Syr Montbank

Syr Montbank

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The winds were dead, still, unhelpful and unco-operative. Layers stilled expanse, of nothing helpful that had no feeling or gesture to it, fit for exhausting by having to do everything for your own power. No lifting hand of luft to raise you to a vantage, to pivot within and know where you belong to it.

Montbank turned his eyes from the stalled cloud and turned eyes of piercing to his weapon sheathed. Saddled to himself tight and flush, suited to drawing in the dive. His taloned hands went upwards for final confirmation, feeling for a hint of a returning wind. No clue of movement given on neither palm nor feather. That grasping hand that had hoped turned downwards, to the steel ill designed for a grounded unsheathing.

A tentative grip, a shift of taloned feet to allow the angle to free the blade. Rip of steel feeling all too odd, all too much a stranger meeting with talons planted. He felt the weight, so odd without considerations of drag. Like holding a lance without a steed, no momentum, no drive or charging advance to incoming galloping target. Holding it as if he had never felt a counterweight of pommel before.

"This won't do, this won't do at all," he said, refusing to indulge in sidestepping the truth of it.

He practiced his draw alone for a few minutes, alone in shade, so that others might not grow disheartened at a potential fumble. Perish the thought of someone growing disheartened at the sight of his presence. Working alone beneath a wide palm of foliage, simple draws grew more comfortable. Grew quicker at that at least.

The tree made no applause, not a leaf did shudder it's approval.

But sterile condition were good for clean moments, Montbank knew. But in the thick of it, on uneven ground, over medical cases, equipped with varieties of aid, a clean draw with static posture wouldn't cut it.

Montbank left the solitude of the tree, and returned to public sight of Monestary grounds, the leaves making no wave goodbye. Gait of talons soft advancing upon the ground, silent in armour, flush metals interlocking to his dimensions. No straps of leather of equipment satchels affixed. A sash of red that did lack the whip of air to command it's tail was twice wrapped around his waist. The last bandage of his to mark he was truly out of aid to give. That defence was all that was left to staunch the want of spilling blood. Refinement and practice awaited with a partner. Montbank refused to dive into the air to arrive at the drilling square. Each step made a form of practice unto itself. Grounded to become grounded to the deeds ahead.

What is this feeling, Montbank thought, animalkin hands clenching around the pommel. Feeling the counterweight's power to pivot throttled by his sheath clinging, he recognised it after studying himself at a distance, an old stranger from a horizon he thought was long since passed but back again by his own lapses to diligence.

This won't do at all. Only way is through.

On he walked, hearing the footfalls slower than his usual, yet still before eyes did see him. He nodded at the passer by, casual chat turned aside, his stride purposeful yet he did not draw attention to himself as best he could. Some thanks given, some stories asked for by others, turned aside with a simple, "Another time friend, another time."

Strawmen did cling to their bullseye targets. Thudding of the arrow to meet the mark correct in single shot to single shot to make a training volley.

Cut, drag, swing, pivot, turn, stab, slash, step, step, return. The squire and knight performed their drills, centered to their method and awareness to their own motions. Between drills, some eyes to Montbank. Who felt the stranger feeling become more well introduced to him, hand now gripping his longsword.

By the winds, you're not a squire. Know yourself.

A soothing following. Not excuse or shirking. Validation he had done right by returning to the training square at all.

That's why I'm here.

He looked for one who might be sympathetic to sparring. A static target would not go. Agile movements, a zone to remain within and dance in, quick draws and a changing situation. That is what Montbank felt he needed. His eyes did remain fixed within his avian cranium, head turning, as his feet kept him planted, eyes of the bird not looking from vantage, but as equals on the footing they shared. He heard the thudding and slide of steel, of pierce of straw crackle and wood buckle. Of leather creaking, of metal making it's mark and arrow draw straining string and muscle. All detail so close and insistent.

He clacked his beak twice, head swivelling this way and that, yet not full orbit. Doing such he knew would be most unbecoming, and was not something that was a welcome sight. He blinked and saw a source of help and considered how to voice his request properly, hand now firm upon the handle of his weapon, some confidence at least the first draw would be correct.

The rest would have to be seen about and corrected in due course, he thought. But that's what friends are for, he thought, and raised his head and beckoned with his beak to Hector to draw attention to himself and ask that he come over.

@Hector
 
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Hector caught the look given by Syr Montbank from across the way. All bird grounded by the rain. He smiled bright, blunted sword hooked under arm, he sauntered on over to the Sky Knight.

"Fancy a spar?" he asked, easy as. Bit of the day's grime still clung to him. "Could use another go myself," he nodded toward the ring. All invitation, and stepped to it.
 
"Gladly, gladly," Montbank did reply, placing his own steel aside for a blunted number akin to Hector's own. A flex of talons before the plucking of the blade, articulated plate shimmering as he did so.

He tucked his wings tightly folded against his back, placed rules into his frame to obey. Taloned feet did make prints lightly to the arena, making any at all by virtue of the sleek plate placing him down at all. Into the ring, terribly two dimensional, yet tolerated and accepted.

Montbank made light conversation, feeling ungainly, compensating for such in his talk.

"I cannot recall the last time I were here, truth be told," Montbank said, feeling the wind flow across the blunt of the sword as he made a half-hearted testing cut. Talons firmed about it, a slow blink at dull steel, dead air feel.

Lower talons tested the ground. Felt the reassurance of armour about his knees press against him. Reminded himself again, not to take wing, as he waited for Hector to take a place, and would provide proper knightly salute to begin once Hector might be ready. A simple rise to left shoulder with crossguard, no courtly bow. Old as old courts, traditional as one could be.

Do people even salute before sparring? It's been too long...

@Hector
 
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Hector's ears twitched to the sound of Syr Montbank's worries.

"Well, there's not much to it than to do it, I reckon, Syr," salute offered and salute returned. Feder sword taken in both hands, and raised to a high pointed guard, shoulders bladed, knees bent easy.

He would not wait. Once the guard was presented, stance taken, Hector would lay down a testing strike. Step over and shift to a low guard, body eager to find the next step to the engagement.
 
Montbank nodded at the direct wisdom, a short nod that was the language of efficiency, of knightly solidarity to the mettle soon to display. Another nod, to signal the readiness to begin, and blades did perform their duty to the hands sworn to wield them well.

The testing strike born against the flat, quick slide of glancing steel and ringing escape of the touch of weapons. Movement during, wide and to the side, took Montbank in circling evasive style. The center line was not indulged yet; circular in his patterns in the air and seemingly on the ground by instinct. Yet he maintained measure for own refusal to spar with the nature of the coward, yet reigned in his sideways circling. Returning as if redressing himself, correcting his instincts, he looked at low guard and brought blade to right shoulder, placed the feet just so, direct, in front, confronting. Correct measure, slight shuffle forward to maintain distance correctly, with valour and threat encroaching from such defence. Montbank blinked eyes that were hypersharp to lose their precision, to perceive the wider information. Difficult.

Bearing of shoulders, the angle of the blade, dipped melee stance, ready to engage his play. Another blink.

The limitation of the ground brought his mind to the basics. Low guard. The kind of thing that did play well into boar's tooth, which would skewer a flier for jumping up and diving should they fail to strike as flash before the rumble of lightning caught it. Something already learned, something already reminded of fighting ground to ground.

A minor tremor of wings about the shoulder, resisted, visible. That old battle instinct, knowing field combat more than sparring. Held in place. Bound by will to improve on equal footing.

Another blink, judgement and assessment sealed. Commitment to the pace, right sword stance taken, swing diagonal downward cuts through middle for blades to entangle in their counters and remedies, three strikes and withdraw in such diagonal shape, steel playing themselves against one another to know the hands dealt better. Montbank moved graceful enough, but seemed a shade off balance for the tucking of the wings, a little overstepping here and there without the wings to balance. The sword knew it's path, but the carrier and sender of the blows seemed like a cat without a tail who perhaps knew that counterweight as crutch. Sword held firm and correct in form, yet this dancer seemed as he had perhaps a cramping shoe, or a stone to ignore each step.

One could take any one of the three cuts diagonal in nature and use the levers and hinges in such asymmetrical imbalance of the body to perform all manner of humbling.

@Hector
 
A twist of wrist a turn of blade, a step to on the follow up strike. A thwack on across the chest, from collar down to third rib. Hector smiled. Stepped back. Set again.

"Well, then, lets go again?" he said easy.
 
The easiness of the speech made the fact easier to embrace, the shiver of what shame ran warmer that way. A quietude yet not stillness, the shock of cut made the blood embrace the moment. Montbank did with taloned feet tense and relax, half grips to remind him of the weight of himself. Regulation on behaviour, correction in the form. The strike brought the senses correct.

"Gladly," Montbank said, with that same easiness emulated. Form follows form.

Wings made no tremor on approach this time, blade pointed out to indulge the measure between them as fact. Two hands upon his weapon, weight forward, the line his to walk up and down as ground and cuts revealed the need. One might understand from push pull of blade lock and sway that Montbank's own weapon was weighted more for the diving piercing and wide arc cutting than the equal balance of infantry. More akin to cavalry blade weightedness. It seemed there was asymmetry in the steel as well as himself.

This time more piercing was his approach, less a committal and more a probing to move the frame of another, to look for opening to make his own diagonal cut complete. Small motions to encourage a step back, or an aggressive push of Hector's own.

The line would be obeyed, feet feeling ground. Equal ground given and tested.
 
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Lines felt through the toes, as they planted across the dust of the training yard. Thrust one. Thrust two. Air. Metal. Probes and tests.

On third, the edges held. The line diverted from the push of strong against weak. Initiative. With a willingness to bend. Like water turned roots pass the curve of gate and bend of spine. The committed cut would come low and up.

Clip wide wings, so grounded to the earth.
 
The answer immediate was smothered. Wing reallocation of weight. A clack of beak as if required to instil such order. Resolve in the sparring to embrace the limitation.

Rebalance through the feet projecting strength on the push, his blade refusing to embrace escape and cut in counter but clash strong against the low in turn with his own. But not brute force from up down to down up, the upward cut from Hector struck with quickness in Montbank's arc to the side of Hector's weapon. The steel would shudder, glanced aside from initial trajectory.

So was the theory.

In practice, the power was not entirely enough for the mechanics to play correct, so lacking in the reallocation of weight in his frame. Montbank's weapon seemed as if it were being restrained, or sapped, either by power or imprecise angle of attack. Hector's blade may have been disturbed from full force, the vibration and impact causing some tremor, but direction was still with it in the rising.

In this moment, a single thought not in words but in gut felt as vigour. Cursing infantry fighting as he redoubled his survival, feet moving at once knowing failure in the cut.

Hector's blade was still rising up, and Montbank made flurry of feet backwards to avoid blade swinging, his own failing to disturb it wholly. The speed of his withdrawal to be expected of one who flew and knew movement. The line held as he did barely maintained his strictness to it. His own held weapon returning to his shoulder to provide countercut, but the initiative had been taken, his approaches in counter cuts shaken. It was only through the lightness of his feet that the cut had not completed it's landing, but it was clear. Montbank on this line was being pressured. An answer to an advance would be there if Hector made it. Quickness of feet Montbank's, but the power of his style was in flanking, angles of mechanics somehow not quite locking in for his swordplay efforts.

The weight of the weapon was right for such a cut, pommel providing stability for such sweeping arc. Feet grounded, a reminder to spar correct and fairly. His talons did by his imagination think of one handed gouges, but such was for the warlike fields, not friends at training. Such was the savagery of his daily tasks and lapses in such training grounds that it should appear as a flight of survival in his mind.

Grip held, shoulder bearing, sword ready to reply better, mindful of correction of his technique flawed previous presented. Even if it cost him another blow to learn the method truer.
 
Come the clean swipe, the distance put there betwixt their swords' reach, push step back, sword couched at shoulder with blade high in the roof's angled guard.


Faster. Harder. But his feder's reach would be shorter. His feet however, they stepped over stepped about the linear diver. Smile on the half elf's face. "Well, still alive that time, Syr," he teased the veteran.

Both knew in true each other's mettle. So, why not have a little fun.

A step forward. False cut to draw the guard, wrists turned and armed raised to fish the high back cut out of the bind.
 
The guard was drawn out, the bind made, Montbank refusing to withdraw by the nature of the tease, and his need for correction of himself. The binding answer was for Hector's to play, and a flash of flying answers did overwhelm what answers were expected of himself. None taken, just struggle with what wits were his, so absorbed in argument within himself he was. He had lost control but not the will to persist, and muddled through what was Hector's to close in delivery of his moment.
 
Landed the hit. Parted the way with a back step. Sword's point low and long behind him in the tailed stance.

"Pray tell, Is something the bother Syr?" no heat to it. A firm concern, measured with respect. Bounce to his knees. He wondered in earnest, why the sky knight seemed more stone, than creature of hollow bone. Feathers all windblast, and talons set to clutch and tear.

Hector was no fresh sappling. He was a Knight Sworn. He knew the way of the wylds, and he had seen many a raptor at its work. He had even ridden beneath the great flyer's span upon a time.
 
The lack of heat was appreciated. A beat, then two as the words wanted to fly freely from him. Manners kept him grounded. He spoke in the slow way of diagnosis, of assessment.

"Imagine walking a tight rope all your life. Then losing an arm, and stepping upon it and trying to walk it the same as you did before. That's what this is like, for me, like this. An instinctive correction becomes a fumble. A rebalancing known as nature becomes a floundering."

A reminder of the feeling so long ago. When wings were fresh to his eyes. When he missed his hands with fingers. When he stumbled and broke himself easily for not respecting the nature of his new form structure. His words now as if coming better in understanding of the performance.

"Maybe if I were natural born beastkin, I might not struggle so with this grounded limitation. Reminds me of the in between days. 'fore the dignity of command of this."

Montbank had a quietude about him now. Deep in thought.

"It's like the before and after are both fighting the awkward middle," Montbank let slip, affixed with the thought a moment. No sadness, no confusion, but as if revealing the sheen of a pearl by turning it within talontips.

@Hector
 
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Hector eased out of his guard. Nod slow, and listened to the man who seemed to have much weighing on his mind. Unsure of his own body. Stuck between the before and after.

"Well," the younger knight broke. "I've been fortunate enough to still have the whole of me in tact," Hector said, tender behind the eyes, and lips upturned just the touch. His training feder looped unto his belt. "But I can imagine it, if only in that it sounds a mite like shroud lash, or trying to get through the day's training when something's gnawin at your head," he scratched at the nascent bristles at his chin.

"Might be, just a thing that sorts itself out with time?" he stared out yonder, to their fellows, testing form, physique, and guile against one another. "Makes it all the harder, what with all the weight of our duties, I suppose," Hector though aloud. Not so much giving answers. But partaking in a conversation.
 
Sort itself out with time.

At first he hoped for that. Now he hoped this form wouldn't return given it. Perspective was but a leap of time and wing away from changing. And if he was denied that height having reached it, to never again look from sky and dive to aid, well.

Montbank wouldn't even recognise the world without capacity to spring and soar to such vantage. Nor his place in it.

"When something gnaws at your mind for long enough," Montbank said slow, now replacing his training weapon to his belt as Hector had, "It becomes a carpenter. Furnishing problems that eventually become comfortable. Don't get me wrong," Montbank said, "I've embraced this lot in life. Had to. It's me now. What else was there to do but learn the currents. What alular quills are, how to use them. From books. Mind you, books from the grounded about birds, not aerial kin about flying itself. It's patently obvious for them not to write such down I discovered. If a grounded person wrote about how to walk, you'd think their pursuit a waste of time and ink and paper, I'm sure."

A ruffle of those feathers to highlight what section of his wings he was referring to. Perhaps it was somehow a shrug.

"All of which means I must whittle this furniture down, make it more useful than comfortable. And sparring like this has helped me see that need. My thanks Syr."

A slow blink.

"Might have you heard the expression, 'You have to learn how walk before you can run,'? Well, it seems, in my case, if you run more often than not, you have to learn how to walk again. But I suppose," Montbank said, hand absent mindedly going to the feathers of his face, talons running across as if emulating the way one might stroke a beard, "That's really not that common a problem to put into idiom, wouldn't you say? Much less into books."

@Hector
 
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