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1/19 Artaghh's Mountain Climbing

JWaldman Feb 7th, 2019 173 Never
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  1. Artagh would crack his neck with a nod at the two fellows at his campside, having not completely sat idly while they did their day's training with the tasks he had dictated to the novice swordsmen. He felt a sense of pride in their willingness and determination, they would be fine warrior in no time at all. While they were busy doing their finger push ups, the large soldier would search for the heaviest boulder in all of the caves, weighing at least a few tons of sheer solid granite. Grunting in exertion, he would pace back through the darkness of the caverns and return to the camp side, before nodding with a smile at the two students and approaching the bottom of the steep cliffs that overlooked the lake shore where Artagh had camped for years.
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  3. "I'll teach ye' one'a me ol' songs, then ye' shall do as I do once ye' have supped. The rhythm an' speed'a the jig keeps ye' focused throug' the hardest'a efforts." Artagh would calmly heave the several ton boulder over his unarmored shoulder, puffing away at the minty herbs of his corn cob pipe as he approached the bottom of the cliff, before leaping upwards about five feet, steeling his pinky like solid metal, and plunging into the edge of the cliff in the beginning of what would be a very particular type of mountain climbing. One finger at a time, and switching which digit he used each effort, Artagh would begin to through himself upwards a few feet with a sheer flex of his chosen finger, climbing the steep cliff a single finger at a time with a several ton boulder over his shoulder with an ear to ear grin on his common peasant face.
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  5. "Come hustle, hustle, drink abou', an' le' us merry be; Our can is full, we'll piss it out, an' then all han'sta SEA!" Artagh would seem to recite an old sea shanty as he began his regular regimen of training. If he was going to be the greatest swordsman in the land, he'd need to break even more of his limits. Constant diligence, regular training, a good diet of meat, herbs, and ale, and just the right amount of crazy to constantly be pushing himself to the point of near death through sheer stubborn determination. Three of his finger nails crunched and bled as he moved up foot by foot up the countless heights of the great cliff, whistling along the interim tune between each verse of the old shanty before continuing again with a bark of hoarse laughter.
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  7. "Fine miss a' witchin' school is taugh' the minuet'a tread, Fine miss a' witchin' school'is taugh' tha' munuet'a tread! Bu' we go bettah' whe' we've brough' tha' fore-tack tae cat-head!" Sweat would run down Artagh's back as he grunted and wheezed in exertion, all five of thedigit os his right hand having their nails torns and broken, the skin surrounding them having already been minced and mashed by each steady, upward toss of Artagh's being up the cliff with a pained chuckle. Whistling the tune again, he would shift the boulder's wait to his injured hand and begin the same regimen with the hand that had been gripping the boulder.
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  9. "The jockey call'dta horse 'ta horse, An' swiftly rides'ta race! The jockey's calld'ta horse, 'ta horse an' swiftly rides the race!; Bu' swifter far we shape'aer course when we are givin' chase!" The camp beneath Artagh would steadily disappear as he ascended the heights of the cliff, his fresh hand steadily getting the same treatment the previous climbing hand had endured as piece by piece, each of his finger nails was crunched, snapped off, torn, and lacerated as he forced his way up themountain with several tons of rock on his back through sheer willpower. The fiery blue aura he seemed to maintain in battle seemed almost to fuel his training, aiding him in pushing his limits to the absolute max without impeding his training regimen. In theory, it perhaps even augmented it.
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  11. "When honrs an' shouts'ta fores' rend, the pack an'ta huntmen cheer, the horns an' shouts'ta fores' rend an' the pack'o huntsmen cheer! As loud we holler when'we sen' a knight'ta kill Jiang'Hu!" Artagh would cough up blood as he reached about sixty feet above the mountain, his wounds from the previous three on one against him clash of steel opening wide as his body began to finally push its limits, blood streaming down his wide frame as he gritted his teeth in pained exertion, before taking a deep breath and steeling himself once more. Throwing his person up two feet with a forceful thrust of his pinky, the digit would seem to snap and break as Artagh flew forth, nearly causing him to lose his focus this high up and end up a pile of meat on the ground. Forcing himself to focus, he would plunge his middle finger into the walls of the cliff and continue his ascent, painfully whistling the interim tune between the next verse of the shanty.
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  13. "Wit' gold an' silver pockets filled, the lads they head'ta town. Wit' gold an' silver pockets filled, Bu' when Jianghy ships more grandly shine, when prizes we'll tow home!" Finally, it seemed Artagh was reaching the height of the cliff, hours and hours after everyone else had finished their day's training and left the camp fire to die down. He did not blame them for heading back, they needed to start at a lower level before they could endure such training as this. He would ensure they knew it well next time he brought them to the camp site. As the gap closed from ten feet to nine, Artagh would hoarsely whistle the interim, jolly tune of the shanty one last time before beginning the final verse of the jig.
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  15. "What's got a'sea we spend'a shore, on whores, ladies an' wives. What's got a'sea we spend'a shore, on WHORES, LADIES, AN' WIVES! AN' THEN MY BOYS HOIST SAIL FER SHORE, US SAILORS LIVE'TA LIFE! " Artagh would heave forth as sweat poured forth from his body down every inch of his strained body, every muscle fiber of his being aching and pushed past their limit several hours prior. Yet, finally, heavily breathing and with all of his digits long torn, split, or busted, Artagh would clap his hand over the edge of the cliff, before with a great yawp of victorious exertion, Artagh would heave the many tonned boulder he'd been hefting over his back the whole climb up the mountain over the top in a great swing of his hand. Rolling over the side of the cliff, he would lie there in a pile of sweat, blood, and mud on top of the cliff, barely conscious and yet grinning ear to ear with a smile. Now he just needed to do it with two boulders.
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