Post by Mik on Jun 9, 2012 14:30:41 GMT -5
So many things ran through M’cleod’s mind as he headed for one of the few places where he could really vent his frustrations: the obstacle course up on the Plateau. His world was practically falling around him and he had finally reached his breaking point as he paused long enough to look at the snow dusted ropes, logs, and planks spread out before him, disappearing into the trees at the far side. Though the forest that lead to the foothills of the mountains was further away, they had made use of this little stand of trees for training purposes more than anything. It had a stockpile of blunted weapons for training with and even specially designed ones for “live” training to see where wounds could appear.
Duncanth settled a short distance off, his dark hide standing out against the barren landscape of the first true seven days of the winter season. The little brown knew that His was feeling upset, angry, joyous, and drained all at once and it was nigh time that he got his frustrations sorted out. So the small brown crossed his forepaws and laid his dark head on them to watch his Rider dance the dangerous dance that he had since turns before Impression.
Mac sighed as he hung his flight jacket on the weaponry rack as he pulled a bo staff from the rack just after. From there, he moved deftly through numerous maneuvers involving the staff’s long length, all sliding seamlessly from one move to the next. Normally, he moved through these steps with his mother as an opponent and if there was any worthier opponent, he had yet to cross paths with them. No matter how hard, angry, or concentrated he was in his fighting, his mother always seemed to be a step ahead of him, himself hitting the ground several times over. That was not the case here. She was busy caring for his tiny babies and his Lover in the Infirmary any spare moment that she had.
As the brownrider danced his dangerous choreography, images of any and everything that he had been carefully hiding came to mind. Things that had happened before he had ever set foot on the Sands that brought him and Duncanth together brought a more rhythmic step to his style. Things that happened during the Plague brought out a variety of anger and sorrow, his steps and thrusts changing to the memory. Then there was Laral and the Rider murders, the onset to their Holder troubles, leading him to strike at a pole that splintered the staff in half from his force.
Swift had some free time and was of the same mind as his Weyrleader in heading for the obstacle course. The young bronzerider stopped to watch his dark haired Leader a long moment as he watched the other former Raider dancing his way through part of the obstacle course with the broken staff in each hand. There was no sliding in the older man’s steps as he found patches of snow lying in, on, and around things. With a grin, the blonde-haired Rider grabbed up a short staff and headed toward M’cleod. No matter how he ever tried, he could never catch this man off guard and here was the perfect opportunity to try it, the end result a hopeful duel of wits, strength, and cunning between them.
M’cleod danced up an inclined plank in his quick steps, an image of the dead runners back at Igen Weyr before they had evacuated that one. Something triggered the dark haired Rider to jump down and lunge backwards, his sky eyes catching what it was as he spun Swift around into a restraining hold, one piece of broken staff at the bronzerider’s neck while the other pinned an arm behind his back. “Ya’ should know sneakin’ up on me ain’t a option,” the brownrider spoke in Swift’s ear as his hold was completed.
Swift had been about to try a sneaking sweep at M’cleod’s feet when he suddenly had the older man turned on him. Though he was a quick one, somehow he found himself spun around with his back against the Weyrleader, his arm pinned between a staff and the toned body of his attacker. His hand that had held his quarterstaff was pinned to his own chest, the lower end of the staff rather close to hitting him in the crotch. Well, this was a new grab…The young bronzer chuckled at the predicament he had gotten himself into. “Shells, ya’ know I gotta shardin’ try, Mac,” he answered as he leaned his head back to relieve the pressure from his throat by M’cleod’s broken staff.
Duncanth settled a short distance off, his dark hide standing out against the barren landscape of the first true seven days of the winter season. The little brown knew that His was feeling upset, angry, joyous, and drained all at once and it was nigh time that he got his frustrations sorted out. So the small brown crossed his forepaws and laid his dark head on them to watch his Rider dance the dangerous dance that he had since turns before Impression.
Mac sighed as he hung his flight jacket on the weaponry rack as he pulled a bo staff from the rack just after. From there, he moved deftly through numerous maneuvers involving the staff’s long length, all sliding seamlessly from one move to the next. Normally, he moved through these steps with his mother as an opponent and if there was any worthier opponent, he had yet to cross paths with them. No matter how hard, angry, or concentrated he was in his fighting, his mother always seemed to be a step ahead of him, himself hitting the ground several times over. That was not the case here. She was busy caring for his tiny babies and his Lover in the Infirmary any spare moment that she had.
As the brownrider danced his dangerous choreography, images of any and everything that he had been carefully hiding came to mind. Things that had happened before he had ever set foot on the Sands that brought him and Duncanth together brought a more rhythmic step to his style. Things that happened during the Plague brought out a variety of anger and sorrow, his steps and thrusts changing to the memory. Then there was Laral and the Rider murders, the onset to their Holder troubles, leading him to strike at a pole that splintered the staff in half from his force.
Swift had some free time and was of the same mind as his Weyrleader in heading for the obstacle course. The young bronzerider stopped to watch his dark haired Leader a long moment as he watched the other former Raider dancing his way through part of the obstacle course with the broken staff in each hand. There was no sliding in the older man’s steps as he found patches of snow lying in, on, and around things. With a grin, the blonde-haired Rider grabbed up a short staff and headed toward M’cleod. No matter how he ever tried, he could never catch this man off guard and here was the perfect opportunity to try it, the end result a hopeful duel of wits, strength, and cunning between them.
M’cleod danced up an inclined plank in his quick steps, an image of the dead runners back at Igen Weyr before they had evacuated that one. Something triggered the dark haired Rider to jump down and lunge backwards, his sky eyes catching what it was as he spun Swift around into a restraining hold, one piece of broken staff at the bronzerider’s neck while the other pinned an arm behind his back. “Ya’ should know sneakin’ up on me ain’t a option,” the brownrider spoke in Swift’s ear as his hold was completed.
Swift had been about to try a sneaking sweep at M’cleod’s feet when he suddenly had the older man turned on him. Though he was a quick one, somehow he found himself spun around with his back against the Weyrleader, his arm pinned between a staff and the toned body of his attacker. His hand that had held his quarterstaff was pinned to his own chest, the lower end of the staff rather close to hitting him in the crotch. Well, this was a new grab…The young bronzer chuckled at the predicament he had gotten himself into. “Shells, ya’ know I gotta shardin’ try, Mac,” he answered as he leaned his head back to relieve the pressure from his throat by M’cleod’s broken staff.
