Post by Nicholas Miller on Feb 11, 2015 9:28:09 GMT -5
Training was ever part of a soldier's life. To Nick, it was a hard fact. Whether it was striking distant marks with his bow, wrestling, working with his shortened poleaxe, riding or blades, it was part of his daily routine. And on this particular morning, it was with his new blade he had chosen to work. The weapon itself was deemed inelegant by many. Essentially, it was an oversized falchion and that is what had made it attractive to the Knight-apprentice. If it's blade was straight, it would be the same length as the longswords carried by most knights and men-at-arms but it was single-edged save for the last six inches and it sported a simple cross guard with a single lug projecting out the side to protect the back of his right hand. He was told it was called a kriegmesser, a war-knife. And now, he had to learn how to use it.
His archer's strength made it possible for him to wield it in one hand, as it could be, quite easily but it was when held in bkth hands such a weapon would shine, he was told. And it was in such a way he was practicing this morning.
He'd been taught the guards, the basic cuts and the master-cuts by his closest friends and now, what he needed was the practice. Nicholas had no illusions he would ever be the swordsman Salvatore or Tristan were, just as they would have no hope to ever match him with a bow.
He was wearing all the armour he owned that morning, namely his gambeson to which the jack chains guarding his arms were tied, topped by his short sleeved mail shirt which in turn was covered by his brigandine. On his head sat the open-faced sallet he'd taken off a man who no longer needed it after he'd driven one of his murderous bodkins had gone through the visor and on his hands were his archer's gloves to which parts of salvaged gauntlets, cut and filed to avoid interfering with the path of arrow or bow cord had been stitched. All in all, he was a well-equipped archer or a poor knight, which he was.
In the training yard, there he was, working through the basic guard and cutting drills he'd been taught, cycling through the stances and delivering his strikes while in motion. And he was for from perfect. His feet weren't moving in good time with his blade, which itself tended to turn in his hands and not strike true. But at least, he was practicing.
@macegardiner
His archer's strength made it possible for him to wield it in one hand, as it could be, quite easily but it was when held in bkth hands such a weapon would shine, he was told. And it was in such a way he was practicing this morning.
He'd been taught the guards, the basic cuts and the master-cuts by his closest friends and now, what he needed was the practice. Nicholas had no illusions he would ever be the swordsman Salvatore or Tristan were, just as they would have no hope to ever match him with a bow.
He was wearing all the armour he owned that morning, namely his gambeson to which the jack chains guarding his arms were tied, topped by his short sleeved mail shirt which in turn was covered by his brigandine. On his head sat the open-faced sallet he'd taken off a man who no longer needed it after he'd driven one of his murderous bodkins had gone through the visor and on his hands were his archer's gloves to which parts of salvaged gauntlets, cut and filed to avoid interfering with the path of arrow or bow cord had been stitched. All in all, he was a well-equipped archer or a poor knight, which he was.
In the training yard, there he was, working through the basic guard and cutting drills he'd been taught, cycling through the stances and delivering his strikes while in motion. And he was for from perfect. His feet weren't moving in good time with his blade, which itself tended to turn in his hands and not strike true. But at least, he was practicing.
@macegardiner