Agron of Deira [Training]

[Sir Agron Esa]

“Three,” Prince Arthur called, walking behind the line of his novice recruits. The men all brought their two handed broad swords up into a horizontal cut, the sword parallel to the ground and at eye level, aimed at an imaginary opponent’s right shoulder.

“Four,” Arthur commanded, and as one the men took a further step forward and swung their swords down to an opponent’s left leg, at an angle of 45 degrees, all the while keeping their arms locked out straight, keeping light on their feet, and keeping their ears open for the next command.

“Six,” came the instruction, and Agron, along with the other men thrust their swords out towards the centre of their imaginary target in one of the most dangerous and difficult to defend manoeuvres. Arthur paused here, making his men stay in the uncomfortable but very solid position of knees slightly bent and back ram rod straight. All of their body weight, armour, and sword was effectively being held in position by their thigh muscles and after several minutes they could feel the strain. Behind them Arthur was assessing each man’s stance, pushing down on the shoulders of some who were not lunged low enough, offering an encouraging word to those who were.

“Right,” he said, “pair up. Agron you’re with me,” as there was an uneven number of them. “One of you will attack, one defend. Decide now. I will call a position and you can use any strike you wish. Defenders make sure you use the right counter I don’t want any injuries. Are you ready?” He turned to face his opponent taking an attacking stance. Agron readied himself with a defensive one.

“Head,” Arthur called, and brought his sword crashing down towards Agron. There was a resounding clang of metal hitting metal as the defenders all raised their swords into the defence position numbered: one, and met the oncoming attack with swords raised high above their heads, parallel to the ground. Agron’s arms were locked so that the power of his attacker’s sword would not come crashing down on his helmet and the tip of his sword was angled slightly downwards so that the force behind Arthur’s movement would cause the Prince's sword to slide downwards along Agron's own and away from him rather than requiring the recruit's arms to receive the full impact.

“Left leg,” Arthur called out, and the clash of metal sounded again as the defenders parried the attack.

“Head,” clash, “right shoulder,” thwack, “right leg.”

Agron barely managed to meet this one as his sword had been on the wrong side of his body but he just about managed to catch the blow of Arthur’s sword and misdirect it before it hit him.

“Lucky,” Arthur commented and smirked at him. Agron grinned back. This was an exercise in honing technique rather than avoiding blows and it was cheeky of him to use an unchoreographed move to avoid the hit.

“Left shoulder, left leg, stomach and head,” Arthur rattled off, and the clashes and clangs of metal slicing against metal that followed was both deafening and glorious. Agron was managing to hold his own remarkably well against Arthur who seemed set to try and trip him up at least once. He swept his sword across his body, tip pointing down at the ground and jumped back slightly to try and avoid Arthur’s thrust to his chest but didn’t quite knock it aside completely and then found his own sword too close to the centre of his body to be able to sweep it up in a wide enough arc to have the power behind it to block the head shot completely. He misdirected it slightly but Arthur’s attack still hit its mark, glancing of the side of his helmet and then crashing onto his shoulder, bringing Agron to his knees so as to avoid taking the full force of the hit on a relatively weak joint.

“Nice try,” Arthur complimented, as he offered him a hand up. Agron swapped the sword from his right hand to his left so that he could take Arthur’s hand with the hand of his uninjured shoulder. Arthur slapped him on the back in camaraderie.

“Good work, everyone,” he said a moment later when the rest of the men had finished their routines and the training ground was bathed in silence but for the heavy breathing of a sweating and exhausted rabble of men.

“Take a moment to catch your breath,” Arthur offered, “and then we’ll add in the shield.”

[755/200]

[Prince Arthur Pendragon]

A really well thought out training post, I especially like the use of other recruits in your post.
You may now add "Trainee" to your signature if you wish, and post your next session when you are ready.

[Sir Agron Esa]

Spear fighting was without doubt Agron’s weakest form of combat. He found the spears too light, too long, and too awkward. It was a field that was dragging him down. Oh he was competent, he wasn’t embarrassing himself during the training sessions. At least no more than anyone else. They were all rather mediocre when compared to the current knights of Camelot. But Agron certainly did not yet feel comfortable with a spear. He could kill an animal with it but would probably be killed trying to fight off another knight with a spear. That’s why he found himself on a deserted training ground, going through drill after drill, trying to get a feel for each of the different spears, their weights and lengths.

“Gah,” he exhaled as his lunged into a stomach height thrust from a crouched position. That was another thing about spear fighting he had trouble with. It seemed to involve, or the training did at least, an awful lot of grovelling about on the ground, which would be incredibly detrimental if one was wielding a heavy sword and shield and was weighed down with armour but in this instance seemed rather frequent. Spear work was altogether a more agile expertise.

Agron rolled sideways out of his thrust making sure to keep his spear gripped firmly in his hand and ready to be wielded again as before he had even finished the roll he swept it in a two handed ankle height arch, indented to take a man off his feet. He followed this through quickly with a jab to the left thigh of an invisible opponent, as he got one foot under himself, and a jab to the right shoulder, as he regained his footing completely and rose to a stand.

He exhaled a series of grunts and calls as he jabbed and blocked and spun and speared at thin air.

One of the rather more complicated moves they had been focussing on this past month was a series of jabs and strikes that involved switching the spear from one hand to the other, passing it behind your back as you feinted to the left, before crouching down to thrust the spear up into the right thigh of the opponent. It was a move intended to find a clear path straight between the plates of armour of an opponent. A hit to the thigh would pretty much guarantee a win in the tournament setting as it would cripple any chance of the opponent remaining as agile as was necessary in spear fighting. In a battle to the death… well there was a certain artery there that a man could bleed out from.

But it was an incredibly complicated sequence. One that had taken them weeks to master and it would be weeks more before they perfected it enough to be able to draw on it instinctually should they ever be in a situation that required it.

Agron sighed as he yet again misjudged the exchange between two hands and dropped the spear. These movements needed to be second nature and flawless before they could move on. He paused, his breathing heavy, and his hands resting on his knees as he recuperated. His spear lay where it had fallen.

“You’re trying to make it too technical,” a voice called from the stands.

Agron whipped round on the spot, eyes seeking out the voice. He gaped slightly when he saw Arthur sitting there. How long had he been there? Had he been witness to all of Agron’s grunts and curses and expletives and strops as he had tried and failed to master this move?

Arthur rose to his feet and walked along the seating stand to the end stepping out onto the training ground and then walking back towards Agron. He picked up Agron’s spear from where it lay discarded on the ground, tossed it lightly from one hand to the other and back again, getting a feel for the weight. He made a swiping motion and then a blocking one and then held it pointed at Agron’s chest. He pushed the tip forward until it touched his young trainee, and then pushed it harder until it began to hurt.

Agron held his ground. He did not step back. Arthur retracted the spear and was smiling when he stepped away from Agron and took the position of the first movement in the sequence.

“A spear doesn’t require as much force as a sword,” he instructed, running through the movements slowly. When he got to the part that Agron was struggling with he stopped, did the moves backwards, switching the spear from his left hand to his right and stepping backwards up and out from the crouch and then repeated them forwards again.

“It’s too light to force like a sword,” he expanded. “You can get the same power behind a jab with gentle handling if you don’t try and make the spear go in a direction it doesn’t want. It’s about lining up the shot. Goading it.”

He ran through the whole routine, diving and rolling, feinting to the left and passing the spear behind his back, swapping hands mid movement and finally thrusting the spear up into the thigh of his imaginary opponent. All executed with instinctive ease before he turned to face Agron. He held his arms out to the side, hands open and unclasped and the spear at perfect balance point in his palm, hovering in the air without any kind of restraint.

“See?” he asked. Agron frowned slightly but nodded, he took the spear when Arthur offered it to him and under his Prince’s watchful eye set about correcting his performance, keeping in mind to be less forceful but to remain equally powerful, to goad the spear and to line it up. Precision first, then power. But above all trying to make it instinctual and second nature. It was a lot to think about which seemed to be the greatest part of his problem. He was thinking about it too much...

[1007/500]

[Prince Arthur Pendragon]

Another excellent post Agron, you may continue when you wish!

[Sir Agron Esa]

“Axe,” Arthur called, above the thundering hooves of Sir Bedivere’s mare as his knight came charging down the training ground.

“Pull,” Prince Arthur commanded and his servant threw a tomato high up into the air and straight into the path of the oncoming knight. Sir Bedivere shifted his grip on his small hand held axe, lined up the shot and threw. It hit the tomato squarely with a resounding splat sending red juice in all directions including into the face of the servant thrower. The axe fell harmlessly to the ground and Merlin ran to collect it after Sir Bedivere had barrelled past and brought his horse to a stand at the other end of the track, awaiting his turn to return.

“Excellent,” Arthur declared, applauding. It was unclear what Arthur’s exacting standards were but it appeared to an objective observer that the more tomato that ended up on his manservant the greater Arthur’s praise of the knight or recruit responsible.

“Next,” he declared when the track was cleared. One of the recruits set his horse into a gallop at the far end of the ground.

“Knife,” Arthur called, when the horse was nearing the middle of the track. The recruit had mere seconds to draw a knife from the scabbard at his waist and ready himself.

“Pull,” Arthur commanded and the tomato was thrown in the air. Merlin took several steps back, not entirely trusting the aim of the recruits as much as that of the fully trained knights. He needn’t have worried though as the knife pierced the tomato straight to its core and flew into the empty stands harmlessly leaving a splatter of tomato in its wake. A very small amount reached Merlin’s hair but it was enough to insight a broad grin on Arthur’s face and a bellowing: “well done!” in applause of the recruit, as the young man brought his horse to a stand next to Sir Bedivere. The two men shared a grin.

“Next,” Arthur called, and it was the turn of Agron. He took a deep breath and set his horse into a canter.

“Come on. Faster,” Arthur commanded, “don’t be a sissy.” Agron urged his horse into a gallop.

“Mace,” Arthur called, and Agron reached for the spiked baton hanging from his side. With the mace they were not instructed to throw it but rather to bat away the fruit. Extra points if the splatter went in a manservant-ish direction.

“Pull,” Arthur instructed and Merlin threw the tomato up in the air. He left his arm out in front of his face knowing what was coming. Agron waited until he was slightly past the tomato, twisting in his saddle to get a good backhanded shot as the fruit started its descent. He smacked it back towards its thrower. The tomato splattered on impact. Merlin’s out stretched arm caught much of the red juice but a big lump of tomato skin hit him in the eye, slid down his cheek, and plopped to the floor. Arthur roared with laughter enjoying this really very much.

“Next,” he called, and it was the turn of one of his knights again. Merlin barely had time to sweep his hand across his cheek to clear it of tomato juice before he found himself having to throw another tomato up into the air.

“Come on Merlin. Keep up,” Arthur chastised, as the arrow his knight had fired shot straight threw the tomato and took it careening off into the stands, unfortunately with little to no explosion of juices. When all the knights and cavalry recruits had reached the other end of the jousting ground Arthur instructed Merlin to switch fodder. This time he would be throwing small bags of sand up into the air and after that it would be a run of all ready bruised apples and after that, skins full of water. Things of different sizes and weights and speeds of descent. Also things designed to make the biggest splatter. He had wanted to use eggs but had conceded to it being rather a waste despite the wonderful mess it would have made of his manservant.

Agron was really beginning to enjoy himself. He had been terrified of missing at first but they were all very well trained and this seemed to be an exercise in not only having a bit of fun whilst training but also in showing them just how much they already knew. Muscle memory was a wonderful thing. They had started out with cabbages, as a larger target, progressively getting smaller. Arthur was calling out helpful hints and tips whenever anyone missed a shot but on the whole they were all doing really rather well. Agron had only missed a few at the beginning of this training session but the more fun Arthur seemed to be having watching his manservant get pelted and spattered with exploding food stuffs the more relaxed they all became and the more sharp their aim seemed to be.

When his turn came again Agron hit his bag of sand with a knife that ripped a great hole through it sending sand all over Merlin’s tomato stickied hair. On his next run his arrow had narrowly nicked the side of the apple, sending shatters in all directions but the apples had become rather a distraction to the horses as they seemed to want to stop and eat the pieces. Watching one of the knights’ horses try and eat apple out of Merlin’s hair had had all of the men nearly falling off their horses in laughter and they had taken that moment to have a break before starting up with tomatoes again, because really there was nothing quite like the splatter of a tomato…

[956/650]

---

OOC: Hope it's okay to godmod Merlin too. If not I can of course edit... Just thought it might be the kind of amusing and insane thing he might get roped in to doing.

[Merlin Emrys]

Just dropping by to say this training post is hilarious Agron! Made me chuckle

Anyway, must be off to wash tomato out of my hair...

[Prince Arthur Pendragon]

I have to agree!
One of the most interesting training posts I've read so far, I think you captured Arthur and Merlin perfectly

Accepted!

[Sir Agron Esa]

It was a glorious sunny day. There was a stillness to the warm afternoon air, barely a breeze rustled in the trees. They were far enough away from the gates of Camelot to be out of hearing range of the market and the daily bustle of civilian life and the wide, open expanse of flat empty land was bathed in silence. No bird dared stir. No man coughed.

A slight hiss of moving air cut through the silence as twenty arrows flew the length of the ground. Synchronized. In the space of about two second there were twenty light thumps as the sharp points of the arrows embedded themselves into the ringed wooden targets about 250 paces away from the line of men with longbows.

The was a slight noise of moving earth as each man pulled an arrow out of the ground beside him; they each had a great many arrows stabbed into the earth at their feet, feathered ends pointing up vertically. They reloaded their bows and took aim. Without a word the line of Camelot Warriors attuned themselves to the movements of the archer at the centre of the line, each man taking the lead from the man beside him. As one, with barely a fraction of second between them, they released their arrows.

Again there was an ominous silence as wood and metal cut its way through the air and again the arrows hit their targets, 250 paces away, with the most minimal of thumps; wood splitting and metal digging its way into the fabric of the target.

Four more arrows each they fired before anyone said a word and then Prince Arthur broke the silence to call for more arrows. The knights and recruits took this moment to break their concentration, turning to their partners to confer and teasing each other about whose arrows had strayed widest from the red circular bullseye of the targets.

Several servants whizzed about behind them, dropping bundles of arrow at each man’s feet.

They were training with the longbow. Each man’s bow was easily as tall as he was, at least six feet in height and made of supple and light wood. The exercise was not so much to hit the targets at the far end, though that was also crucial, but to attune to the fellow archers so that they acted as one deadly, silent and accurate force.

“Okay, I want oblique stances,” Arthur commanded, handing his bow off to one of the servants. There were far too many arrows touching the yellow of the first ring outside of the red bullseye for his liking and he wanted to clear up the accuracy of his archers before moving on.

The men all set themselves into the stance, left foot faced towards the targets, right foot a pace back and twisted at a forty-five degree angle away from the target. It was difficult stance to maintain but allowed for the greatest amount of clearance of the bowstring past the body and ultimately the most accurate shot.

“Draw,” Arthur commanded, and the archers all set their arrows in their bows and readied their aim. They held this position as Arthur patrolled the line, altering elbows, and pushing down shoulders, and twisting the hips of his men until he was satisfied. It put quite a strain on the biceps to hold the bowstring back but this was in itself a strengthening exercise.

None of the soldiers were armoured for this training session in archery but for a leather brace around their arm. Their muscles could be seen, taught and rippling across their backs, beneath the thin fabric of their shirts.

Arthur poked Agron in the back when he reached him in the line. “Tighten,” he commanded, pushing at the muscle beneath Agron’s shoulder blade. Agron did but in doing so raised his left shoulder. Arthur immediately pushed it down again and waited for Agron to tighten his back muscle again without this time tensing his shoulder. When he was satisfied Arthur moved on to the next man and carried on in this way down the line.

“Release,” he said, and as one, his archers did. The arrows whistled through the air.

One second.

Two.

Three.

The arrows of a longbow covered an extraordinary distance and were so easily set off line by the slightest of unintentional movements from the archer or indeed from the slightest of breezes in the air.

The arrows hit the targets with one long drawn thump.

Arthur raised his chin and smiled tightly to see that every single one of his archers, recruits, knights, and soldiers from other disciplines had hit the red of the target. Had made the bullseye. It said a great deal for his training and an even greater deal for Camelot and its reputation for the most elite of warriors.

“Good,” he said, but didn’t need to. There was a light heartedness in the men as they looked at one another, not even trying to contain their grins at such an achievement. Oh they knew they were good. Arthur smirked at the display and held his hand out to receive his bow again from a servant.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he chastised his men, taking his place in the line again. “We’re shooting up this time. I want arrows hitting that target at a forty five degree angle from the sky.” That immediately wiped the smirks of the men as what he was asking was seriously a technical nightmare of a feat. It was incredibly difficult to judge the descent of an arrow and to allow enough force for it to fall and imbed into the target, not merely glance off coming from the skyward angle.

Arthur allowed them some time to ready themselves and even after he called, “release,” some still took additional time to angle their shots. This was not an exercise in attuning to one another though, at least not yet, and so it was permissible. They really did laugh, though it was no laughing matter, when they saw that apart from Arthur, who had of course managed a bullseye on his first try, only three other men, all archers of the army, had even managed to embed their arrows into the target and none in the centre. Agron smiled sheepishly at his failure and looked to the man beside him who was wearing a similarly abashed expression.

“Okay,” Arthur declared, somewhat concerned though also rather amused. “Clearly this needs some work…”

[1085/800]

[Prince Arthur Pendragon]

Another fantastic training post. Accepted once more!

[Sir Agron Esa]

"Well. Here we are. Your final challenge. Succeed and you join the elite. Fail and your journey ends here. You face the most feared of all foes. The ultimate killing machine. You face me. Your challenge: to last one minute free combat.

"Agron, first son of Lord Agronus of Deira, your time starts now."

There was a slight drizzle in the air. The rain was barely noticeable and silent as it fell on the dirt of the training ground but even the slightest of drops made a din in the ears of a knight wearing a helmet. Agron lowered his visor, focused his vision and watched as the sand timer was turned. This was it.

He raised his broadsword so that the sharp point of the blade was in the air by his ear, grasping the hilt with both hands. He inched forward and circled Arthur. The more time he could waste the better in this fight. In sixty seconds, forty odd heartbeats, who knew how many hits and parries and clangs of the sword, it would all be over. For better or worse.

Arthur was having none of this time wasting though and he took a swing at Agron’s head.

Fifty five seconds.

Agron caught Arthur’s sword with his own both arms absorbing the shock of the force and shuddering to direct the blade away from his head and slide it down towards the ground. He took a step back to absorb some of the impact and then another step back to dodge the riposte Arthur sent towards his left leg.

Dancing out of the way would not help him out of the next strike though and he swept his broad sword across his body to parry the lunging strike. The blade caught the edge of his tunic, ripping a line straight through the thin fabric to the chain mail beneath, piercing and distorting the metal links. It was the gasp from the onlookers rather than any kind of pain that made Agron realise he’d been hit and he quickly side stepped away from Arthur and raised his sword to take a swipe at his prince’s shoulder.

The blow was parried and the riposte came in the form of the two fisted hilt, thrust against his chest. Agron staggered back at the force, winded, and used the injury to his advantage as a feint. He bent over double in very real but very manageable pain, waiting for Arthur to take advantage of his vulnerable position. When he did, Agron dodge out of the way, diving underneath Arthur’s sword raised arms to his left and sent his sword crashing into Arthur’s left side as he did.

Another gasp from the audience made its way to Agron’s ears despite the ever-increasing din of the rain on his helmet.

Water was running down his nose and down the back of his neck. The ground was becoming slightly slippery. Agron risked a glance towards the timer. A rather stupid move that Arthur took complete advantage of, sending a crashing blow against the side of Agron’s helmet. The hit took him to the ground and sent his helmet flying. It didn’t knock him out though. His eyes widened as Arthur’s sword came crashing down on top of him and he rolled to the side before jumping back up to his feet. Arthur’s sword smashed into bare earth kicking up a spray of dirt and grit into the air.

Thirty seconds.

Time passed so slowly in the midst of a fight yet everything happened so quickly. Agron was back on his feet, unhelmed and pumping with adrenaline. Arthur stood before him breathing heavily and eying him with intent through the slit in his helmet. The prince paused to pull off his own helmet and throw it off to the side before lunging into the first strike of a deafening sword drawn rally.

The first strike was in the air. Their swords met and pushed each other aside. The second strike was to the left at waist height. Again their swords met and Agron was able to push the oncoming sword away. The third strike was his own instigation but Arthur met it easily and with a resounding and echoing clang as the swords parried. The riposte came at Agron’s left shoulder and he met it both with his sword and with a dodge to the right at the same time to put a little distance between them. Four more times their swords met and struck and scraped and clanged.

Ten seconds remaining.

Agron’s hands were hot inside his gloves; his feet sweating in his boots.

Arthur and Agron circled one another. Agron was content to wait for the strike and not instigate, Arthur seemed to be biding his time waiting for the opportune moment. When it came he feinted to the left lunged to the right and then stuck left at Agron’s thigh. Agron misread the feint and tried to dive right when his body was still moving left. His legs went astride and his boot slipped on the wet ground sending him to the ground. He rolled out of the way of the hit but left his sword behind in a puddle of rain and dirt.

Agron quickly got to his feet and backed away, looking from his sword on the ground to Arthur who was approaching ominously, to his sword on the ground again. Agron ducked under a swipe Arthur sent at his head charged at the prince, crowding into him so that he had no space to use a sword against him and trying to use all his body weight to send them both to the ground.

It worked. Sort of. Arthur was knocked off balance but instead of falling took several lunging steps to the side to regain his balance. Agron went crashing to the ground when Arthur was no longer a resistance to his fall but rolled along the dirt to where his sword was and jumped back to his feet again, rearmed and grinning.

Arthur scowled and then smirked as he lunged at him with sword pointed towards his head.

"Time," the squire in charge of the sand timer called but that didn’t stop the two fighters, if indeed they even heard him. It was five more strikes before they stopped. The first Arthur sent to Agron’s head and was blocked. The second was to his left thigh which Agron met but which put him off balance. The third hit was directed towards his right shoulder and hit its mark, sending Agron to his knees. The forth strike knocked Agron’s sword from his hand and the fifth strike, well, it wasn’t so much a strike as a sharp prod against his chain mail clad chest.

"Do you yield?" Arthur asked, breathing heavily from the exertion but grinning. Agron, eyes wide and chest heaving, glanced across at the table that bore the timer and grinned. Arthur frowned at his smile and then followed his gaze. He lowered his sword and stepped away.

"Why didn’t anyone call time?" he demanded, making the young squire cower somewhat as he fumbled through his apologies, trying to say that he had but apparently hadn’t been heard and getting himself terribly flustered over words and ending up blushing a furious shade of red. Arthur rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to Agron who was getting back to his feet albeit rather slowly and stiffly.

"Stay on your knees," Arthur declared, pressing the tip of his sword back into the man’s chest. They stared at each other for a moment. Agron’s heart was beating in his throat; he couldn’t breath, couldn’t blink, certainly couldn’t look away. Was this it? Had he passed? He tried to savour the moment but his mind was chaotic with thoughts. All his life he had been waiting for this moment and now it was here he was lost.

[1319/1000]

[Prince Arthur Pendragon]

Accepted of course!

I believe this makes you the rank of Knight?
Therefore you may add the title "Sir" to your name, and you are now one of my trusted knights!

Congratulations!

We would now like to hold a feast in your honour. Please PM me a list of up to 3 characters that you would like to invite to the feast and we will set up the thread for you.