70th Trial, Vhalar, 718a
Outer Perimeter
11th break
Outer Perimeter
11th break
It wasn't just the sound. That was only the most obvious part of it. The metronome by which the rest was measure. The beat and rhythm underscoring all else.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
No clangs of metal on rock and brick anymore. Ten, fifteen, twenty feet, it didn't matter. Every throw was rewarded with the thick, sharp, singular sound of a knife tip sinking into wood. Even when he had to back up so far across his backyard that he was in the doorway of his house. Of course, that didn't mean he always hit what he aimed for, but he never missed the dummy itself.
Yet Kasoria allowed himself no smugness or self-satisfaction as he went about his practice. This wasn't just about honing his skills, although of course he always sought to sharpen himself a mite keener with every fresh day. He drew back his arm after extending it... marking a space on the dummy, in the center of the torso... then snapped his arm forward-
Thunk
The aiming. The draw. The inhale. The exhale. The snap of furious movement. The broken trill of waiting, sometimes even less than that. Then the sound, to tie it all together. Kasoria's eyes glittered as the blade flew from his hand, and embedded in the sternum of the dummy some fifteen feet away. He'd never been one for ranged weapons of any kind, from bows to hatchets, but these little beauties? It seemed he has something of an affinity for them.
He drew another one, with his off hand. Something else he had to learn, tedious and trying though it was. For the same reason he'd taught himself to be at least proficient with his left. Because in a profession where violence was a staple, especially the whirling savagery of melee combat, you couldn't always rely on having both arms at your command. So where did that leave him, if he had his right arm bit through, bound, or simply lopped off? Why, having to use his left, of course.
Kasoria grunted at the notion as he spent twice as long aiming with his left hand. Presumptuous, really. If he lost a whole fucking arm in a fight, his focus would be on running for his wretched life and making sure he didn't bleed to death, not fighting on like some moronic knight from a mummer's farce. But it was still a useful skill to have, and he devoted the time to it.
Better this than laying in bed, he grumbled mentally, drawing back his arm, trying to replicate every movement. Better than stagnating, decaying, rotting even as I heal-
Shunk
The assassin glowered at the offending blade, wobbling in the dummy's shoulder, as if it was all to blame. Craftsmen and tools, he reminded himself as he stalked forwards. They're not to blame. He is. But it still irked him as he examined the dagger, noting that it was far from the killing blow he'd meant it to be. That should have gone into the narrow throat of the target, through the speaking box nestled under it, slicing and severing crucial arteries as it went. Instead it was wounding, and painful, but not fatal. Not quieting, either.
Pulled to the left, he noted as he walked back from the dummy. Something in need of correction.
He stopped in the doorway. Back to the dummy. His wounds, lines of stitching and angry red flesh, still healing and knitting and raw under his clothes, growled at the thought that entered his head. No, he'd not be moving too quickly that trial. He'd spent enough coin getting himself hammered back together after that duel with the Ithecal... and yet...
Boredom. Inactivity. Stagnation.
Can't be having that.
He peered over his shoulder and drew the last knife. Left handed. He flipped it over so he was holding it by the blade, tapping the grip against his chest. With one eye he gauged the distance. Remembered and retraced mentally every muscle movement when he half-spun and threw with his right hand. He simply reversed them in his mind, and when he was ready-
-his arm flew out and threw the blade backhanded, watching it wobble and spin awkwardly through the air and-
SHUNK
Again, he frowned. True, a man with a knife through his manhood was hardly a man thinking much about the coming fight, but that was not where Kasoria had aimed. He approached the knife-riddled dummy, eyes fixed on the last, waggling dagger. Sticking out from a wooden crotch like it was waving at him, mocking him. He sighed and as the air left his lungs, he felt a familiar, unwelcome twinge in his left shoulder. Damnit. Now he'd probably gone and pulled something.
The assassin muttered something unseemly and felt under his jacket. No blood, no pus... no reason to stop. He gathered up his blades and the twisted meditation continued.
