Training Log of the Master Swordsman
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_Steel thunked dully against wood as Frexas' thin blade turned the goblin's club aside, smiling.
"It's quite futile you know, you trying this." The rapier flicked out, making a shallow cut on the goblin's chest. "I mean, honestly, the only reason I can give you creatures any of my time at all is I admire your tenacity as opponents." Another line of red appeared on its arm. " You just keep on coming…though perhaps if you'd learned enough common to understand the term Master Swordsman you wouldn't be so eager." A slight sidestep as the goblin's two-handed swing brought it too close. Frexas twitched the rapier, piercing its throat; he smiled and tossed his head with a short "HA!", the tiny bells in his ears tinkling. It had been a stunning display of bladework, he was sure.
The nlow that slammed into his lower back a second later thoroughly ruined the moment. With a cry he stumbled to his knees, barely bringing his shield up in time to block the second blow, jarring his arm painfully. The second goblin was of the more annoying, and better equipped breed, brandishing a mace and small wooden shield. He whipped his rapier out in a wide arc from his kneeling stance, forcing it to jump back and giving him enough time to regain his feet. "I see...tenacity, as I said." He licked his lips nervously and assumed a defensive posture. The goblin responded, but he couldn't understand a word of it. It didn't sound particularly nice in any event, and the next swing of its weapon was clear enough.
Frexas backed up with each blow, parrying them but driven back by the ferocity of the attack. The strength behind the stringy little thing's arms was surprising. It lacked his finesse, of course, but that was little comfort as the head of its mace connected with his knee. Stumbling once more, Frexas toppled backwards, the wind flying out of him as the ground slammed into his back. Shrieking triumphant gibberish, the goblin leaped at him. Frexas went cross-eyed looking at the mace as it descended towards his forehead...and stopped. The goblin hung in midair a moment, impaled upon the rapier he had brought up; slowly it slid down the blade until its feet rested on his stomach, an expression of shock on its face as its eyes glazed over. Frexas grinned.
"You see what happens when you attack the Master Swo-" The rest of the rhetorical question was cut short as the goblin's mace fell from its limp hand and landed solidly between Frexas's gray-blue eyes, which promptly crossed, then rolled up.
A few seconds later conciousness returned, painfully, to the half-elf. Staggering to his feet, he grasped the handle of his rapier and placed a boot in the goblin's chest, wrenching his sword free with enough force to send him to the ground again. Once on his feet again, he headed back towards the gates of Norwick in a dizzy, zig zagging walk._
1
I have found a suitable training ground. No one in their right mind would think to look here, and there are ample opportunities for a Master Swordsman to hone his skills. Opponents everywhere, and even if they aren't quite as good as me, thing can still be learned from them. That being said, a priest is needed. And a real one, not like that near-useless Jayne (Blonde, bossy) fellow, who still has my crossbow. Must get that back, and remind myself to not trust Lathanderites as much as their word-of-mouth would have you do. But a healer. I am getting tired of having to spend every gold piece I earn on potions to put me back together after training. No doubt one would be honored to accompany me, if I could but meet one and introduce myself.Maybe I could give up the company of Path (bald, wizard, wears red) then. The man pays me the proper respect, of course, and he has been valuable, but he also seems to be a bit of a barely restrained homicidal psychopath. Useful, certainly, but he may be a bit less so if he decides to try his luck at a non-goblin target when we are out in the Rawlinswood. But for now he serves a purpose.
Some fail to pay me the proper respect. They will learn their mistake soon enough. I'm sure this book will one day be published and sold to aspiring warriors, wishing to grasp at a fraction of my skill. Who knows, perhaps some of them will even become as I am: a the next two words are written with much embellishment, as well as a doodle of a sword at either side Master Swordsman.
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_"Fall, damn you! Fall!"
Frexas's blade whipped back and forth, piercing the body again and again. His efforts produced nothing more than small holes that leaked a small amount of some viscous bodily fluid, to his immense frustration. Using his shield and sword, he could easily block, deflect, or avoid his enemy's clumsy swings, leaving them in an ongoing stalemate.
"Or at least look like it hurts…" He amended, grimacing at the stench rolling off the rotting body in front of him. "Oh, the hell with it, this isn't working at all." Sidestepping a final blow, he slammed his shield into the zombie's face, knocking its head back but not budging its body. Using the moment's pause, he turned and sprinted back towards Norwick, easily outpacing the undead nuisance.
Soon he was walking back through the gates and up the hill to sit morosely on the rocks in front of the fire. He glanced at his thin sword, now resting in its sheath._
2
I need better tools with which to channel my skills, a blade worthy of the hands which wield it. I could not even fell a stench-ridden body today. However many times I hit, wherever I hit it, on it came. Unfortunately I am still a man of limited means, but this will hardly stop me. More gold can be acquired, if a superior sword cannot simply be won from some foe.That Rhiannon (pretty, dark-haired, brat) is simply beastly. She must have been raised somewhere far from anyone with proper etiquette; she actually suggested she knew more about swords than I, and questioned my skills! Were she any sort of warrior herself, I would have issued a challenge then and there. The Lady Lycka (pretty as well, a bit young, wite hair) is much more clever. She, at least, knows the proper amount of respect to show a Master…though she is falling into a disturbing habit of calling me Freckles. And some purple-haired warrior ("Charlie", fake coloring) she hangs about with seemed to think she was more adept at swordplay than I as well. She will be shown the error of her ways when next we meet. Everyone, it seems, could stand to receive a few pointers about my bladework. And they shall have it!
