The Grey Tower

Jaryd had not been to the Warder Yards in many years. He had never truly looked for a Warder, for one, and for another, the kind of fighting he preferred could be practiced as easily in the privacy of his chambers as it could in a sandy court. Today, however, he needed to get out of the Tower. His captivity-induced fear of the outdoors had gone on entirely too long, and it was time to face it….with blade in hand.

Once he arrived at the Yards he stripped off his shoes, found an empty corner, and set his belongings on the ground. He did warm up exercises as he watched the rest of the yard, then snatched Watari and another curved knife from the collection of blades he had brought, and shifted into position. Altaran dueling forms were different from the classic dagger-fighting taught in the Yards; his body shifted from pose to pose in something resembling a dance, moving faster and faster as time passed.

When he stopped, he found he had collected a small audience of men and women, most in gray, but some in white or black. His brows went up as his gaze swept the watching faces, then he balanced on one foot and bowed, arms outstretched. “Where did you learn to do that?” A Drin with curly black hair asked.

“I picked up a few tricks here and there in my travels,” he said lightly as he adjusted his scarlet vest. Then he turned to crouch near his belongings. The sky abruptly seemed to press around him, crushing him to the ground, and his fingers shook as he reached for his shoes.

“Could you….show us?” A different voice asked.

His back straightened as he considered the request. When he twisted to face them once more, his face was devoid of expression. “Any who are interested in a lesson may go to the Armory and get blunted daggers- straight or curved, either will do.” As he waited for them to return, he rested in the Void, the bubble of emptiness a shield against the panic that threatened to overtake him at being so long away from safety.

Paks was floundering as a Drin’, though it was something she was hiding well, or at least she hoped she was hiding well. As a Drin’, she was allowed trips to Hama Valon, though they likely didn’t want their young recruits going every night. Mornings tended to come early, and lately, were often accompanied by hangovers. A big breakfast and kaf helped to take the edge off, and allowed the scoundrel of a Drin’ to face the day.

On this day, Paks had been going through unarmed forms when someone moving with daggers caught her eye. He moved with a grace that reminded her of the Mistress of Arms with her swords, but he held two curved daggers. Thus far, Paks had done well not to do much with close ranged weapons, other than her fists, and she knew that would have to change soon.

The Drin’ kept her distance as she watched, but others crowded around, and one asked the man if he’d teach them. When he suggested those interested get practice blades, Paks almost walked away, but then found her feet carrying her to the armory. She’d asked for a set of curved practice daggers, and the quartermaster came back with two straight ones, “We don’t have curved practice daggers. This is the best I can do.”

“Should work, I suppose,” Paks replied with a shrug and mock salute as she turned on her heal. There were a few others waiting their turn to get their own practice blades as Paks walked back towards the yards and the man she knew to be the M’hael. Sure, Paks, take a class from the man leading the Tower when you are as hung over as a flaming goat over a fire pit. You’ve had smarter moves, girl, she chided herself as she found a place to stand and wait, intent on not being in the front row of students.

Breathe in

Breathe out

Breathe in

Breathe out

Artur ran laps in his grey Drin uniform around the Warder Yards. Part of his training his instructors had told him. To strengthen his core and endurance they had told him. His thoughts on the subject were that they were out to kill him.

He passed an Asha'man practicing with his daggers. He kept running his laps but the man stayed on his mind. Ravak Gaidin had said that he could learn any weapon. Maybe he should stop and ask to be taught. He made it around the path twice more before he finally stopped and joined the small group of learning ranks that crowded around the older man.

“Where did you learn to do that?” A Drin with curly black hair asked.

“I picked up a few tricks here and there in my travels,” The older man replied.

“Could you….show us?” Artur asked from the back.

“Any who are interested in a lesson may go to the Armory and get blunted daggers- straight or curved, either will do.”

Artur did not pause to think on the answer, Ravak Gaidin told him he could learn so he would learn. His instructors would understand. What better way was there to train the body than to practice with a weapon. He ran.

He arrived at the armory and followed a small line made up of Soldiers, Novices and Drin that led to the Quartermaster. He made it to the front of the line after a few minutes of waiting.

"What do you need kid?" The gruff quartermaster asked.

"Just a blunted dagger sir, off to practice."

"Why do all you trainees need daggers? I thought there wasn't a class scheduled today?"

"An Asha'man, well I think an Asha'man is going to teach some of us how to fight with daggers."

The man handed him a short blade with a short warning, "Hm, Well kid don't hurt yourself!"

Artur pulled the Dagger out of it's sheath and examined it before he strapped it to his waist. He left the armory at a jog in the direction of the man that would teach him to fight with a dagger. It took him a few minutes but he arrived and settled in the front row around the Teacher ready to learn.

Every warrior form Shara to Tomond Head knew some form of the adage, Know your enemy. Sometimes in his own pride, Terric had ignored that advice. He’d begun to believe that all he needed to do to win was to be the fastest, strongest, and most skilled warrior. Uncharacteristically, he was neglecting the knowledge aspect of fighting. Since he’d become a Ji’alantin, he’d taken steps to remedy that deficiency. He’d gone as far as to check out several books from the library about sword techniques. It was a distasteful read, but know he knew if a swordsman was swinging a horizontal blow, it was probably River undercuts the bank, and that meant there were only so many other forms they would follow with.

In that same vein, when he’d Drin flocking to the armory murmuring about a knife lesson from the M’hael, he decided to join them. From what he’d head from travelers and read in books, knife fighters from Jaryd Kosari’s native Ebou Dar were legendary. Terric had used knives of various shapes and sizes throughout his life, but he’d never faced a duelist. This would be an interesting learning experience. Stepping onto the sand with the clustered students, he shelved his pride. He’d learn this Wetlander way of fighting. Knowledge was the one thing, no man, woman, or Shadow Spawn could take from him.

Alric floated in the Void, black coat and shirt folded neatly on a nearby bench. He walked lightly across the sands in Cat crosses the courtyard lightly holding a weighted practice sword in his hand. He stepped into Leopard in high grass. He began to dance between form after form. Practice with the sword had been a daily ritual for many years, and it showed. The swords lead core was hardly noticeable at first, but as his movements increased in speed and complexity, his muscles began to ache dully. Inside the Void however, he was only purpose. He’d been told in no uncertain terms that he spent too much time in the Yards and not enough learning the Power, but he hadn’t made any headway in that regard. So he danced, blade twirling around him, thrusting at invisible opponents. Blade blurring faster and faster, he spun kicking up sand. His movements building to a crescendo. Bringing the sword crashing down in Boar rushes down the mountain he let out a forceful shout. Straightening, he flicked his blade up in a salute and Folded the fan.

As the world around him began to fade back into existence, he noticed several students rushing off to the armory and returning with practice knives. It looked like an impromptu lesson was about to start. Why not? Alric thought to himself as he went to retrieve a knife. He’d killed a man with a knife before, but they were much more close and personal than he preferred. He liked a weapon with a bit of reach, like a sword, or better a fifteen foot pike. That being said, there was nothing wrong with learning a new weapon, if only because most taverns turned a blind eye to side knives even when they banned swords.

As he edged into the crowd of students, he saw a familiar crop of short black hair. He sidled up beside Paks, who looked a little worse for wear. Giving her a companionable nudge, he asked, “Play to hard last night?” Keeping his voice pitched low to not upset her inevitable headache, he looked around the crowed, “Anyway, whose class is this? And is that an Aielman?”

Avram had been silently and slowly working through several moves with his own practice dagger in a secluded section of the yards when the bloody M'Hael of all people had walked by him to the very corner of the practice area and begun practicing a series of dagger moves that Avram had never seen. The younger man immediately decided that this was the opportunity of a lifetime - the M'Hael was very obviously distracted, and the Cairhienin casually leaned back against the fence as a small crowd began to gather. He flooded his mind with the flame, leaving only the Void when it burned out. His nerves, singing as usual in the presence of power, were pushed back by the Void far more effectively than any other calming techniques he had learned. If I had only learned this half a dozen years earlier, I might own Cairhien. The thought skittered across the surface of the Void before disappearing as he continued to observe the motions of the daggers and, more importantly, the man making them.

With the finish, Jaryd made an almost theatrical bow and gave an explanation that, to Avram, sounded very much like an evasion. But then...

His fingers were shaking there. It was a revelation. The offer was interesting, and Avram immediately drew the two practice daggers he had on him as he moved into clearer view of Jaryd. This would be an excellent chance to learn to use both of them together hopefully. But more to his interest, the blankness of his face was more than what most of the Gaidin, Asha'man and Aes Sedai seemed to habitually maintain. Avram knew it; it was the face he made when he was surrounded by people, crowding behind him and blocking the exits and he couldn't keep his back to the wall. The face of a man immersed in the Void with things clawing at its edges.

Our M'Hael is not doing as well as all think. This could be a problem. Avram thought.

As he waited, Jaryd lifted his hands to examine the network of pale scars and pitted skin that marred his olive skin. Through his fingers he could see a man in gray who had remained behind when the others left. Nothing out of the ordinary to be seen there...other than the stranger’s pointed lack of interest in Jaryd’s too-youthful face. The Asha’man’s shoulders prickled, but before he could say anything, he realized others were approaching. The walls that gave him surety suddenly seemed a thousand leagues away as he looked from face to expectant face. He had thought to teach one or two, not…a group. The Void trembled, but he rose from his crouch as if nothing were amiss.

“Get into whatever your preferred center stance is. Make sure I can see you,” he said, his rich voice once again light and cheerful, the iron-clad mask he wore over his features never shifting. They adjusted themselves into a rough semicircle before him and he swept them all with black eyes that held more tension than his words seemed to indicate. Of them all, only two seemed truly at ease: an Aielman and the strange man in gray. The Altaran felt something cold writhing outside the Void as he looked at that placid face, and struggled to ignore it.

“I do not have much time, so I will make this short and simple,” he said, spinning his knives lazily around his fingers as he spoke. “You can hold most daggers facing forward,” he turned Watari so her blade pointed away from his elbow, “or back,” he flipped her the opposite way, his finger automatically sliding through the loop. “However you hold her, the weapon is an extension of your arm. You cannot let go of your hand, after all...and neither can you let go of your dagger, if you hold her correctly.”

The Void trembled and he paused for a moment, closing his eyes against a new wave of vertigo. I am free. This is real. Light, I am losing my mind. He waved at one of the Drin. “Come here...Daevan, is it?” The man’s nod was uncertain, but affirmative. Jaryd tucked his knives in his sash, and made a finger motion to his student to hand over his off weapon. He did, and Jaryd hefted her experimentally as he continued.

“I lacked forethought when I sent you for your practice weapons; it is unlikely we will actually use both knives in this lesson. You saw me practicing with two today because I wanted to work on balance. It's true that if you have two knives you have double the damaging power. Practically speaking, one is usually better, however. You can then use your free hand to block attacks, create distraction, cause other damage, or even switch hands mid strike."

He motioned for Daevan to strike at him, and the younger man gave him a horrified look before hesitantly slashing at his chest. Jaryd’s free hand came up and he brushed the blow to the side without much effort. “Just so. If I had been holding two blades I would have had to block with either my blade or my wrist. Without a lot of training, neither is a good choice.”

This time he asked Daevan to block while he attacked. He struck slowly, his dagger aimed for the pale-haired man’s side. When the man blocked him, Jaryd’s arm circled around the extended hand and struck upward like a viper, the point of his blade pausing inches from his opponent’s throat. “And follow through with every movement,” he continued. “It is unlikely you will hit with your first strike, but the second...most aren’t prepared for that one.”

He stepped back. “We’ll do it again more slowly so you can see. Then put aside one of your blades and practice the different grips if you need to. Face off with each other and try the moves I just showed you….slowly. I will correct as need be.”

As he fell silent he had the strangest sensation of falling. Falling as he had when- NO. His fingers tightened around the dagger and he looked up to find that gray-clad man not-watching him again. Who ARE you?

Paks flashes Alric a wicked grin, “Perhaps a little too hard, but sweet Emelia was worth the hangover.”The grin became a smirk, “That lass…”

The Drin trailed off as the Asha’man started to speak. Pointing her chin towards him, she said, “I believe he is Jaryd Asha’man, the M’hael. One of the more eager learning ranks asked him to teach, and here we are.”

The impromptu class got underway in earnest, and Paks turned her attention to the Asha’man. As instructed, Paks settles into the centered stance she learned through unarmed. She tested the grip of each practice blade in her hands, trying to hold them forward, and then backwards. She found either grip seemed to work and wondered the advantages to a forward or backward grip. Did it come down to fighting style?

An unexpected and unwanted rumble came from Paks’ stomach as her body protested the previous evening’s indiscretions, but she forced herself to calm the rebellious gut through slow deep breaths. Focusing on the lesson helped too.

When it was their turn to practice the demonstrated moves, Paks tucked one of the blades in her belt and turned to face a Ji’Val who looked unimpressed his partner was a lowly Drin. With a smirk and a wink, Paks waved him to advance.

Just as Jaryd demonstrated, she blocked with her free hand, though felt a bit clumsy with the follow through. The Ji’Val let her practice twice more, and she found the move less awkward, but it would need help. Perhaps she would need to find a sparring partner. Oh Light! Once again, I find myself eager to improve, but why? Could I really cut someone in a fight?

The moment of distraction nearly cost the Drin’ dearly as her sparring opponent easily pushed her advance aside, and brought his blade up to her throat. The feel of the wooden tip caught her attention, and she froze. “Get your head in this, Drin! If this were a battle, you’d be dead,” the older man barked.

A frown threatened to break through, but Paks pushed it aside and found reason to smirk, “Just giving you the chance to know what it feels to get a touch on me, Ji’Val. Won’t happen again.” And it didn’t. Each subsequent time he tried to get through her block, she managed to parry. Before the man’s frustration could bubble over, it was time to learn the next lesson.

Terric paired off with another student, a Drin actually, instinctively falling into a balanced stance, right foot back, knife in his right hand. Usually, when Terric carried a smaller slashing blade, he carried the weapon in a reverse grip, they were harder to take that way. Also, the way he’d been trained to fight with shorter weapons was more of an extension on fighting with hand and foot, than a separate style. The short brutal slashes and stabs and merciless grapples weren’t pretty but they were effective. That stance just didn’t feel right for this new knife style. The moves demonstrated by the M’hael however were much more flowing and graceful. Reminiscent of sword forms, in style at least. He’d always thought fighting styles like that took, “Dance the Spears” a little bit too literally.

He switched his stance, putting his right foot forward, and holing his knife in his right hand in a traditional forward grip. The stance was similar to a spear fighting concept called an offensive attitude. He brought his left hand up to defend his face. He’d rather have carried a buckler or worn some sort of bracer, but that wasn’t the case. He’d have to fall back on Vishik’s advice and simply not be there.

Facing off against the young Drin, a ruddy faced youth, he circled slightly. “Attack whenever you please,” he said. Even though, they were both students here, Terric was a Ji, and it wouldn’t be right for him to simply beat up on a Drin just because he could. Unexpectedly, the Drin lunged forward, weapon held in a tight grip, trying to close the gap and stab repeatedly. Terric back peddled, warding the man off. This man wasn’t an inexperienced youth, he was a back alley brawler.

Terric was trying his best to mimic the dance like knife moves, but his opponent seemed more concerned with wining than actually practicing. Gritting his teeth, Terric stepped into the assault. He wouldn’t let this man derail the lesson because of his own issues. Trapping the man’s knife arm in a strong grip, he cocked back the fist holding his own knife and slammed it into the man’s face. He let go of the wrist as the man’s knees went out from under him.

“What’s your problem?” Terric snapped, “You’re trying to practice a few moves, not gut me.” Softening his voice, he continued, “Back on your feet. Take your time, you don’t have to prove anything.”

Paks flashed him one of her oh so suggestive grins, before reminiscing on the previous night’s conquest. The woman, Emilia, sounded like a sight to behold. Hopefully, one of these nights, he’d get a chance to sneak out with her. Instead he spent his nights in a dead sleep after being all but tortured by a surly Asha’man with depth perception issues. Alric let out quiet chuckle. He was about to suggest a Shienaran tea that was supposed to work miracles for hangovers, when the M’hael called the class to order.

As the students began to break up into pairs, Alric felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see an Altaran woman in a Drin uniform. His heart sank slightly, Alrtarans were said to have cut their way out of their mother’s wombs. Judging by the way she held her knife, and the white scar down her cheek, she’d seen more than her fair share of knife fights. At least this might be a little more instructional now, he thought as he settled into Creeper Embraces the Oak a sword form he thought translated well to this duelists style.

The pair made a few passes, slashing and dodging. Alric found himself falling back more and more on his sword training. The lack of reach however, was something he had to constantly adjust for. Dancing around slashing wasn’t anything like wrestling a man down and stabbing a stiletto into a gap in his armor. Even with his sword, as he’d learned a higher level of sword technique, he’d never been a duelist. His was a place of chaotic battle fields.

So far they had both scored minor hits on each other, but nothing fight ending. He’d begun thinking of his knife as a sword, a very short sword. That might have been a mistake, but it shorted the learning process. After a particularly brutal exchange ending with a hit to his shoulder and her thigh, Alric lunged back in, blade swinging across in Ribbon in the Air. The practice blade struck her across the ribs, but she grabbed his sleeve giving him a sympathetic smile. She was looking down at something, following her eyes, Alric saw the blade at his crotch. Sighing, he stepped back, assuming another fighting stance.

The two novices twittered excitedly.

“Did you hear? The M’Hael is in the Warder Yards!”

Emmond took up his mop and squeezed out the water into a bucket. Very interesting. The M’Hael had not been seen out of the Tower in days.

A few minutes later, he stepped out of the Tower into the sunlight and made his way to the Warder Yards. His grey uniform marked him as a simple servant, and he walked with his head down to deflect attention from himself. He kept close to walls, struggling to orient himself without his sight. The rebuilding of the Tower confused him. Walls were longer - or shorter - and buildings were all in the wrong places. He even accidentally bumped into a new fence and was forced to find a way around it. Yet soon enough, Jaryd’s voice came carrying across the Yard.

He leaned against a wall and crossed his arms. A small smile crossed his face as he listened to the M’Hael’s instructions.
--- The hot Andoran sun beat down on the streets of Caemlyn. Although sunlight never seemed to touch the alleyways in the poorer part of town, heat rolled in waves, causing even the air to melt into a haze. In one of these narrow streets, dulled practice blades flashed as two boys fought, arms and legs weaving in and out in a tight dance. The older boy issued strict instructions as they sparred.

“Block, attack, shove down, strike. No, not like that,” said Stan. “Like this.” He moved Emmond’s arm as he spoke. “Block with your left and push his arm out like this. Remember, don’t grab, just block. Use your right elbow to attack. Good. Now move your left hand like this and strike. That opens your opponent up for your second attack. Again."

Emmond rolled his eyes. They had been at this all afternoon, under the sweltering sun, and all he wanted was to wash away his sweat and curl up on his bed. But as soon as he looked up, he knew that he had made a mistake. Stan was watching him with eyes that glittered strangely. His mouth twisted in a contemptuous sneer.

“Tired, aren’t you?” he said.

Then he lunged forward. Emmond barely had time to bring his arms up to guard. He knocked the knife aside with his left hand and slid forward to bring his right elbow down on his opponent's arm. But Stan’s knife turned in his grasp and Emmond could not bring his left hand down for a second strike. He twisted away - and Stan’s knife darted forward toward his side.

Emmond stepped backward, narrowly avoiding the graze of the blade. Then he gasped and blocked Stan’s second thrust, just in time. One.. two… three… four! Oh, Light help me! For every attack he blocked, another followed. Emmond backed away, defending himself when he could, stepping back when he couldn’t, desperately trying to stay free of the silver blur.

Then his back hit a wall and Stan pressed his knife against his throat. He felt a prick, and suddenly realized that this knife was sharp. When had the knives switched? Stan leaned forward and hissed.

“If you can’t do this in practice, then you won’t be able to in a real fight. And if you can't protect my back, then I don’t want you here. Do you understand?”

Emmond’s mouth went dry.

“Yes,” he replied, trying not to move much.

Stan grinned. Emmond watched with relief as the older boy tucked away the sharp knife and took up the dulled one in his hand. Then he settled into a guard stance.

“Again,” he commanded.
--- Suddenly Emmond realized that he had been mindlessly flipping a knife in his hand. It slipped silently back up his sleeve. I must not dwell on the past, he thought. Stan was long dead. But he also realized that he needed to relearn how to fight without his sight. Perhaps he could have killed at least one - and maybe both! - of his bondholders. Lost in thought, he slowly made his way back to the Tower.

He sees me watching. If Avram hadn't been watching so closely, he wouldn't have noticed the M'Hael's gaze linger on him for just a moment. He dropped into a stance similar to unarmed, but with his front hand higher to defend and his back hand holding the dagger lower than he would hold his hand for unarmed. Interesting. If you holdher correctly. He noticed the brief pause and too long blink, the tense that resisted a tiny shiver. This is not a man who is well in mind.

Avram shrugged and sheathed the second practice knife at his belt, leaving his left hand free and still in the air in front of his face. He was more used to just the one anyway, and he saw Jaryd's point. With more training, he could likely use a second knife just about as well as a bare hand but he certainly wasn't there yet. The follow through movement though was something that he hadn't tried before, but then again he had mostly practiced to stab someone in the back when they hadn't even seen his knife.

Avram paired himself off with another Drin, smiling as he introduced himself. Ban, as the other named himself, was happy to go first. As Avram carefully struck towards Ban and was blocked, he kept an eye on Jaryd, circling to keep Ban in a position that left Jaryd in his field of view. He saw Jaryd looking at him as he let Ban circle his hand around a half-hearted block and tap his dagger on the side of Avram's neck. "That was really good!" Avram commented, grinning.

As Ban swung at him, he easily pushed the swing aside and instinctively drove the practice dagger towards the other Drin's stomach. He stopped short. "Remember to keep an eye out for counters." He said dryly. "Do you mind if I try something a bit different?" He was fairly confident he could snake his arm around, but he wanted to try something else Jaryd had mentioned.

When Ban nodded, Avram stabbed his dagger towards the other man's face. When he saw it was going to be blocked he let the weapon fall into his waiting left hand, catching it and poking it into the other man's stomach. "Maybe all that time practicing spinning and tossing these things around was good for something after all." He said, returning to a resting stance. "Go again?"