Cocktail Appetizer (Private lesson for Elaryl)

A pair of large eyes stared, slowly blinking in unison as they watched their surroundings with indifference. The wind whistled merrily, gusting its way through the streets of Tar Valon. Coats and scarves fluttered in the breeze, swaying gently to the tempo of the great city as it wound down. Overhead, rays of gold interlaced with deep blue, a striking tapestry as the dying rays of the sun yielding dominance to the night.

In its tree, the owl perched silently. Its head swung back and forth. Hunger gnawed in its stomach. Wings flapped hesitantly, beating once, then twice before they folded again. Eyes fixated themselves on the burning ball that inched ever closer to the horizon. He was hungry but age old instinct demanded he wait.

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The armoured Warder leapt off his horse, landing in front of the haggard looking animal before striding towards him, the clink of plate adding to the menacing air. “Draw,” was the single utterance from the Gaidin, his blades clearing their scabbards as he charged toward the stunned trainee.

Spinning to the side, Talaban made a mid-air pirouette while simultaneously executing Unfolding the Fan. Parrying the strokes with his own improvised version of the form, the former thief landed perfectly balanced and ready to receive the next attack. The Warder came on, heavy plate seemingly weightless, as he pressed the attack, blades flicking back and forth in a rain of steel. Talaban backed across the training yards, both hands working independently in a vain effort to keep his opponent at bay. They seemed to be mirrors of each other, two black figures flitting across the yards but Talaban knew it was an illusion. His skill was nowhere near the other’s.

Blades met, filling the yard with a metallic symphony. Lion on the Hill came at him, quickly flowing into Arc of the Moon then the Tower of Morning. The Trainee back pedalled furiously, deflecting as best as he could. A most unceremonious roll just barely avoided Ribbon in the Air. Talaban grunted as he caught yet another blow and turned it. The Gaidin was toying with him, Talaban knew as the fight drew on. Twice, he could have ended it with clean thrusts but instead merely inflicted small cuts. He possessed preternatural speed, even in the cumbersome plate, and his strength was unholy.

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Dusk. The man’s eyes snapped open with a start, pale jade orbs trained at the window opposite his bed. Light, just a dream. He could almost feel the ache in his arms, a fine sheen of sweat felt cool on his brow. A single clean motion brought him to his feet as habit took over. Black silks came on in the fading light, hands never missing a beat as they grasped accessories hanging from hooks with the assurance of habit. It was good to be back in his quarters.

The arms-man strode out of the archway, into the yards as night took hold, the last rays of the sun fading from sight. A large shape flew by on near-silent wings. Same old owl, regular as clockwork. Some things never changed. Talaban breathed, taking in the scents of the Tower grounds. He could smell the dinner from the kitchens, the aroma wafting toward him on the same breeze that tugged gently at his hadori-bound hair.

The former thief strode away from the buildings, across the western training yards and towards the woods at the edge of the training grounds. It felt good to lapse back into old, familiar routines. The Master of Arms had been unavailable. Not that it was a meeting Tal was looking forward to.

Beneath the trees, at the very edge of the woods, Tal stopped. Moving slowly but deliberately, the wiry arms-man stretched, feeling the movement of muscles on his slight frame. He began his routine. Stretches fed life into scar emblazoned tissue, warming and soothing the aches of a hundred lessons. Each scar a reminder of something, a lesson to be learnt, mistakes never to be repeated or foolhardy brashness.

Flowing through the stretches, time stood still as he slipped into the callisthenic positions he had learnt as a child, so many years ago. The Ramparts of the Sun, the Shooting Bow, the Swallow, the Swan and the Crow. All one hundred and twenty seven positions flowed in an ordained cycle, a standard prelude to any form of exercise.

Finishing the set, Tal turned and walked to the waiting trainee. He knew Elaryl had arrived minutes earlier but had not felt the need to interrupt his exercises. In the dim, flickering lamplight of the stable, she looked different. Gone were the wavy strands that had flowed freely the previous night, shorn by a whole foot and now leashed by an intricate leather headband. Her entire frame was clothed in a mix of greens and browns, typical training attire at the Tower. A single saddlebag hung from her right shoulder.

Saying nothing, Tal saddled Shadow. The large black stallion moved restlessly, resisting slightly before acquiescing to the leather seat. Vaulting lightly into the saddle, Talaban motioned to Elaryl to follow, as they left the barracks in silence.

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OOC: Here we go :)