Calm before the storm

A place for the stories that take place within Rhy'Din
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Guaire Bryne
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Calm before the storm

Post by Guaire Bryne »

Crack. Crack. Crack. Each time the two wooden practice swords met, it elicited a loud crack. Guaire watched as Bleys toyed with the latest student foolish enough to try him. Standing with hands folded behind his back, he shifted his weight and remained silent as Bleys allowed the younger man to waste energy and strength rushing forward with clumsy attacks, allowing opportunity after opportunity to finish this match pass unexploited. The older man only defended and kept retreating. Once Guaire thought he could remain silent no longer, he witnessed Bleys deftly open the younger man's defense, battering his abdomen with a short jab, and sweeping his legs from under him. The exhausted student fell to the polished stone floor with a thud and didn't rise.
 A red faced Bleys turned away from the downed opponent and furiously barked, "Give up a little. Anything at all and you give up everything! Have any of you even seen a sword before?!" Guaire rubbed his eyes as Bleys continued to scream at the group of enlistees crowding into the Beach Head.  Guaire interrupted Bleys to bring some productivity back to his torture. "Split into pairs and continue practicing the forms."
 Bleys visibly calmed himself as he exchanged places with Guaire. "If I catch a single one of you giving less than his all, I'll use his blood to polish my boots!" Guaire growled as he used an exaggerated strut to move between the practicing volunteers. He gave long, piercing stares to each pair as he passed, but saw little of their movements. Soon, he would batter one of them to force home their respect of his authority, but for the moment his thoughts turned to Xeric's plans. Several companies worth of men had enlisted in two days and more poured in by the hour. What was the Russian planning? Why were Bleys and he personally training newly enlisted men?
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Xavior Mues
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Post by Xavior Mues »

Several men were cursing while others were carving deep notches into sunken posts, placing planks of wood, or driving long, square nails into the precisely placed planks. Xeric stood on his newly acquired dock and watched his carpenters, from the northern fortifications, as they expanded the makeshift shipyard. Five similar graving docks lined the pier, two held the keels of schooners and the others held keels of sloops.
   Xeric's attention was torn from the construction of his fishing fleet as men, running in single file, poured from the northwestern corner of the warehouse, passed by the huge wearhouse doors, and wrapped back around the southwestern corner. Bleys trotted easily at the side of the column yelling cadence. He knuckled his forehead in salute to Xeric, but didn't break stride or rhythm as he disappeared behind the southwestern corner. Xeric watched until the last man had passed from sight.
   Xeric scratched at his stubbled chin as he processed what he had just seen. The men were learning quickly, had focused minds, willing hearts, and something to bleed and kill over. Cold blues returned to the pier, but one thought held his attention. The men were as ready as was needed; it was time.
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Xavior Mues
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Post by Xavior Mues »

 The setting sun cast its reflection on the water below and filled the sky with various shades of orange and red. Overlord Isle shined like a jewel on the sea in the distance and the piers of Dockside looked as if they extended all the way to the golden, shimmering horizon. Fleets of trade and fishing ships lined the harbor, either waiting to make berth or preparing to leave port.
 Sitting at a table on the second floor in the southwestern most room of The Beachhead, a room made entirely of plexiglass, Xeric quietly enjoyed his view of the district better known as Rhydin's underbelly. The divides between nature and civilization faded away into a breath taking beauty, an amazing alloy of the untamed and usurping invader.
 A slight stirring of the air behind him, something more sensed than heard, alerted Xeric of Bleys' arrival.  The Russian's cold blues remained on the sunset, but his other senses focused on his old mentor. "They seem solid," he stated. "We've had no deserters," was Bleys' simple reply.  Xeric turned from the view of Dockside and met Bleys' eyes, directing with a commanding tone, "Take them to the southern barracks. Select fifty, arm them, and I will send you further instructions."  Bleys knuckled his forehead in salute and exited the room. Meanwhile, Xeric turned back to that beautiful and calming view.
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Xavior Mues
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Post by Xavior Mues »

Yuri watched as the selected fifty strap on sword belts, strung bows, filled quivers, and prepared to camouflage themselves. Jealousy stabbed at him more intensely than he had ever felt. Some were even younger than he, others more skilled with either blade or bow. Once more he silently swore to train harder, learn faster, and to claim his place among the chosen few.
 He raised his legs into his bunk, laid his head on the feather pillow, and pulled the wool blanket over his body. As he closed his eyes, he remembered the excitement he felt when the announcement was made that some would see action tonight and then the frustration he had felt when he wasn't chosen. Blood would flow tonight. The group of men he had trained with would begin the fight to reclaim their homes tonight and all Yuri could do was close his eyes and try to sleep.
 Rolling to his side, he watched as the last man of the attack company left the barracks and nothing but silence remained in their wake. He slammed his eyes shut once more. He WOULD try harder. He WOULD claim his place among the fighters.
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