68th Trial of Ymiden, Arc 715
Signing
"Signing while speaking"
"Speaking"
White knuckles struggled to keep firm grip of the wooden staff, sweat and anticipation loosening his grasp of the tool under the meat of his fingers, anxiety loosening his clutch.
The wind moved with him. It delicately guided his hands to where they should go.
It guided him softly. Not due to its gentle nature, not due to the relaxed status of the situation at hand, but due to the exasperation Quiet felt, his lungs aflame, his face glimmering with physical evidence of strain on his cheeks.
Earlier, it had pushed harder. He and the wind around him had attempted to fight on the same team. Shatter would throw a blow out, and Quiet, with the assistance of the guiding wind, would leap back to avoid it. He’d throw out a jab, and Quiet would sidestep. However, Quiet was not the most adept of combatants, nor was he the most resilient of them. When he failed, he failed in such a way that would cost him. A strike in the side would be suitable punishment for disagreeing on whether to parry or sidestep. But such things seemed to happen far more often than not, and certainly more often than when they agreed. As such, Quiet’s current state was nothing to be envied.
The sun reigned down on New Haven, unabated by coverage. The sea pushed air, warmed by the top layer of the ocean, throughout the town, and pushed it through the entire island.
A crowd had gathered around Quiet and his foe, but Quiet couldn’t focus on them. Quiet felt the short blades of grass brush against the skin just below his ankle, reaching upwards as if grasping for leverage to climb higher. As he dug his feet deeper into his defensive position, placing one foot further back, and one foot firmly forward, knee bent and prepared, he felt the grass crawl up.
His foe was someone he hadn’t expected to beat. Wasn’t someone he hoped to beat.
Shatter was someone you’d hope to survive.
The last time they had met, Shatter had nearly dashed those hopes in their entirety.
But Quiet wasn’t afraid to lose. He wasn’t afraid to hurt. Shatter could give it his all. He could break Quiet’s ribs. He could bleed him out. He could blacken both his eyes, and Quiet would still be proud to fight. He’d be proud to lose. He’d be proud to improve.
Shatter, however, was not without his somewhat effective methods of eliminating bravery, particularly through intimidation.
He stood far above Quiet - far above most others. He was a beast, a monster, the kind of individual to punch a hole in a tree without so much as scraping a knuckle. A quarterstaff in Quiet’s hands looked like a tool - an ancestral weapon. It looked like an extension of his arms, it looked like an art practiced when he wielded it.
A quarterstaff in Shatter’s hands looked like a toy.
Quiet, however, could always beat Shatter in one aspect.
Quiet had The Gift.
Quiet pivoted, as quickly as possible, shifting his back leg to the ground so his knee rested firmly against the ground, his front leg bent at ninety degrees, his quarterstaff held horizontally above him between both of his fists.
With the sort of crack that would easily break a thin tree where it hit, Shatter’s staff slammed against Quiet’s,
The Gift had not come in handy as Quiet would have hoped.
Quiet had heard legends of individuals with The Gift redirecting storms, creating fire so hot it turned the ocean to steam, creating tunnels underneath peoples’ feet, even utilizing the powers of storms.
When was Quiet going to be able to do the cool stuff?
He needed it pretty much as soon as possible. With Shatter, there was no such thing as a spar.
Every time he entered a bout with a partner, Shatter fought to win. He fought to best his opponent; he fought to break them.
But Quiet refused to be broken.
At least, not at first. Not completely.
Shatter’s staff rebounded off of Quiet’s. Quiet hadn’t retaliated whatsoever; his palms still ringing, reverberating from Shatter’s first strike.
But that rebound provided an opportunity.
Quiet forced the opposing staff to his left side, digging the western end of his staff into the ground, shifting Shatter’s body with it, taking advantage of his two-arm strike. In one, swift movement, Quiet pivoted his hips, flinging the tip of his staff embedded in the ground straight into Shatter’s jaw.
He didn’t have a moment to waste.
He windmilled his staff, following through on the blow, rotating it until it was stationed at one hundred and eighty degrees, and slammed the brim of his staff into Shatter’s stomach.
He kept himself extended in that position, in that presumed victory, breathing the short breaths of anticipated victory.
But Shatter hadn’t moved.
With one hand, he let go of his quarterstaff, checking his jaw, moving it both directions, making sure nothing was broken.
Lucky for Shatter, he was fine.
Unlucky for Quiet, he was fine.
Slowly, so slowly that it was as if Quiet could watch the entire series of events in one fourth the speed of natural progression, he grabbed Quiet’s quarterstaff, still pressed against his abdomen in striking position.
He dropped his staff completely.
And he punched Quiet in the face.
Quiet fell, and he, if being honest, was not at all surprised.
Not very sportsmanly, but certainly nothing unexpected.
He hadn’t expected to win.
And as he fell, the back of his head landing hard and bouncing against the ground and blood running from his nostril, he noticed the sky, unencumbered by cloud coverage.
He felt the warm breeze on him, as he did. Almost like a consolation.
Somehow, it made everything okay.
Signing
"Signing while speaking"
"Speaking"
White knuckles struggled to keep firm grip of the wooden staff, sweat and anticipation loosening his grasp of the tool under the meat of his fingers, anxiety loosening his clutch.
The wind moved with him. It delicately guided his hands to where they should go.
It guided him softly. Not due to its gentle nature, not due to the relaxed status of the situation at hand, but due to the exasperation Quiet felt, his lungs aflame, his face glimmering with physical evidence of strain on his cheeks.
Earlier, it had pushed harder. He and the wind around him had attempted to fight on the same team. Shatter would throw a blow out, and Quiet, with the assistance of the guiding wind, would leap back to avoid it. He’d throw out a jab, and Quiet would sidestep. However, Quiet was not the most adept of combatants, nor was he the most resilient of them. When he failed, he failed in such a way that would cost him. A strike in the side would be suitable punishment for disagreeing on whether to parry or sidestep. But such things seemed to happen far more often than not, and certainly more often than when they agreed. As such, Quiet’s current state was nothing to be envied.
The sun reigned down on New Haven, unabated by coverage. The sea pushed air, warmed by the top layer of the ocean, throughout the town, and pushed it through the entire island.
A crowd had gathered around Quiet and his foe, but Quiet couldn’t focus on them. Quiet felt the short blades of grass brush against the skin just below his ankle, reaching upwards as if grasping for leverage to climb higher. As he dug his feet deeper into his defensive position, placing one foot further back, and one foot firmly forward, knee bent and prepared, he felt the grass crawl up.
His foe was someone he hadn’t expected to beat. Wasn’t someone he hoped to beat.
Shatter was someone you’d hope to survive.
The last time they had met, Shatter had nearly dashed those hopes in their entirety.
But Quiet wasn’t afraid to lose. He wasn’t afraid to hurt. Shatter could give it his all. He could break Quiet’s ribs. He could bleed him out. He could blacken both his eyes, and Quiet would still be proud to fight. He’d be proud to lose. He’d be proud to improve.
Shatter, however, was not without his somewhat effective methods of eliminating bravery, particularly through intimidation.
He stood far above Quiet - far above most others. He was a beast, a monster, the kind of individual to punch a hole in a tree without so much as scraping a knuckle. A quarterstaff in Quiet’s hands looked like a tool - an ancestral weapon. It looked like an extension of his arms, it looked like an art practiced when he wielded it.
A quarterstaff in Shatter’s hands looked like a toy.
Quiet, however, could always beat Shatter in one aspect.
Quiet had The Gift.
Quiet pivoted, as quickly as possible, shifting his back leg to the ground so his knee rested firmly against the ground, his front leg bent at ninety degrees, his quarterstaff held horizontally above him between both of his fists.
With the sort of crack that would easily break a thin tree where it hit, Shatter’s staff slammed against Quiet’s,
The Gift had not come in handy as Quiet would have hoped.
Quiet had heard legends of individuals with The Gift redirecting storms, creating fire so hot it turned the ocean to steam, creating tunnels underneath peoples’ feet, even utilizing the powers of storms.
When was Quiet going to be able to do the cool stuff?
He needed it pretty much as soon as possible. With Shatter, there was no such thing as a spar.
Every time he entered a bout with a partner, Shatter fought to win. He fought to best his opponent; he fought to break them.
But Quiet refused to be broken.
At least, not at first. Not completely.
Shatter’s staff rebounded off of Quiet’s. Quiet hadn’t retaliated whatsoever; his palms still ringing, reverberating from Shatter’s first strike.
But that rebound provided an opportunity.
Quiet forced the opposing staff to his left side, digging the western end of his staff into the ground, shifting Shatter’s body with it, taking advantage of his two-arm strike. In one, swift movement, Quiet pivoted his hips, flinging the tip of his staff embedded in the ground straight into Shatter’s jaw.
He didn’t have a moment to waste.
He windmilled his staff, following through on the blow, rotating it until it was stationed at one hundred and eighty degrees, and slammed the brim of his staff into Shatter’s stomach.
He kept himself extended in that position, in that presumed victory, breathing the short breaths of anticipated victory.
But Shatter hadn’t moved.
With one hand, he let go of his quarterstaff, checking his jaw, moving it both directions, making sure nothing was broken.
Lucky for Shatter, he was fine.
Unlucky for Quiet, he was fine.
Slowly, so slowly that it was as if Quiet could watch the entire series of events in one fourth the speed of natural progression, he grabbed Quiet’s quarterstaff, still pressed against his abdomen in striking position.
He dropped his staff completely.
And he punched Quiet in the face.
Quiet fell, and he, if being honest, was not at all surprised.
Not very sportsmanly, but certainly nothing unexpected.
He hadn’t expected to win.
And as he fell, the back of his head landing hard and bouncing against the ground and blood running from his nostril, he noticed the sky, unencumbered by cloud coverage.
He felt the warm breeze on him, as he did. Almost like a consolation.
Somehow, it made everything okay.
