Riga's Training

[Riga Poniard]

Riga nudged the thick wooden door open with her boot. Half-ajar doors always begged for caution. The stone chamber was large enough for movement of a few people, but certainly couldn't be called cavernous. Flickering torchlight revealed the Black Knight standing in it's center.

The corner of Riga's mouth twitched. So this was to be her trainer -- a man encased head-to-toe in metal. She snorted. The silly-billy won't even show his face. "Riga Poniard, reporting for training." Almost as an after-thought, Riga added insolently, "....Master."

"Well, well, well," the Black Knight drawled. "We have a wench who wants to be a Brother. How quaint." The large man strode to stand before Riga, towering above her with his presence. Riga's hand automatically went for a dagger at her belt, but the Knight's mail-gloved hand swatted it away. Riga could hear the metallic clatter as her dagger hit the floor. "Too late, wench," the Knight said softly. "Advantage is lost."

Faster than Riga ever supposed a man in full armor could do, the Black Knight drew his sword, the zing of metal echoing around the chamber. Riga hopped backward in alarm and to give herself room, drawing her own short-sword in haste. Silent as the wind, the Black Knight came at her, their blades meeting in shoulder-wrenching impact. Riga grunted with the effort but kept her feet, using two fists to meet blow after blow. Impact met impact, the Knight slamming at her with his great sword, and back and forth across the chamber her drove her, merciless in his pursuit. Sweat stood out on Riga's skin and in a short time, she was forced to use both fists on the sword handle. He's not even putting forth any effort! she thought desperately, he's toying with me!

A tremendous blow and Riga's sword flew from her hands. Quick as lightning, the Black Knight's fist was in her hair, slamming her bodily into the stone wall. Riga landed with tremendous force, head snapping back, blood running from her nose and a badly cut lip. She was held there by the greater weight of the larger man, and kick and thrash though she might, Riga could not break his hold.

"Your first mistake," the Knight said matter-of-factly, "was letting me get close enough to draw my blade. You are a wench and therefore weaker; you cannot hope to win in a sword fight except against the most inept of opponents." With a flick of his wrist, the Black Knight spun Riga around, his gloved hand immediately around her throat. As he talked, he squeezed. "You have pretty throwing daggers. Can you use them?" Unable to speak, Riga nodded, her throat convulsing with the pressure. But still, she did not cry out, nor sob, nor appear frightened. Riga kept her head up, eyes fixed and steady -- she would not let this man nor any man see her fear. Even unto death.

"Your second mistake was not using them. When you know you are the weaker opponent, never let your enemy get close enough to use their strength. You should have cast your daggers the moment you entered this room." The Black Knight shook the woman for emphasis, then froze as something pricked his throat. His eyes trailed down.

In her earlier thrashing about, Riga had managed to reach the mercy-giver in her boot, drawing it when the Knight had spun her about. Now the long thin dagger was poised at the Black Knight's throat, just at the opening beneath his helmet and above the edge of his chest armor. Though her face was growing dark red from lack of oxygen, Riga's nostrils flared and her eyes showed triumph even as they began to glaze over.

"Like this?" she managed to rasp.

The moment froze, then the Black Knight chuckled, soft and low. His fist opened, spilling Riga and her dagger to the ground. She lay coughing and gasping on the floor, spatting out blood, shaking her head to clear vision. Precious deep breaths later, Riga's head pushed up. Blood dripped from her chin as she stared at the Black Knight, wary at what he would do next.

The Knight stepped away, crossing his arms. "Very good, wench. You passed the first lesson. Return in two days time to continue your training."

[The Dark Knight]

(Sorry this took a while to be assessed!) An impressive first training post Riga, you have now achieved the rank of: Black Soldier

You may continue with your training as soon as you wish.

[Riga Poniard]

Riga squatted low, eye-level to the table, sweat beading her forehead as she poured. A row of colored phials stood in a row, her hand hovering above with a small cup of liquid.

Now was the moment of truth. Each phial contained a single mustard seed, each chosen personally by her for perfect form, condition and potency. The cup held the bounty of three days work, a concoction of meadow saffron and deadly nightshade. Boiled, distilled, boiled again, stirred with a willow rod and set to steep with an oak bowl of mashed holly berries, it had been reduced down to a half a cup of pure death.

This was the final exam of her poisons portion of Brotherhood training. Perhaps not as flashy or brutish as the other arts of bladework or garroting, the poison's training was obviously ill-attended. But Riga was no fool -- she knew someday she would grow older and not be able to keep up physically with the demands of an active assassin. A girl's gotta look out for her prospects, Riga mused as she allowed nine drops -- no more, no less -- into each phial. The reddish liquid caused the seed to begin floating, but then it sank to the bottom -- and floated up again. An endless dance inside glass.

Exhaling a breath she hadn't been aware of holding, Riga set aside the cup, the uncured contents could possibly be sold later for cheap rat poison. By itself, it was effective but sloppy poison for the taste was extremely bitter, the effects immediate. No good poisoner could administer it and not be made out in short order. But the tiny mustard seed gave the mixture just enough emetic properties to keep the drinkers system from shutting down immediately, allowing the victim to seem normal for several hours before succumbing to the poison.

But... if she didn't have the mixture cured just right, or the seed was less than perfect, the poison would be ruined, and most probably, the assassin and their clients traced immediately. That defeated the purpose of a proper poison -- that of steady, stealthy obliteration.

Tiny corks she'd carved earlier were set to each bottle, then Riga stood. Her body protested the movement; she'd been stooping over this particular table all day. "Finished," she announced to the dark squat figure in the corner. No one knew the name of this particular Brotherhood master -- he was only known as the Poisoner. It was he she'd been learning from, his harsh, gravely voice giving evidence of the years he'd spent working with deadly materials.

The Poisoner glided wordlessly to the table, cowled head bent over Riga's work. A single phial was caught up, the cork removed and the bottle disappearing into the cowl as the man sniffed it. Setting the poison to the table, the Poisoner straightened.

"Adequate," was all he said, then turned and glided away.

Riga blinked after the man, momentarily frozen in place. Adequate? Is that good? Or....

The door opened and the Black Knight appeared. Prickles broke out on Riga's skin at sight of the fearsome man; bruises on her body were still healing from several of his training sessions. Murmured conversation between the Knight and the Poisoner, then the visored head rose.

"You have passed this part of the training. Continue to the next station."

[The Dark Knight]

Well done Riga, a very well researched and written post. I like how it looked at a different aspect of the Brotherhood.

You have now achieved the rank of Black Page.