Post by The Smith on Dec 3, 2013 18:09:23 GMT -5
Lord Oswyn Baratheon was where he was most afternoons since the annulment of his marriage, training strenuously with his Baratheon guardsmen under the watchful eye of Ser Arthur Connington. He was wearing only a pair of breeches and covered in a fresh sheen of sweat, having foregone the usual padded training armor. Armed with a smooth training mace and shield, he fended off two knights armed with training swords. The heir to Storm’s End was bruised and battered, but gave as good as he got, reveling in the sting of each fresh welt. The pain was preferable to the wraith-like existence he had known as of late, the long days in the yard a more acceptable outlet than the bottle, though likely just as destructive in its own way.
"Another!" he bellowed, a roar that almost seemed a desperate need. A nod from Ser Arthur sent a third knight into the fray. He moved with primal fury, blocking blows around him as he lashed out like a wounded beast at the men around him. Since Lord Cave’s party, Oswyn had hardly left this state, training like a mad man.
“Fury is a dog on a leash, Oswyn.” Connington reminded, watching the display with critical eyes as he ordered Oswyn’s opponents to adopt varying positions and regularly swapped them out for fresh replacements. “Your grip is slipping, my boy.”
Oswyn glanced over at the master-at-arms with a dangerous glare for an instant and was rewarded with a blow to the arm from one of his training partners. With a roar of rage, he bashed his shield into the offending man's face, knocking him to the ground in a spray of blood as his nose broke. Even as the young knight raised his hands up to defend himself from his prone position, Oswyn struck with the mace in the chest, taking disturbing satisfaction in the sound of the man’s rib cracking.
“I yield, my lord!” the man yelped in pain, the pained submission turning into desperate yelps as Oswyn struck him again. But the heir to Storm’s End seemed to take no notice, striking his poor victim again and again, lost in his rage. His eyes were wild and spittle flew from his mouth with each strike. The two other combatants lowered their weapons and looked to Ser Arthur Connington with alarmed concern, unsure how to intervene.
“He’s had enough lad!” Connington barked, taking a step forward.
Oswyn either hadn’t heard him or chose to ignore the man that had trained him since he was a child, striking the young knight again, his training mace now dripping with blood. The knight’s yielding had become guttural gargled screams as blood filled his mouth and his ribs were pulverized. Oswyn lifted the mace high over his head and brought it down for what would likely have been a deathblow. Luckily, the heavy mace was stopped short by another sword. Oswyn looked at the one wielding it with a snarl.
“I said he’s had enough, Oswyn.” Connington repeated, measured and calm in contrast to Oswyn’s snarling rage. “He is not her.”
“This isn’t about her!” Oswyn bellowed, pushing his old mentor away with his shield and taking a swing at his head.
Connington parried the blow and the two dueled across the courtyard in a fury of blows, the old man fending off the irate heir more ably than three knights had been able to.
“No, this is about you!” Ser Arthur lectured, valiantly defending himself. “The realm deserves better from you than this creature you’ve become.”
Connington was not as young as he once was and began to slow at the flurry of blows from the younger man. With a victorious and primal yawp, Oswyn knocked the blade from his hands to send it clattering across the yard. He stood there for what seemed an eternity as he stared at the older man who he owed as much as he did his father. There were tears in his eyes.
“It does.” He intoned, lowering the mace and turning to return to the manse. “The realm will receive what it deserves.”
Result:
Oswyn advances from Expert+ to Master Bludgeon
Arthur advances from Apprentice to Noteworthy Long-Blades
Arthur advances from Apprentice to Noteworthy Battle Command
"Another!" he bellowed, a roar that almost seemed a desperate need. A nod from Ser Arthur sent a third knight into the fray. He moved with primal fury, blocking blows around him as he lashed out like a wounded beast at the men around him. Since Lord Cave’s party, Oswyn had hardly left this state, training like a mad man.
“Fury is a dog on a leash, Oswyn.” Connington reminded, watching the display with critical eyes as he ordered Oswyn’s opponents to adopt varying positions and regularly swapped them out for fresh replacements. “Your grip is slipping, my boy.”
Oswyn glanced over at the master-at-arms with a dangerous glare for an instant and was rewarded with a blow to the arm from one of his training partners. With a roar of rage, he bashed his shield into the offending man's face, knocking him to the ground in a spray of blood as his nose broke. Even as the young knight raised his hands up to defend himself from his prone position, Oswyn struck with the mace in the chest, taking disturbing satisfaction in the sound of the man’s rib cracking.
“I yield, my lord!” the man yelped in pain, the pained submission turning into desperate yelps as Oswyn struck him again. But the heir to Storm’s End seemed to take no notice, striking his poor victim again and again, lost in his rage. His eyes were wild and spittle flew from his mouth with each strike. The two other combatants lowered their weapons and looked to Ser Arthur Connington with alarmed concern, unsure how to intervene.
“He’s had enough lad!” Connington barked, taking a step forward.
Oswyn either hadn’t heard him or chose to ignore the man that had trained him since he was a child, striking the young knight again, his training mace now dripping with blood. The knight’s yielding had become guttural gargled screams as blood filled his mouth and his ribs were pulverized. Oswyn lifted the mace high over his head and brought it down for what would likely have been a deathblow. Luckily, the heavy mace was stopped short by another sword. Oswyn looked at the one wielding it with a snarl.
“I said he’s had enough, Oswyn.” Connington repeated, measured and calm in contrast to Oswyn’s snarling rage. “He is not her.”
“This isn’t about her!” Oswyn bellowed, pushing his old mentor away with his shield and taking a swing at his head.
Connington parried the blow and the two dueled across the courtyard in a fury of blows, the old man fending off the irate heir more ably than three knights had been able to.
“No, this is about you!” Ser Arthur lectured, valiantly defending himself. “The realm deserves better from you than this creature you’ve become.”
Connington was not as young as he once was and began to slow at the flurry of blows from the younger man. With a victorious and primal yawp, Oswyn knocked the blade from his hands to send it clattering across the yard. He stood there for what seemed an eternity as he stared at the older man who he owed as much as he did his father. There were tears in his eyes.
“It does.” He intoned, lowering the mace and turning to return to the manse. “The realm will receive what it deserves.”
Result:
Oswyn advances from Expert+ to Master Bludgeon
Arthur advances from Apprentice to Noteworthy Long-Blades
Arthur advances from Apprentice to Noteworthy Battle Command
Hope you all are well and happy.