. And re-read.
He found the battleground had not gained advantage for himself leaving it so long.
Some hours passed. His jaw now rested upon a fist, eyes down at text that seemed to grow more cursive. Books rotated in service. No progress, despite his argument of yearning for understanding and wanting for the river. No notes had Dal made. He started his day carrying stones, not quill. He understood through practice, and his eyes were growing strained, and his mind felt no progress.
He looked around and with resigned breath to his condition, looked for some support in this moment for others who might delve into book and theory. His boots felt restless, but gave way to no tapping of his knee. Many knights were filtering about, making good their time to study and learn, making swift their return of tome and finding of another. To them Dal felt loathesome to ask a thing by habit. But squires, squires he knew from swinging wooden wasters, who knew him from running courses, and survival notions, and methods of the martial, his eyes did seek now.
He got up. Sought another of his rank, solemn faced, shoulder broad that knew when to be still as people passed him. He did hide all sign of his discomfort in his face, yet the strain of eyes long at page unrevealing was as plain as the blank page could be. There was a want to learn, certainly, his presence here said that much. But there was no method in his manner, he knew that much of learning Weave. And so, he sought a Squire who knew such things far better than he considered possible to himself to be.
He moved respectful of himself in library spaces fit for robes, not chainmail, eyes looking for a squire that might be sympathetic to arm him in fashion he knew not how to grip his mind at.
@Tobille
Yet he stood, waiting.
Boots still when he knew he could be throwing himself in.
Should be acting with drive. It wasn't reticence. Something else. Stillness now. Mulling.
Yet the challenge met his eyes, quick flowing water that sparkled in the height of sunlight.
Should be pressing against the pressure. Gaining endurance, knowing the trial better.
Yet, he was caught watching the spray, listening to the collisions of the water. Grew more ponderous as he bathed his eyes in the thinking water. Crumble did his plans, beset by this, and emerging priority. Five days was enough.
I've been putting off what I should be doing with this.
He rearranged the day slow as his eyes fixed on stone and stream and rush. Listened to the need buried aside the conditioning he realised was duty, and distraction from another duty. Turned away from prospective wading, shouldered his burdens with quick heft, chain shirt and rock in satchel swaying. Something else entire must be attended, Dal resolved, and turned.
The stream sparkled on, Dal's eyes fixed in his dour way back to Monastery proper, nature giving answer when soldier conditioning was not enough to give honest lustre.
His stature felt best when beset with weight, his gait well accustomed to placing boot right to maintain movement with burdens. He made no move to remove the stones that were training instruments about his belt, his mind rearranging furniture of his time to host. A Squire amongst Squires who taught many how to bear the sword and harshness of the battle, being long in tooth in battle before accepting knightly company and stewarding occupation. He knew his aptitudes. Knew that what had kept him alive in martial ways should be imparted.
He shifted the cargo of a backpack he wore, one quick shrug of shoulders that was enough to lift it, despite the mass of heavy things that were meant to be hefted upon him up stream. Rock grinding soft against rock, a myriad of shotput lumbered.
Another shrug, unsaddling himself of the weight, palm now gripped and muscle demanded with the single handed carry. One more moment with the weight, strain always welcome. And then discarded at a wall he himself had constructed as he made his way into Monastery. Boots lighter treading, mind bracing for a different kind of struggle.
Distant smack crack of wooden wasters luring his attention a moment. Shaked away, a smile.
Distractions doing what you're good at are easy to hide as worthy.
Can't remember who told that to me.
Dal rubbed his jaw, as if the place his tusks did jut from could be coaxed of an answer historical. Nothing came.
Truth was, it was his own thinking misplaced as another's in origin.
He pressed a palm to library door, and opened it soft and quiet, as if it were a trapped thing in need of gentleness. Stopped a moment, removed his satchels of stone. Felt lighter and less grounded for it. And entered, door creeping without sound at soft touch from tough hand.
He knew this place casually, having no long patience for the reading nor the scribing. Some delving he had made, some inquiries. Some withdrawals of fighting texts which felt more comfortable to withdraw than to place his head against the wall and tap his forehead against fruitlessly. Some other squire who might conjure a damn thing would need them more than me, Dal had thought as he placed initiate texts on weaving aside to withdraw the written sketches of forms of steel wielding.
He had much sympathy of the things told to him about those who had never lifted weights upon his first arrival to the library. Of anxiety and shame arresting action. Just dive in, Dal had said to those lithe and nimble who sought broader shoulders and tougher armours. And so, he had followed his own advice, understanding his fellow's better for it. And now, he did so again, understanding the nature of what he would contend with better for his exposure to the difficult and strange.
Respectful to the sages, meeting the frustration he would no doubt feel with preperations, he returned to books he had returned, waiting in shelf arranged in formation. Treatsies, introductions, orientations and warnings on the weave. Much divorced from combat, yet promising a clash against his nature all the same. He felt the grain that held the knowledge beyond his brain with calloused hands of sandpaper. Feeling the carpentry, delaying the page opening for an indulgent moment.
Another rub of jaw, taking books gentle as if fragile glass, placing them in frame of study table. Testing chair as if it might give way. Replacing it with another more suited for his bulk. He had already fashioned one to replace a chair that had cracked loud at ignorance of himself.
Never again if I can help it.
He sat. And read. And stared. And turned. And stared. And re-read.
He found the battleground had not gained advantage for himself leaving it so long.
Some hours passed. His jaw now rested upon a fist, eyes down at text that seemed to grow more cursive. Books rotated in service. No progress, despite his argument of yearning for understanding and wanting for the river. No notes had Dal made. He started his day carrying stones, not quill. He understood through practice, and his eyes were growing strained, and his mind felt no progress.
He looked around and with resigned breath to his condition, looked for some support in this moment for others who might delve into book and theory. His boots felt restless, but gave way to no tapping of his knee. Many knights were filtering about, making good their time to study and learn, making swift their return of tome and finding of another. To them Dal felt loathesome to ask a thing by habit. But squires, squires he knew from swinging wooden wasters, who knew him from running courses, and survival notions, and methods of the martial, his eyes did seek now.
He got up. Sought another of his rank, solemn faced, shoulder broad that knew when to be still as people passed him. He did hide all sign of his discomfort in his face, yet the strain of eyes long at page unrevealing was as plain as the blank page could be. There was a want to learn, certainly, his presence here said that much. But there was no method in his manner, he knew that much of learning Weave. And so, he sought a Squire who knew such things far better than he considered possible to himself to be.
He moved respectful of himself in library spaces fit for robes, not chainmail, eyes looking for a squire that might be sympathetic to arm him in fashion he knew not how to grip his mind at.
@Tobille
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