Outfit + Feder
The impact of the feder against the body of the pell was loud in the training room, its solid stone walls bouncing the sound around. It was a spacious area, a central area for sparring, and along one wall a line of pell's standing ready. Racks of different feders and various other training swords hanging along one wall, and pegs held a few spare pieces of training gear, matching what Theo wore. A black padded gambeson, reinforced gloves, and black fencing helmets, although Theo had left his sitting on one of the tables against the wall rather than wearing it. The door into the training room was open, a silent message that anyone was welcome, but this late few were looking to train.
Theo was focused on his swordwork, moving from one manoeuvre to the other smoothly, blow followed by blow on the pell, a thick wooden pole wrapped in thick rope, two faux arms extending from the central column, imitating an opponent. He swung his feder in an aggressive diagonal cut, a step back, a thrust, stepping in close again, ramming the pommel into the pell, stepping back, swinging low for centre mass. He'd studied the manuals, Liechtenauer, Talhoffer, Meyer, Fiore, Vadi, the French schools, and even the modern masters, and by now it all melded into muscle memory and habit. He knew what worked, what didn't, and how best to use most blades in his hands.
Few in the cohort practised swords as obsessively as he did, leaving him often without a sparring partner. He'd considered finding a HEMA club, but he barely had the time for the odd rugby game he joined with the local club, and he wasn't so sure he'd have the patience for the pedantry found in sporting circles when he practised for life and death situations. The rugby kept him sane when his daily life was trolls, curses, and spells, so he kept it up and got into the habit of making do with what he had. He never turned down a spar, after all.
Theo landed a particularly hard blow with a grunt, the force shaking his arms, and he finally backed off. The tip of his feder drooped, the Englishman lifting an arm to swipe at the sweat on his brow, chest heaving as he caught his breath. He still had plenty in him to keep going, but his weariness went beyond the physical. He'd had a rough few months, injuries that would have benched a mundane human, but Theo couldn't afford to stop, so healing magics kept him going. His ribs did not twinge, burnt skin was gone as if it'd never been there. His hair was shorter, now, because even healing magic couldn't grow back hair. He was likely the most fit forty-year-old in the city, well-trained and magically healed. Cheating, in a sense, but Crowhursts had always been long-lived and healthy, at least among those who didn't die by the sword. Was that genetics or the magic they pretended not to deal with?
Bracing the tip of the feder against the floor, Theo held the hilt with both hands as he bowed over it, forehead resting on the pommel. He drew in another deep breath, remaining where he was in a parody of prayer. In the back of his mind, a voice reminded him that the door was open. Anyone could walk in and witness their Inquisitor being morose, momentarily worn down mentally even if he was in top form physically. Just a moment more, he promised himself, and then he'd get back to swinging at the pell.
The impact of the feder against the body of the pell was loud in the training room, its solid stone walls bouncing the sound around. It was a spacious area, a central area for sparring, and along one wall a line of pell's standing ready. Racks of different feders and various other training swords hanging along one wall, and pegs held a few spare pieces of training gear, matching what Theo wore. A black padded gambeson, reinforced gloves, and black fencing helmets, although Theo had left his sitting on one of the tables against the wall rather than wearing it. The door into the training room was open, a silent message that anyone was welcome, but this late few were looking to train.
Theo was focused on his swordwork, moving from one manoeuvre to the other smoothly, blow followed by blow on the pell, a thick wooden pole wrapped in thick rope, two faux arms extending from the central column, imitating an opponent. He swung his feder in an aggressive diagonal cut, a step back, a thrust, stepping in close again, ramming the pommel into the pell, stepping back, swinging low for centre mass. He'd studied the manuals, Liechtenauer, Talhoffer, Meyer, Fiore, Vadi, the French schools, and even the modern masters, and by now it all melded into muscle memory and habit. He knew what worked, what didn't, and how best to use most blades in his hands.
Few in the cohort practised swords as obsessively as he did, leaving him often without a sparring partner. He'd considered finding a HEMA club, but he barely had the time for the odd rugby game he joined with the local club, and he wasn't so sure he'd have the patience for the pedantry found in sporting circles when he practised for life and death situations. The rugby kept him sane when his daily life was trolls, curses, and spells, so he kept it up and got into the habit of making do with what he had. He never turned down a spar, after all.
Theo landed a particularly hard blow with a grunt, the force shaking his arms, and he finally backed off. The tip of his feder drooped, the Englishman lifting an arm to swipe at the sweat on his brow, chest heaving as he caught his breath. He still had plenty in him to keep going, but his weariness went beyond the physical. He'd had a rough few months, injuries that would have benched a mundane human, but Theo couldn't afford to stop, so healing magics kept him going. His ribs did not twinge, burnt skin was gone as if it'd never been there. His hair was shorter, now, because even healing magic couldn't grow back hair. He was likely the most fit forty-year-old in the city, well-trained and magically healed. Cheating, in a sense, but Crowhursts had always been long-lived and healthy, at least among those who didn't die by the sword. Was that genetics or the magic they pretended not to deal with?
Bracing the tip of the feder against the floor, Theo held the hilt with both hands as he bowed over it, forehead resting on the pommel. He drew in another deep breath, remaining where he was in a parody of prayer. In the back of his mind, a voice reminded him that the door was open. Anyone could walk in and witness their Inquisitor being morose, momentarily worn down mentally even if he was in top form physically. Just a moment more, he promised himself, and then he'd get back to swinging at the pell.
