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08.18.2012 , 07:10 PM |
Prompt: My First
Character: Varrel Umrahiel (Sith marauder…eventually)
Title: First Lesson, First Principles
Varrel is, shall we say,
“Here, hold it like this,” Valeri guided his young son’s right hand to the hilt of the training blade, folding the boy’s fingers around it just below the crossbar. He did the same for the left, placing it properly at the base of the hilt. “Power and strength come from your left hand. The right hand controls. You need both.”
“So why do you only use your right, papa?” the boy asked.
“Because I’ve trained at fencing since I was your age, Varrel,” said Valeri, “It is a way of making things more even. I teach others, not overpower them. My students learn nothing from broken arms and wrists.”
“But what of a real fight?” Varrel pressed, “Or a competition?”
Valeri tousled the boy’s brown hair, “Swordsmanship is about skill and finesse. In competition I’d be matched with another of similar skills, or the arbiters might request such a handicap. In a real fight you would fight to win, of course. Hopefully you’ll never need to use your skills in anything but a friendly competition.”
“Enough ‘buts’ for now. Adjust your grip, Varrel,” Valeri moved the boy’s fingers, correcting his hold on the blade. Satisfied, he sat back on his heels. “Now, hold it before you, arms straight but relaxed, not locked. Your eye should just see over the point, the toe. Yes, that’s correct.” Valeri leaned forward and adjusted the boy’s grip again.
“I’m trying, papa,” he said.
“In time it will become second nature,” said Valeri. “Now, there are four basic cuts.
. We will learn
first.” Varrel nodded agreement. His father sat back on his heels again. He moved Varrel to a position directly in front of him and placed the toe against his forehead. “One step back, Varrel, and take first position,” he said.
Varrel complied, his feet placed apart as he’d learned earlier, holding the practice sword tightly, meeting his father’s eye over the toe. Valeri scooted forward to correct his son’s grip as well as the tension in his arms, “Relax, Varrel. The sword is part of you, like a hand or foot. Don’t think about moving it, think about where you want it to go.”
“I don’t understand.”
“When you think about your feet, you trip on them. When you think about going into the next room, you just walk there. Understand?”
“I’m not sure.”
“It’s all right,” Valeri scooted back to his original place. “Now,
. A proper
cut strikes the center of your opponent’s forehead. Raise the sword over your head so it is flat like the floor. Your arms should be—yes, that’s very good, Varrel. Keep your eyes on your partner, excellent.” The boy held the practice blade just as his father specified, his gaze fixed on a point in the middle of Valeri’s chest.
“Now, take one step forward on your right foot and bring the blade down sharply.”
“A yi yi yi yi,” muttered Valeri, both hands rubbing a red welt growing on the top of his forehead, exactly centered.
“Papa, are you all right?” asked Varrel.
“I’m,” Valeri paused and blinked several times, “I’m fine, Varrel,” he said, rocking to his feet, “you practice your swing while I go get my mask.” He left the boy working on men while he headed for the armory cabinet, weaving only a little bit.
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