5/31 Father Son Fencing

 Artaghh says, "Reminds me Feth. I owe ye' a fencin' lesson fer ye' birthday."
 Feth Vishkar exclaims, "Lessons! Finally!"
Dylerun Grauhimmel says, "He's excited..."
 Dylerun Grauhimmel says, "...For now."

 Ser Artaghh would release a light puff from his corn cob pipe before tucking the smoking receptacle behind his ear, a distant reminder of Dylerun telling him to quit smoking almost compelling him to cease for the lesson. The old Oscuri's ambient peer pressure was an immense thing indeed, and worthy of respect. Cracking his knuckles digit by digit with a sigh of relief, the knight commander would begin to idly fidget with his burn scarred hands at the bindings of his cuirass with difficult progress.

After a while, the dense black plate of Artaghh's breastplate would clank down to the stone with a cacophony of metal rattling, revealing his torso in all its maimed glory to his Oscuri son with a bark of mirthful laughter. Burn scars, gouges, the cylindrical hollow where he'd been shot through the stomach, and the vast amount of mithril plating that meshed messily against his heavily muscled frame to hold in the peasant's organs where previous muscle had beencharred away by the black fire of the occult.

All in all, not the prettiest swim suit model.

Slowly dredging the black blade of his office from the leather rungs upon his back plate, Ser Artaghh would grip his greatsword's handle tightly in both hands as his one eye trailed over his young son, bowing his head respectfully before he ignited forth in the fiery, rich shroud of dense, mystic energy. His burn scared musculature bulged forth with condensed mass and might, veins trailing across the increased mass of the bald swordsman as he held his blade carefully before him.

"Swordsmanship, fencin', the melee. At its core it's jus' a series'a actions an' reactions wit' dexterous poise an' focused might. Draw yer blade then my son, approach an' I shall respon'."



(Artaghh)
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 The boy moves across from his father as told to.

Watching from a few feet away, he has a wide grin and eyes. Excited to have a lesson with his father. It'd be their first.

He waits for his father's instructions, but they don't come first. Instead he watches as his father throws off their shirt to bare their scarred upper body, then they pull their sword. It invokes a laugh from him, and...

For him to copy his father! He's quick to throw off his own shirt and bare his muscular, leyline ridden torso. And in the same instance he pulls his sword ahead. His father then speaks, and he listens.

He says in a slight echo, "Actions and reactions... like every fight!"

Then, with a nod, rieka suddenly bursts from his body alike the mystic energy of his father. Weaker and much wilder, but still impressive for a child his age. And with it and his sword does he approach, preparing to swing.

Feth starts his swinging and yells, "Alright! Here I come, pops!"
(Feth Vishkar)
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 Feth focuses on training with dad!
(Feth Vishkar)
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 Ser Artaghh would nod in approval of his son's manifested energy, the shimmering emerald coalescence of reika briefly blinding the knight's remaining eye as he blinked steadily to banish the haze. For just a moment, in that glittering sea of green, the commander saw a young girl with raven black hair and a wide grin the same as Feth's, a brief flicker of dreadful nostalgia banished as quickly as it came by the reality of the situation.

It had been many, many years since that day, after all.

Yet before him once more stood his young son, wiry and untamed as any youthful Oscuri before him. He cut an intimidating figure even at his age, certainly inherited from his mother. Yet that wild smile was Artaghh's own, one he'd seen and felt countless times before engaging in foolish things.

And so it began.

Ser Artaghh's eye would follow Feth's blade as it was wildly swung at his person, his greatsword raised with a stony gripto block the aimless strike with the dense mass of the blade before the commander would deliver a ruthless, ethereally swift kick at his blocked son's lower torso with his heavy black sabaton.

"Swingin' wildly is good fer huntin' rabbits, nae fightin' men. If ye' dunnae think 'fore ye' draw yer blade, ye' are predictable, easily blocked an' even easier pushed back. Try again."

(Artaghh)

"Urr!"

His sword is swung with as much power as he can muster, which made it a predictable move. The blade of the weapon in his hands is deflected by his father's own, and then he feels the bottom of their armored foot kick at his stomach!

With a grunt and a pained expression, he staggers backwards. Stopping only after he takes a few steps. Though a simple counterattack by his father, the mystic energy and their raw strength still could leave a mark!

He listens to his father from where he is then says, "For hunting rabbits, huh?"

Although eager and careless to land a blow on his father earlier, he thinks about their words. This is a training lesson for him. A time to learn, not to just swing mindlessly.

And with another nod does he step forward again, straightening up his body and holding his sword out again. With his approach he looks over his father's form, looking for vulnerable spots. Thinking about how to attack, not just of attacking.

He was fighting a man, after all. Not just a rabbit.

And after a few moments does he suddenly take a large stride forward, with his sword swing forward. In that instance does the rieka around him flare, seeming to just be giving another strong swing forward. But then - his muscles suddenly largen in another instance, with his weight shifting and the direction of the swing entirely doing so as well.

A slight feint, leading into the real strong swing from the boy! A simple technique, but a technique nonetheless!

(Feth Vishkar)


 A worn smile would trail across Artaghh's scarred visage as he watched his son grow fired up with passion, distant memories of his two eyed, foolish self barely being capable of gripping a blade against the onslaught of Feth's mother's fists upon the sparring field in days long past. She'd been relentless, and those bruising lessons by a thirteen year old Oscuri formed much of the foundation the knight commander manifested this day.

The bald swordsman would once more reinforce his stony grip upon the handle of his black blade, holding his place upon the trampled grass with an idle whistle from his lips as he waited once more for his son to approach. He'd never received such lessons himself, but then, Feth was going to be far greater than Ser Artaghh ever was. He'd be the greatest knight Dawn had ever given life.

He'd make sure of it.

The knight's one eye followed Feth's blade in preparation for another simple block, only to blink with a wide smile as the youth manifested a fine feint into a powerful, well aimed swing from the boy. With a swift motion of his great blade that betrayed the heavy weight of its mass, Ser Artaghh would swing his blade along the passage of Feth's own, redirecting the forceful, reika infused energy of the slash in a parry before slamming the metal handle of his blade forth directly at the Oscuri's nose in a blunted riposte.

"Tha's the spiri'! Ye' manifested a fine feint, bu' remember tha' the point'a such things are'ta misdirect yer opponent wit' purpose. Ye' wan'ta force'm to move how ye' wan' them to, whether by pressure'a force or cleverness in application."

The knight would flourish his blade with a nod, returning his two handed grip to it with another toothy grin. "When yer opponent's tryin'ta smash through yer block wit' brute force, tha' is when ye' parry. Ye' can use their own strengt' agains'm, guide the might they pu' forth agains' ye' away from yer person before deliverin' a ruthless counter attack, a riposte! Now, approach again."

(Artaghh)
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His attack is effectively met and the opportunity taken by his father to send out his own attack. Unexpecting of the attack, he finds himself stumbling back again after metal meets his nose. Groaning again in pain, a hand raises from the sword hilt.

It presses gently against his nose and the area around, with a wetness being felt at the end of his fingertips immediately. Pulling the hand away, he finds blood there! His nose is slightly crooked and bleeding!

Feth yells to his dad, "U-Urr! I'm bleeding now, dad!"

The boy hadn't expected for his father to attack, and he doesn't expect the sudden visions which come as he looks at the blood. His expression strains some. Images of the Divine War are there for a moment, and specifically a scene fought with swords.

It all gives him some inspiration, along with his dad's words. His heartrate accelerates and his magic even becomes thicker, too. Then does he look ahead again, focused once more.

"Using my strength against you, and yours against you!"

He moves forward quickly, though not rashly. The sword in his hand raises and his body leans in, swinging it forward. Though it's not a simple motion. The sword moves with the strength of his wrist, aiming for a seemingly open spot on his father...

And meanwhile he looks to see the reaction of his father! Ready to react, and not just act!



(Feth Vishkar)
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 Emerald exclaims, "Hmm, why is the Shirtless Guy With The Pipe fighting Fethy?!"
 Dylerun Grauhimmel says, "Thats his father."
 Emerald exclaims, "...That just raises more questions!"
 Dylerun Grauhimmel says, "He's raising him to be strong."
 Ralph Wick exclaims, "Oh they gonna fight! Yaaah!"
 Emerald exclaims, "...No, I understand that!"
 Ralph Wick says, "I shall fight.."
 Ralph Wick says, "Ahh why do you all do this... I shall join the fun."
 Dylerun Grauhimmel says, "Back off"
 Dylerun Grauhimmel says, "This is a father-son moment."
 Ser Artaghh would bark out in hearty laughter at his son's complaint as he flourished his blade, giving the Oscuri a hearty bow as he nodded lightly at the boy, pointing the six foot length of the black sword towards the youthful fencing aspirant with a wide gesture.

"Aye, it seems ye' are my son. No swordsman has e'er become a master wit'ou' bleedin' a wee bi'. Claim it as a mark'a pride."

Pulsating with fiery energy as he awaited his son's response, a sense of pride at the Oscuri boy's drive to continue in spite of injury panged within the bald man's heart. The lad was only eleven, and yet he showed so much promise and potential, was so much smarter than Artaghh had been at his age as a slack jawed peasant.

It felt good.

Matching his son's stroke with a clangor of clashing metal as black met silver in a spark of metted force, Ser Artaghh would phase translucently, dissipating before the young Oscuri in a ghostly wisp before he was simply gone, blazing energy and all faded away to nothingness.

Until the heavy black blade rested upon young Feth's shoulder behind him, an idle whistle emanating from his father.

"Nae e'ery opponen' is jus' goin'ta stan' still lad. Some'll play tricks wit' ye', waste yer efforts wit' all manners'a trickery an' hijinks. A swordsman tha' cannae land a blow is a dead one, plain an' simple."

While the knight was explaining his lesson, blade leaned perhaps a bit overextended upon his son's shoulder, the commander seemed to willfully leave himself open to counter attack, perhaps illustrating a point in some manner.

"Masterin' riftmancy, the dark arts, tha' will be where ye' surpass me my boy. Space time swordsmanship....such will allow ye'ta always maintain motion, to aggress an' dissipate a' yer whim as ye' require. Such is a key tenet o'ta melee, an' one ye' mus' seize wit' vigor! Ne'er stop movin'."


(Artaghh)
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Their blades meet again, but another twist occurs this time around. His father and the blade in his hands phase forward, avoiding him and the attack. It was something he'd seen them use before, but he'd forgotten about it.

Another bit of carelessness from the child. The instincts of an oscuri and his visions would only get him so far. He needed the ability to adapt quickly. To be able to fight back, no matter what.

But with his father's blade at his shoulder and them behind him? It isn't an ideal position to be fighting at, nor one that he could regularly fight against. If this were a real fight his head would've been gone, easily.

In this instance it's only a training session, luckily. He listens to his father and looks over his shoulder, green narrowed eyes there. While he does hear what his father says, he also couldn't resist what he saw ahead of him.

Once they're done speaking,his leg suddenly kicks out towards their chest and he quickly moves away! Assuming he isn't caught again!

"Then I'll learn to be able to attack, no matter what! With a sword, my body, with rifts, or whatever! Unless we fight, we're dead!"


(Feth Vishkar)
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 Feth's opportunistic, vicious kick to Ser Artaghh's chest, and therefore the metal plating that kindly held his organs in place with the strength of a young Oscuri rattled Ser Artaghh would an audible cacophony of clangor as the knight was knocked back two steps, barking out in pained laughter as he steadily slung his greatsword once more across the leather rungs of his backplate.

"Oooh, I think tha' one might'a shaved a few years off me Feth. Excellen' work. Such as I've explained'ta ye' are the basicas of swordsmanship, applicable'ta any style or manner as fits any battles tha'll be upon ye' some day."

The commander would steadily begin to turn return his heavy, black plate to his torso with a practiced, but tired motion as the ethereal blue flames of the mystic arts dissipated about his person, pacing back with a light wince to the nearby lamppost before once more continuing to puff away at his corn cob pipe.

"I can teach ye' energy magic, it is in yer blood. Yer mother's reika was somethin' fierce, an' I've dedicated ma life's work'ta masterin' the ethereal energies. Yer connection'ta the spirts'a yer ancestors, ta' Azrael an'ta the rural peasant'ry Agartha, the land itself. Such will be the sources'a yer strength."

Ser Artaghh would take a light puff from his corn cob pipe as he glanced off towards the distant, evening horizon of Dawn, his eye trailing upon the setting sun with a sense of nostalgia.

"Bu' I know ma' limits. Humility's easier from common stock. The dark arts of Dawn will come to ye' in time. When ye' truly master riftmancy, neither space nor time will hold ye' back. A blade wit'ou' parallel. I know ye' have it in ye', ye' are smart unlike me'self."

(Artaghh)
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 The kick connects and he takes a few steps away from his father. A laugh escapes him once a bit away from them. Happy to have connected an attack to his father, he retrieves his shirt and the sword is slung.

As for the energy about him, it takes a moment to die down. Adrenaline still pumped throughout his body and he could remember the vision from only moments ago. It was all still fresh. But eventually his leylines are dim again.

"Mm! Thanks for the lessons, pops! With your energy magic, moms rieka, and the skill with a sword you both have - I'll make you proud! Everyone proud!"

He gives a toothy grin, then nods to his father again.

"Whenever I can learn rift, I want to too! But I still got lots to learn!"
(Feth Vishkar)
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 Feth Vishkar exclaims, "Oh!"
 Feth wipes at his bloody nose.
(Feth Vishkar)
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 Artaghh asks, "Hmm?"
 Feth Vishkar asks, "Can I be a squire, pops?"
 Artaghh says, "Well..."
 Artaghh says, "Startin' young woul' get ye' on the path'ta bein' a good knight..."
 Artaghh says, "Alrigh', ye' can squire under Paladin Chaaca."
 Artaghh says, "Evenin' Sor."
 Artaghh says, "Sors, even."
 Sors Ultovex says, "Evenin'"
Sugarlad is visibly exhausted.
(Sugarlad)
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 Feth Vishkar asks, "Uncle Chaaca?"
 Artaghh says, "Aye, he was my squire once."
 Artaghh says, "One'a my fines'."
 Feth Vishkar asks, "What about if I want to switch around?"
 Feth Vishkar exclaims, "Freya wants me and Ascalor to be her squires, too!"
 Artaghh says, "..."
 Artaghh says, "No."
 Feth Vishkar says, "And I think Uncle Sirocco might want me to b--"
 Feth Vishkar exclaims, "Urr!"
 Artaghh says, "Tha' said."
 Sugarlad says, "Squire.."
 Artaghh says, "Ye' are welcome'ta pick which paladin ye' desire'ta squire under."
 Feth Vishkar says, "Just one..."
 Artaghh says, "Jus'....don' go down the stupid Oscuri path."
 Artaghh says, "A lot of Oscuri have gone down the stupid Oscuri path."
 Tryendt Young says, ".."
 Vinny Yoxohl of Loranth says, "Which path is that."
 Feth scratches at his head.
(Feth Vishkar)
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 Feth Vishkar says, "I've got to think about that now."
 Feth Vishkar says, "All of the paladins are strong! "
 Feth Vishkar asks, "But which one could teach me the best?"
 Artaghh says, "Hmm."
 Feth Vishkar exclaims, "I think Uncle Sirocco!"
 Artaghh says, "A fine choice."
 Artaghh says, "Ah, then we mus' handle the formalities now."
 Artaghh asks, "Are ye' ready'ta pledge yer oath'ta the legion, my son?"
 Feth Vishkar exclaims, "Oh!"
 Feth Vishkar exclaims, "I've been ready since I was five!"
 Ser Artaghh would pace forth with an idle clank of his black sabatons against the stone tiles of Dawn, puffing idly at his corn cob pipe in fatherly introspection as he glanced over his young son with a sense of pride. They showed no hesitation, a born soldier as all Oscuri should be. A shame so few had been like his mother.

Drawing his black greatsword from the leather rungs upon his backplate with a steady nod to himself, the commander would flourish his blade ceremonially as he recited those familiar words he had said so many times to so many initiates. As he had once sworn them twenty seven years ago. And now, as his son swore this day in the name of Azrael.

"When ye' are ready, an' certain of ye' determination, repeat after me, bu' wit' ye' name instead. I, Ser Artaghh, swear'ta protect an' serve ta people o' Dawn in its Legion of Daybreak - To respect me superiors in it, to march to war fer its sake, and tae win its battles by any means necessary. In this life, and the next."


(Artaghh)
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 Jonathan Valentine says, "Wait if he is pledging so am I."
 Tryendt Young says, "-Same."
 Vinny Yoxohl of Loranth says, "Kid's certainly are eager these days"
 Artaghh says, "Works fer me."
 Vinny Yoxohl of Loranth says, "it's a nice thing to see."
 Artaghh says, "All of ye' swear it a' the same time then."
 Jonathan Valentine says, "I, Jonathan Valentine swear to protect and serve the people of Dawn in its Legion Daybreak. To respect my superiors in it, to march for war for its sake, and to win its bttles by any means necessary, This life or the next."
 Hearing the father-son moment of Artaghh and Feth, but skipping to the part where there was an initiation of young initiates, Tryendt gladly hopped in, lined up with the Oscuri and a random redhead.

It was practically every youth's dream to join the great Legion of Daybreak of Dawn's Resurgence. This dream was not just reserved for those of one particular people group, however, for even Tryendt, a Shengese citizen, was willing to join.

The epitome of integration, the living proof that Azraelism is capable of being a global culture...!

Waiting for until both of the others began speaking, the Shengese would follow with his own swearing of oath, or at least say what he thought he heard was said by Ser Artaghh and his strange Artagghan Dialect: "I, Tryendt Young," Pronounced Trent. "solemnly swear to protect and serve the people of Dawn and its Legion of Daybreak."

"To respect my superiors in it, to march to war for its sake, and to win its battles by any means necessary. In this life, and the next."
(Tryendt Young)
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 The day he'd been hoping for had come.

Although he was still young and had much to learn, he aspired to join the Legion and prove himself as a soldier. To grow and serve for the cause and people which he stood behind. It felt like his calling - being a warrior.

And now marked the beginning. The oath.

He straightens his body and looks to his father, a look of resolve in those eyes of his. Rarely is he ever serious, but now is one of those times. Feth listens, then his lips parts.

"I, Feth, swear to protect and serve the people of Dawn in the Legion of Daybreak. To respect my superiors in it, to march to war for it's sake, and to win it's battles by any means necessary. In this life, and the next."

Alongside the other two boys, the oath is said. A promise made, and with it the beginning of something bigger than him now. The cause of Dawn.
(Feth Vishkar)
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 Artaghh says, "Then may ye' serve Dawn well."
 Artaghh says, "Now, I have to go water the crops my son. Think upon wha' ye' have learned."
 Feth Vishkar exclaims, "Mm!"
 Feth nods to his father.
(Feth Vishkar)

Ser Artaghh would steadily pace through his garden of varied herbs. Soothereed, the bloody Sinka, ghostly luminite. Slowly watering each budding plant with tender care, the commander realized that today had been important for both his young son and himself. Ser Artaghh had battled Sors dozens of times over the years upon the well blooded sparring fields, seen its ability to defeat the mightiest of attacks with spatial mastery.

But the commander had to be strong, to continue getting stronger, to ensure that Feth made it of age to become a paladin great than the knight of the Green Hill ever was. Ser Artaghh had to seize strength the only way he knew how. The way it had all began in truth. The bald swordsman had to engage once more into the intense, limit breaking regimen he'd engaged in so long ago, attain the might to crush boulders with a grand smash!

The knight commander would cough a bit into his cloak with a grimace, glancing at the bloody specks that dotted the green cloak with a sigh. His rotted lungs had ached since the day the Swuisarme King's poison had its last laugh. Jenny Ivanovich had stitched what she could back together, but Artaghh could never get the scent of blood out of his mouth, ever present iron dulled only by the constant mint of his pipesmoke.

And the knight could not forget the burns that had ravaged his body black and stolen half his muscle. The alchemic, occultic fire of the rogue undead legion had scorched Artaghh to the bone in the defense of Crafthold, made him a half metal cripple who sulked over lost love. He had not burned in defense of that city for them to blow it up out of SPITE.

The bitterness would consume him if he did not take direction. If half his torso was gone, he'd make the other half twice as strong to compensate. He'd mastered the energies of the mortal and spirit realms with diligence, and the richness of Artaghh's mana had allowed him to push his body forward in spite of his wounds, but his body had fallen to disrepair in his aging fourties.

No more. His new regimen would make his original pursuits look like a novice handbook. The commander would condition his physicality to its peak once more, no matter what it took.

He must be at his strongest for Feth.
(Artaghh)