This is how heroes end. Brave battles done, their greying heads bowed, they pick flowers. I think it is supposed to be a metaphor for bravery done equals women by the score. I can't prove it, of course. Maybe it's simply a metaphor for how the mighty are supposed to end their days. Looking back, resting on laurels and arses and picking flowers out of sheer fucking boredom.
Life was better when the Saxons were hungry, I was the young comet of the South, a burning star across the heavens and the beds of maidens. Before I fell in love. Yes, those were the days.
Drustan exhales, hands clapping upon his own leathered thighs as he looks upward through the branches of an apple tree -- one of several in the garden menagerie that Gwynyfawr -- Guinevere -- designed. A wild place, with flowers and vines and trailing roses everywhere, explosions of red and yellow and purple and white.
And it has the most marvelous view of my lady's chamber window. The portico that winds from bedchamber window. If only her maids wouldn't pull the drapes closed when she is dressed. If only Mark wouldn't leave them open when he undresses her again.
This is how heroes end. Unable to turn from their own torment. I've read books. I know where this is going. I had a tutor from Greece.
Among the blossoms, half-hidden, Drustan sits upon a stone bench, and sips spring mead from a leather jack.
Why, oh why must you do this to yourself? Of course, she knows why, but still she questions. Even before he realized he would be there, she knew she would find him there. Biding her time, dawdling in the kitchens, then with her brother a while, Morgaine finally found her way out into the gorgeous throng of greenery and splashes of colours.
She, of course, avoided the Queen like the plague. Even if the pretty golden-haired thing tried to get her attention, the King's sister simply acted like she was too busy or occupied to notice, finding some excuse to suddenly become scarce.
It's for the Queen's own good, of course. Morgaine has a wicked tongue. And after the trickery of the good Gwynyfawr causing her married to Uriens, instead of the son, Accolon, the raven-haired one has had little patience or words for the meddling girl.
She knows all about not being able to have what you want, but thankfully she is not as tied down, or held at bay by all those around her.
And so, Drustan, does the long shadow falling over your form drag your attention away from the cause of your torment, even for a brief moment in time? Or will it take her voice to call upon your attention... or even her very presence... or the sudden waft of lavender in the air, stronger than before...?
He was face down into the tilt of another drink. Mead. Mead was the first drink we shared. To drink it is to remember the first taste of her in his mouth. Oh, the torment doesn't end with his garden station, his fixation upon watching her and his father move about their evenings, the tension between father and son, king and prince, husband and lover, cuckold and adulteror, Cornwall and Camelot. That's just the beginning. It's so horrible, he simply can't turn away.
The waft of lavender is what caught him, stilled that cup and made dark blue eyes to shift slantwise to see her. Though he once called himself a Christian knight to get what he needed at the time, as an exiled adulteror and incestuous lover, he is now free to be the pagan he always was. Not only does this allow him to be rather remarkably free of the guilt of sin, it also enables him to be more aware of the world around him. And the sudden scent of lavender.
Drustan lowers the cup and stands, a bow to the sister of his king -- and his cousin. "Good morning, my lady," he says in that slur of Cornish. Where does his accent end and drunkenness begin? It's impossible to tell, really. Drustan straightens, glances to the apple blossoms and then resumes his seat. "It's a lovely morning," he begins softly. "I thought I'd come watch the queen's prized doves." The one he told his father about the other day. You know, the ones that she cages but keep escaping? It was a metaphor to Mark. But it was also a point of fact. "It's spring," Drustan continues. "A wretched season, by all accounts too lovely, too sunny, too filled with sensations," he smiles wanly. "But the birds coo with real distinction. Mead?" He offers her his own cup.
Many come to these gardens to enjoy their austere beauty. The Garden's rugged beauty is quite different from the regimented, exacting afair that his mother had seeded in Gorre. Point of fact he remembers that garden, where he was not supposed to touch anything, better than her. Accolon was the the quiet dutiful one.
Of course he's also senstive to the pollen of the blooming flowers, and so uncomfortable silences find themselve shattered by a thunderous sneeze. *WACHOOO!*
"Pardon me....." Ywaine says rubbing his nose, approaching the stone bench where Drustan sits and his step-mother stands over him with a sad look in her eyes. "Hello mother..." he says bowing his head to Morgaine, and then looks to Drustan, "I thought I might find you here." This is workable... Drustan's not doing anything crazy yet. He's watching doves. "Gawaine tells quite teh ammusing story of the time he went hawking to close to the castle and his Peregrin took one of the Queen's doves. He claims he hid in a barn in a near by hamlet for three days rather than face Aunt's wrath."
You don't fool her, Drustan. She is not just pagan, but a priestess, trained by the Lady of the Lake on Avalon, herself. She knows what or who you were watching. But even if she would say something, her words never come, being interrupted by the earth-shattering sneeze of one of her many step-sons.
Her face tilts to Ywaine and nods with a gentle smile, even as she accepts the cup from Drustan. It is not the first time they've shared spirits from the same cup... but usually it involves them trying to drink each other under the table. Those crazy pagans.
"Thank you, Drustan... good morn, Ywaine." A good mouthful is taken of the mead, tasted and enjoyed before finally swallowed. "There's nothing like a nicely brewed batch of mead, hm?" she comments with a smile, then offers the cup back to Drustan.
"Mmm... yes, I've heard about these doves not liking to be in captivity. I can't say I blame them, poor buggers," Morgaine comments, glancing over in that direction, her expression turning sour for a moment. She knows exactly how they feel. But she keeps her comments to herself, forcing a smile as she murmurs, "I'd rather the wretched spring than the wretched winter. The winter can be far more cruel..."
Especially the winter of a woman once young. "In the winter, we all long for the spring, suddenly remembering what we once cursed. We always long for what is long gone," comes the soft comment as Morgaine looks pointedly at Drustan before straightening. There is no cruelty in her voice...merely that usual frankness of hers.
"You are on the mark today, my lady," comes the roll of Cornish across a honeyed tongue. "I should have you take my lance and go to the field in my stead. You should never miss. What honor my name may have to it again." There is a smile, but it is only half-humored. Cup returned, Drustan tips it, sips it and then looks across to Ywaine. Step-sons and step-mothers. There's not a happy tale of that among us three.
A dark brow cocks upward, slowly, as if it's only half made up its mind in the motion, or maybe there is simply too much to consider. "You should have seen the look on Jenny's face when Arthur promised me his firstborn daughter," Drustan waxes humorously, the wan smile sidling wicked for a moment. He offers his cup to him likewise. Share and share alike. "But she is protective of her doves. Names them all like little babies. I don't know whether to hug her or pity her. But I should not talk ill of my queen. She is my dear cousin who allows a shamed and exiled knight to take shade in her garden bower. I should not sound ungrateful." A moment of Truth from an old knight's lips.
Well, oldish. He's thirty. For some folks, that's ancient.
Drustan glances between mother and son, then lastly again to Morgaine. He knows she knows. He knows Ywaine likely knows. He once wore his heart on his sleeve. Now it is his sorrow. Leaning back, he puts his back to the body of the apple tree. "I do not long for spring. I have been told that... such longing is unreasonable. And to me, what else may break this constant winter I find myself in? But the longing that cannot Be. What good, then, to wish for spring..."
"Well spring is the time of the year that days grow longer, and the sun shines a little brighter....." Ywaine's words trail off has he starts fighting back aonther sneeze. Turning his head away with another loud *WACHOO!* It's also the season that the spring pollens are in the air. Ywaine sighs as he whips his nose, "Oh hell you get the idea."
That said he reaches out and takes Drustan's cup with a grateful nods and shares a healthy swig. The cup offered back to Drustan, Ywaine says. "The Queen is infact quite generous as is her King. So who's this shamed knight we are talking about? Right now I'm stealing some of the best company in Camelot." Ok so that's not gonna make them feel better, but hey, he's trying.
"Mmm... that is a tough question, really. But, sometimes, I would say, we must play out the game which has been set for us, keeping ever watchful for a way closer to what we want. We may never get there," Morgaine muses, "but then again, we'll never know if we keep pitying ourselves, hm?"
She moves a bit so that she stands more in the shade, reaching out to touch the tree nearby. "I always remind myself that my lot could be worse," she states absently, glancing off toward the doves for a moment. Her crystal blue eyes squint a bit against the brightness of the morning as she tilts her head a bit to one side.
"Well, she will learn, as any mother learns, that eventually those doves will need to leave the nest," comes the flat reply about the doves being treated as her own children. It is plain that she really has no love for the Queen, but she still manages not to insult the woman...she is merely not excited about her or over-indulging in her or anything of the sort.
It's bad enough she has been summoned to meet with the silly girl later this day. Oh, how she wishes she could just not go. When she is around the Queen, she is always civil, but it is torture not to haul off and beat some sense into the child. Truly, that is how Morgaine views "Jenny".
Hearing Ywaine's sneezes, Morgaine then snaps out of her bitter thoughts and grins, "You really should come to see me about those sneezes. I might be able to help you get some relief from it." His comment about best company merely makes her grin.
That gets a bitter look. Pitying. But he downs it in a swallow of mead and sets the now empty jack aside. Where's a page when you need one? "Well, so long as Arthur isn't the cock pigeon of her menagerie," he drolls. And then he laughs. "What am I saying. Isn't any husband the cock pigeon of his wife's menagerie? As much as it may seem the other way, I am not so naive, Morgaine, as to think that men hold any real power. It is the women who bear us, in their bodies from beginning to end, they hold the world so long as they hold our hearts." Or cocks, to make the metaphor complete.
A look passes to Ywaine and Drustan claps his hands upon his thighs again. "You should steal better company, Ywaine. I feel I am dead weight upon your otherwise glorious comrade," a nod to Morgaine. "I have neither humor nor rag for your nose to spare you." And with that he stands.
A motion in that upstairs room catches him for a moment, a swallow captured in his throat, hopeful eyes suddenly brightening. But it is only a maiden bringing out a sheet from the bed to freshen in the breeze. Snorting a laugh at himself, Drustan glances to you both, and seems upon the very razor's edge of leaving.
To drink himself into slumber maybe...
Get himself in trouble maybe...
Maybe pick a fight or two...
The young knight looks to his step-mother "Actually I just might take you up on that. And hopefully being that I'm part of your lot I hope I'm not to much of a burdern." His tone is pleasant and teasing, not offended. As for whether or not he's a burdern.. well Morgaine would have to judge that. Ywaine seems to get himself injured quite frequently. Though it is often the result of listening to Gawaine's advice.
The bachelor knight then looks to the elder (but not old.. please Drustan..) knight. A man who's prowess is only matched by the likes of warriors like Gawaine or Galahad and even then most betting men would put their money on Drustan assuming he's cold sober and focused. Ywaine so wanted to be like him once. Of course know he knows better. There's a shake of his head as Ywaine silently reaffirms his oath to never go through the heartache of falling in love.
Of course in doing so he cathardically curses himself to someday put himself through that self-same heartache but let's not split hairs shall we? He looks then to Drustan, at least he didn't go on a diatribe about Yseults breasts again (nice though they are). "You realize, Drustan, you are the only man that damns you so." Well the only person who's opinion matters. What Mark and the many rowdy knights hoping to make their name by putting down Drustan really don't count as far as Ywaine could care.
"Not so fast, oh humourless one. Do you really think we will let you get away so easily?" Morgaine lightly chides, waggling a finger but smiling gently. "Enough of this moping. I agree with Ywaine. It is too beautiful a day for damnation," comes her energetic suggestion.
Looking back at Ywaine, she winks, then looks upon Drustan as she says clearly, "I think I am actually in need of your services, so do not be thinking you are so useless, dear cousin." Does that get your attention, Drustan, before you go running off to cause trouble?
There is but a brief pause as she waits to see if it stills Drustan's retreat.
You both do, in fact, stop him, if for different reasons. Ywaine, he was half in motion to agree with you on your point, look of waxing poetic on his face. It is for Morgaine's words, however, that the following diatribe on just why he is and should be damned is halted for a look of wry curiosity. He glances to Ywaine -- what is she talking about? What sort of trouble am I getting into? And then stands there, one hand on the branch of the tree, the other at his gut. "It has been years, my lady, since I have fulfilled any sort of service at all. Apart from court gossip. What are you suggesting? Or," his lovely mouth holds a sudden, wry smile, "...has your brother asked you to offer me a quest to get out of his hair..."
He doesn't doubt it. Arthur does so dislike to get in the middle of the Cornwall Dispute...
"I'm not really good for much other than drinking, jousting, crying, and singing sad songs, you realize. My romping in the heather days, I fear, are over." Romping, of course, meaning exactly what it sounds like it might mean. Drustan looks to Ywaine again. Do you know something I don't?
No point of fact, Ywaine does not know something you do not, Drustan. In fact he looks somewhat suprised himself. Morgaine's enthusiams does not seem completely absent of mischief to Ywaine however. Just where is this going to go he cannot guess. In the end he ends up looking to Drustan with a stupid shrug.
Of course, Ywaine cannot leave it at that, he does feel the need to add. "You've left out drunking brawling and the uncanny ability to utter such curses that you could slay an entire nunnery from shame if they heard you." Of course, he's not about to hazard a guess as to what Morgaine has in mind, though for some reason he suddently think's it's fortitious he's been helping her learn sword play...
The halted steps of Drustan pleases Morgain to no end, but she does try hard not to smile too largely....even if the grin does not fully disappear from her pretty little lips.
"Well, you see... young Ywaine caught me out in the castle grounds in the wee hours of morn recently," she begins, trying to pique the interest of the obviously tormented and distracted Drustan. Shall she manage to distract him away from his distraction, if only for a short while?
Clasping her hands behind her back, she finally continues, "I was wildly swinging a sword about and nearly managed to slice off my own head, I dare imagine." Releasing her hands from behind her, she motions for the two of you to come closer as she still continues. "I was attempting to figure out how to use the blasted thing, but to no avail. So, good Ywaine has decided to help me learn sword play, but I thought it would be advantageous of me to gain the points of view of two fine knights."
There is an obvious pause, then in case you didn't get it, she adds, "And I was hoping you'd be that second example for me, dear Sir." She can't help it....her grin widens a bit.
Drustan turns his head to Ywaine, a smirk settling in his eyes if not his mouth. "Oh yes, how could I have forgotten. My favorite word second to the Saesneg fuck is the pretty little Welsh word cunt." Such a mouth on him. His arms fold at his chest and he swivels back toward Morgaine.
Both eyebrows cock up so far they almost lift past his forehead...
You. With a sword. I know a few folks who should be afraid. Very afraid...
Drustan stands there a moment, not really sure what to say and then he nods. "I make a very palpable target I hear...not that most have touched me," and he grins suddenly. For a moment Arthur's Comet has returned. Honeyed tongue and blossoms and all. The darkness of a love twisted and confused, refused and refuted, still lies in his breast, still shadows his every expression, and yet... for that moment... in the spring sunlight he seems like the knight he once was.
He glances to Ywaine, arms still folded. "We likely have a different point-of-view. Ywaine's a good deal more honorable than I am. But... if he is not opposed to it... I suppose I could. I could at least be your ...practice dummy..." And the double meaning of that isn't lost on him.
He tries to hide it with a pleasant smile, but there is something of a look of 'uh oh' on Ywaine's face. He has this nagging feeling this will somehow turn into a 'watch as I demonstrate how to beat a man with an inch of his life on Ywaine' session. Ywaine's good, he's very good, grading on purely technical merits some might say he's every bit the warrior as any of Arthur's knights, however Drustan has a kind of edge and experience the young knight just does not possess.
Still he harumph's a bit indignantly, "I fight to honorably? you're apparantly forgetting who I learned much of my skills from." That would be Gawaine naturally He's smiling though, glad to see Drustan glowing for only a brief moment in former glory. "However I can think of few men living that would be a better teacher for my mother than you Drustan."
Where most ladies would look shocked or even faint at the sound of such 'foul' words, this woman merely looks on, seeming rather unscathed. Perhaps it is because of the reputation her own tongue has given her over the years.
Morgaine, no doubt, picks up the double meaning of the 'practice dummy' comment, but leaves it well alone. Nothing anyone can do will stop him from wallowing... save for one, and she doesn't appear to be willing to risk it. And so, yes, she leaves that one be.
Looking toward Ywaine now, she comments, "It truly pleases me that even after so many have told me to lay down the sword as it is 'unladylike', I can still manage to find not one, but two very capable, very different instructors. We'll show them, right?" Besides, when has Morgaine really cared about what is or isn't ladylike? The phrase is a falsehood, as far as she is concerned. Avalon is bred too deeply within this one.
Grinning at Ywaine's response, she grins broadly, much like the cat that just ate the canary. "Good then! It's settled. Good!" She's very pleased.
"Well, put it this way... a woman's best tactic in fighting is not to fight with honor," Drustan notes, for the record, as it were. Kick in the groin. Kick in the gut. Break a heart. Just do not face a man fairly, or he will do the same to you. "And I'd never presume to tell a lady what to do or not do with a sword, my lady," Drustan continues, hand lifting, scratching at his jawline. "Usually, I'm just begging them to a least pick one up. Swing it if you must, thrust it if you can." And he chuckles, even amazed himself at his moment of not-so-subtle entendres.
With a clearing sigh, Drustan unfolds his arms. "Let's at it now before the sun's too high. I still have to get drunk and have time to wallow in self-pity before sunset. I'm planning to sing at the banquet...I must be on my ready then." Lord save you all. And especially him.
Drustan pushes off the apple tree and cuts a look to Ywaine. "Go get my page and yours... tell him to meet us on the field. We'll take over the tourney fields for the day. Fuck the lists..."
"Of course... Sir Drustan." And with that Ywaine boys and heads off to fetch the pages and to get their impliments ready and bring them to Fields. He is smiling as he walks away but Ywaine is just so heavily getting the feeling he will end up hurt over all this. Still should be fun. "I'll meet you both there then."
Morgaine chuckles at Drustan's crass humour, relieved that he's at least making jokes and finding some humour once more. Her dark brows lift in unison as she speaks softly, "You will sing tonight? Hm... if someone were to spoil me a bit, I might be able to be persuaded to bring out my harp..."
She is known for her talent with the harp, but so rarely plays in public. "Mind you," she adds, "I might also have to be pretty under-the-table to get the nerve to do so, myself." She chuckles at that, then waves off Ywaine and adds, "I will change into something that lends more to movement and will meet you both promptly..."
With that, she's off in the direction of the castle to seek out skirts of a lighter fabric, perhaps, or even just something a little looser.
As requested, Ywaine went and fetched both his and Drustan's page, and both young boys lead the stock horses laden with their both knights arms and armor with them. It can't be a proper lesson without proper knightly impliments after all. Ywaine leads his favored horse as well, just incase a demonstration of jousting is going to be on the lesson plan today as well.
His favored horse is quite the specimen. Short black fure almost the same dark raven shade as his own hair with a white star over it's brow. He favor's the speed and temperament of a courser over the size and raw power of the charges his brother and father both prefered in battle. Lashing the horse to one a nearby rail, Ywaine gives him a fond rub on the snout and then turns to his page to help the young man lash down the stock horse and checks his cargo to make sure he has everything he'll need, "Pay attention child." he says to the page, "He's probably going to beat that shite clean out of me."
She comes out onto the tourney grounds, still dressed in skirts, but with them hiked up just past the ankles so that she will not trip all over herself. She has full plans to get involved in today's lesson, hands-on....nevermind just being on the side-lines.
She brings nothing, but a short sword chosen from the armory recently. It probably isn't the best suited weapon for her, but likely the best out of the current lot. She has not had time to get one properly made for her hand. This one will have to do.
And so, Morgaine walks out across the grounds, making a straight line for Ywaine. All the while, she ignores the whispers from those who stand about, gossiping about the unladylike behaviour of the King's own sister.
Drustan's horse is white, a horse of mixed breed, part Roman desert horse, part cob. It makes for a strong neck and chest, and delicate features. Wide, alert brown eyes, surrounded by a bit of grey. Elsewhere, the horse is as white as a ghost. That's Comet, Drustan's namesake. Hell, the way Cornish kings become kings, for all he knows, Comet may be his brother...
His young page is the son of a good family in Cornwall, still in service to the prince, though the prince is living in exiled shame. It's no shame on the family who serves him. Drustan still may one day become king. He's Mark's only heir...
Drustan grins to the lad and musses his hair. "Aye, Caswyn, pull him round," a nod given to a space not far from where his tent usually is. "We may need him later." The boy does just that, dropping the reins. The horse is well-trained, he'll keep his station. The young page runs over, quickly unpacking his lord's favorite sword. Roman. He can do more with a Roman short sword than most men can do with a longsword. "That's a good lad," Drustan smiles, there's true affection there. The boy grins and then bows and takes a place nearer to the horse. Well out of the way.
"So... shall I fight you both then?" Drustan wonders with a crackling laugh, brows arching upward, sword moving side to side in his grasp. Who knows but that this could be the sword of Caesar himself. Or Ambrosius. Or Vortigern. Or Macsen...
Well this will certainly be a good lesson for Morgaine. A roman-styled short sword is one that Ywaine did quite recommend for her. He studies Drustan for a moment. Oh yes he looks like he's going to enjoy this. Slowly his fingers brush over the hilt of his greatsword. It's his favored weapon and the one at which he is the best at, Most being reluctant to give up the extra protection of a shield, few take the time to really master the difficult weapon. Still Ywaine normally only uses it in really dire battles, not for sport.
The young knight instead opts for a spear keeping a bit closer touch with his celtic roots. "Well, since it's your expertise we're hoping to glean I imagine it would be best for you to dictate the lesson, lest there are some techniques you would like to show the The good lady and have her work on a bit before we dive into a fray."
Approaching the spot on the field where both Ywaine and Drustan now find themselves, Morgaine laughs and calls out, "No. I plan on trying things out, but not until I see some of it in action, if you don't mind."
She can barely swing a sword and barely knows a few tactics. She needs to be able to examine it in closer detail. She's always had a good eye, being able to pick up on much just by watching someone else do it.
She digs her sword into the ground and places both of her hands on her hips. "Well... how shall we begin?" she asks, seeming eager to start her lessons. She eyes the horses briefly, wondering if they're truly needed but she doesn't question them being here. She falls silent for a moment as Ywaine speaks, then nods, saying, "I would be fine with that."
A hand on the pommel and a gloved hand on the blade, Drustan raises his arms above his head, stretching while he seems to ponder this. "What have you shown her so far, brother?" he drops into the familiar with Ywain, calling him brother, as are all knights in-truth. Brothers in arms, at the very least. For a man of his age, and a man prone to drink the way he is prone to drink, he's incredibly limber. He crouches down, balancing upon the balls of his feet and brings his arms down, blade of the Roman sword kissing the soil it once helped to conquer.
"It matters not to me," he says, one leg stretching outward, a kneeling lunge, and he holds it for a time. Not bad balance for a drunken lout. "I can show you a couple of tricks of the trade. Short sword's right for weight, and good for tactical advantage. A man's always going to outreach you, but you only need to get close enough to put your knee in his groin and send his balls up to his throat," Drustan notes, and then cackles. "I may have to volunteer for that, at least that way I'd be touched." Blue eyes find Ywaine and black eyebrows waggle. "It's a good thing none of us our virtuous, or you'd both be blushing to death by the end of it. Very well then," Drustan stands with an exhale and waves Morgaine to him. "Show me what he's shown you so far..."
"I've really only been able to go over the basics with her. How to turn a blow and to use your opponents blade to create an angle for you to attack along. We covered a bit about how weapons are weighted and how the weapons weight dictates how it's best used." They did not get the chance to get much further than that really Ywaine moves forward towards where Drustan and Morgaine stand. Resting hte but of his spear in the ground and and leaning forward against it.
"I've mostly concentrated on teaching her how to close the distance between herself and another attacker. Get well within their reach where she can attack before they could recover their blade."
"Well, one thing he told me was that I was starting with a blade that was much too wrong for me. It was too long and too heavy in the... pommel. Right, that was it," Morgaine recalls, slowly approaching Drustan after retrieving her sword.
"So, now I have a shorter blade with more of a weight in the end of the blade, to help with my swing, but I really do need a sword made just for me..." She is such a small woman, afterall. "I've also learned that if I can get too close to them to swing, I have a huge advantage over them. My arm is shorter than theirs, so this will throw their attack off, leaving them open to my own, much closer attack....and yes, what Ywaine just said."
"That still is a little heavy, perhaps. But, the size of the weapon does not matter. In fact, anything you are shown with a sword, your hands can do. The sword is just an extension." Drustan's expression goes bland. "And you thought it was an extension of something else." He winks and comes near, "Serious now," he murmurs and he sheathes the Roman short sword. "You have so much advantage if you get in past the reach. Under an arm. The best tactics usually are your parries, your dodges, your escapes. But chances are, my lady, if a man is coming at you, he's not going to come at you with a sword."
At least not immediately...
Drustan grabs your wrist, "He will likely grab you with his hands. And then what?" He tightens his grasp. "See? And your sword is useless. I can even take it from you with a squeeze," and when his hand squeezes your wrist, your hand opens and the sword is captured by his other hand.
"It looks hopeless doesn't it?" Drustan smiles. "But there is one way to get free. Can you tell me what it is?"
Morgaine gasps briefly as her hand opens and releases the sword, not expecting this to happen. She's not hurt or anything, merely surprised at how easily she could be disarmed. Her lips purse as she focuses both on the grasped wrist and Drustan's words.
That crystal blue gaze slips away from the hand upon her wrist to glance back up toward Drustan. "A man's weakest spot would be the best thing to strike out at," Morgaine replies, realizing she's close enough to send a kneecap into the knight's groin... or anyone else who might hold her against her will.
"Or am I missing another possibility?" she asks, remembering that she could be wrong. This is unfamiliar territory to her.
Wow... he's really looking forward to taking that knee to the groin isn't he? This is almost as bad as when he starts talking about Yseult's breasts, Ywaine thinks to himself. He doesn't blurt out any advice, at least not yet. He's seen Morgaine when she's good and pissed before. He's confidant that's she's comfortable with this manner of infighting.
Still he watches intently, after all he might be mistaken as to what Drustan is trying to get at. As Morgaine speaks of kneeing him in the groin, Ywaine nods approvingly and eventually does add, "Also he's only holding one wrist. You could also drive your thumb into his eye."
"The knee to the groin is always an option, and whenever in doubt, it should be your first. But.. there is another...look at how my hand is positioned at your wrist. Try to turn it over, don't pull. Just rotate it..." And, yes, there is a point. Fight smart and fight dirty. It's the surest way to survive.
Drustan glances to Ywaine, nodding, "The eye would work, but she's short. Better to go for a sure thing. The groin's a sure thing. Send him to the grass, kick the shite out of him, then gauge out his eyes..."
Turning his attention back to Morgaine, he stands still, waiting for her next move. Waiting to see the light bulb go on. He looks to where his hand is on her wrist.
All of this talk of dirty fighting brings a smirk to her face, but Morgaine's actually soaking it all in. She's looking at the wrist again, shaking her head as she tries to turn the hand, but really not understanding what it does. She stands there, looking at it with a puzzled expression, and finally back up at Drustan. No, she needs more verbal explanation here.
Having never defended herself or really been into watching hand-to-hand combat that isn't honourable or with a sword, she's a bit at a loss here.
The light bulb doesn't go on, unfortunately. She merely shakes her head and murmurs, "I really don't see what you mean here." She's a quick study, but even this appears to be something that needs to be explained better.
Looking to his step-mother's perplexed expression, Ywaine steps forward and says. "The way he holds you about the wrist you can escape his grip no matter how strong he is." Ywaine holds out his hand and makes a rolling motion with his wrist. He repeats the process a few times. "You will beable to grap his wrist in turn and pull him forward into your thrusting knee."
Ywaine's words causes a quick flash of understanding to light upon Morgaine's face. "Ohhhh, I see now," she comments, twisting her wrist to try it out, gently and slowly.
"That is tricky... and someone attacking a woman might not expect that, so I do have the element of surprise on my side," she adds thoughtfully.
Drustan smiles. And the distraction has worked. For a moment, he's without the darkness, he's without the sorrow. His heart has not forgotten, but his brain has switched gears completely. It allows him some respite. "Exactly, just like that," Drustan notes, a nod to Ywaine. "See, you are free. And even if I panicked and reached for you again, you would be able to get an angle on me. And it would take me time, precious time, to get the sword readied. Precious time that would be to your advantage."
Drustan steps back, unsheathing the Roman sword again and now grinning broadly. "So who wants to take a swing at me. Come on, half of Camelot's dying to. It's a wonder I don't have a line stretching past my bedroom door..."
"Ah hell, you only live once." Ywaine straightens his posture and kicks the but of the spear out from under himself. He spins it hand over hand. Hey this will be a good demonstration no how to get in close on someone with a longer reach than you. The spear is of a celtic make with a long head, with razor sharp edges. Equal capable of cutting or stabbing.
And so after Ywaine finishes his flashy little spin He swings the spear in a downward arch aimed for Drustan. "There are going to be quite a few that are angry at me for skipping ahead of them in line I imagine."
Morgaine looks from Drustan, to Ywaine, wondering if she's ready to take a swing or not. Knowing her luck, she could accidentally lop off someone's ear...but then again, she'll never learn unless she tries. But she wants to see it in full speed first, so she grins and steps back, letting the two of you go at it.
Drustan smiles, stepping out of the way of the spear, and letting the sword redirect it. With just a tap, his wrist turning. There is a second motion, his turn. With forward motion of the spear stopped, the Cornish prince closes the distance, the Roman sword coming to slash at the gut of his friend.
Of course, it is a controlled motion, no matter how quick, and not meant to injure.
His motion puts him within Ywaine's reach, but makes it awkard for the spear. He has approached the net! The question remains to be seen: how will Ywaine volley?
"Actually, you live infinitely. I thought you were a pagan," Drustan gruffs with a grin.
Morgaine can't help but laugh at Drustan's comment, but watches the movements closely, even mimicking a few motions with her own sword on the side-lines, just to get a feel for it.
Posted by rowan at September 23, 2003 09:55 PM
