10th Trial of Vhalar, Arc 718
Signing
"Signing while speaking"
"Speaking"
Calm.
Still.
Tranquil.
Qualities he wish he had. Names he wish he could have been given. Perhaps if he had received something other than the name Quiet, he would have been a different person. He would have held different values. Though, he understood he wasn’t a single-faceted individual. He understood that his name brought to him a gamut of adjacently relative traits. To be Quiet was to be humble. To be Quiet is to be attentive, to be considerate. But still, he couldn’t help himself but to wonder about the possibilities that he would never be able to see in honesty.
Honest.
True.
Virtuous.
There were qualities others had portrayed which he saw and he admired. There were qualities he hoped to replicate, qualities he wished he could exhibit for himself. Passion. Control. Persistent.
But he was not named Persistent. He was not named Controlled, Passionate, Virtuous, True, Honest, Tranquil, Still, or Calm.
He was named Quiet.
And Quiet he would be.
It was mid afternoon. The day was overcast - the first overcast day he had seen since leaving Quacia. Something about that town wasn’t correct. The way the earth cried out for restitution from some forgotten pain. The way the air, though familiar in its voice and behavior, tasted bitter on his tongue when he took in breath. The water lapped against Quacian shores due to obligation only. The sands of that land were cold and unwelcoming. The clouds forming a protective layer between Quiet and the open sky dampened his mood harshly. It reminded him of the natural oppression Quacia seemed to be put under. This recent excursion from city limits did leaps, bounds, and wonders to improve Quiet’s opinion of the world outside of what he previously understood to be the last bastion of natural clarity, being New Haven. In truth, the lands surrounding Quacia were as beautiful and lush as he had hoped. It reminded him, though vaguely, of home. Today, however, that optimism had a wet blanket placed upon it by the heavens above.
He had to find something to cheer him up.
Resourceful.
Resilient.
Spontaneous.
On the island, there was a morning ritual most everyone would participate in, though now that he had left the comfort of his home, he had been neglecting somewhat. It was a routine made chiefly for the purpose of centering oneself, of practicing control of one’s own actions and connecting closer with the world around them.
Quiet stood quarterstaff in hand, eyes closed, in a defensive position, under an autumn tree. The leaves fell softly, and Quiet, like the wind that carried them, moved consistently, his quarterstaff swishing in open air. He felt the leaves fall in open air, detecting intentionally the minute shifts in the static atmosphere. He focused on his footwork. Arguably the most pivotal portion of mastering quarterstaff technique was allowing oneself the proper grounded foundation, remaining strong and rooted, your placements exclusively intentional. Your arms and your weapon come after solidification. A mountain is as strong as its incline.
He placed his heels firm, allowing them to float softly, noiselessly, above the earth.
Intentional.
Light.
Careful.
His Gift allowed him the ability of awareness, but his abilities with his staff were his and his alone. His muscles remembered with precision every movement, every position Quiet took, and he moved seamlessly between them, utilizing every stance in fluidity.
He had been under that tree for a number of breaks, meditating.
Patient.
Attentive.
Driven.
When the first leaf fell, Quiet broke into action, swinging his quarterstaff from position to position, its twin tips lightly grazing the body of the leaf. His movements were swift, forceful, and certain, but his control allowed him the ability to halt his strike before contact with the falling foliage. He would deliver just enough force as to lightly propel it back into the air, never letting it reach the ground.
As time went on, more leaves began falling. Quiet diverted focus between them. Juggling two, his staff moving as quickly as his attention of focus, was simple. Three, just as simple. Instead of binary movements, Quiet translated his expertise to accommodate three targets, focusing them into areas geometrically resembling a triangle with Quiet standing in the middle. He would repeat the pattern with four, and then five, and at the sixth, Quiet’s muscles began to ache. He, however, refused to cease his practice until he failed.
Resilient.
Strong.
Focused.
His body was flawed, but his technique was practiced. Though bountiful and plenty, the wealth of New Haven allowed its residents a decent amount of free time from their work to better the island. This time, for those who had earned it, was filled exclusively with practice of their martial art, as to connect themselves better with the elements around them, and, for those with The Gift, to practice their craft. For Quiet, The Gift and his ability with his quarterstaff were tied together as is the air with the wind and sky. When he used his hands, he would sometimes curse that they were not as familiar to him as his staff. He may not have been the most able-bodied, he may not have been the most capable, but he was connected to his culture, his heritage, and The Gift. A tree rooted firmly. A lake in land.
Seven. Eight. His grip tightened, as did his joints. He knew that as soon as his elbows and shoulders locked, control over his movements would soon falter as well. He grit his teeth and clenched his eyes, attempting to keep the leaves in the air. When the tenth fell, however, Quiet shifted focus, and a leaf to his back hit the ground.
Detecting this, Quiet immediately dropped to the ground, reassuming his meditative position.
He knew, eventually, he would fail.
But he did well. And he knew it.
His name was not one of glory, or one of skill. It was not one of prestige, or one of honor.
But it was one of virtue.
Quiet would make sure of it.
Signing
"Signing while speaking"
"Speaking"
Calm.
Still.
Tranquil.
Qualities he wish he had. Names he wish he could have been given. Perhaps if he had received something other than the name Quiet, he would have been a different person. He would have held different values. Though, he understood he wasn’t a single-faceted individual. He understood that his name brought to him a gamut of adjacently relative traits. To be Quiet was to be humble. To be Quiet is to be attentive, to be considerate. But still, he couldn’t help himself but to wonder about the possibilities that he would never be able to see in honesty.
Honest.
True.
Virtuous.
There were qualities others had portrayed which he saw and he admired. There were qualities he hoped to replicate, qualities he wished he could exhibit for himself. Passion. Control. Persistent.
But he was not named Persistent. He was not named Controlled, Passionate, Virtuous, True, Honest, Tranquil, Still, or Calm.
He was named Quiet.
And Quiet he would be.
It was mid afternoon. The day was overcast - the first overcast day he had seen since leaving Quacia. Something about that town wasn’t correct. The way the earth cried out for restitution from some forgotten pain. The way the air, though familiar in its voice and behavior, tasted bitter on his tongue when he took in breath. The water lapped against Quacian shores due to obligation only. The sands of that land were cold and unwelcoming. The clouds forming a protective layer between Quiet and the open sky dampened his mood harshly. It reminded him of the natural oppression Quacia seemed to be put under. This recent excursion from city limits did leaps, bounds, and wonders to improve Quiet’s opinion of the world outside of what he previously understood to be the last bastion of natural clarity, being New Haven. In truth, the lands surrounding Quacia were as beautiful and lush as he had hoped. It reminded him, though vaguely, of home. Today, however, that optimism had a wet blanket placed upon it by the heavens above.
He had to find something to cheer him up.
Resourceful.
Resilient.
Spontaneous.
On the island, there was a morning ritual most everyone would participate in, though now that he had left the comfort of his home, he had been neglecting somewhat. It was a routine made chiefly for the purpose of centering oneself, of practicing control of one’s own actions and connecting closer with the world around them.
Quiet stood quarterstaff in hand, eyes closed, in a defensive position, under an autumn tree. The leaves fell softly, and Quiet, like the wind that carried them, moved consistently, his quarterstaff swishing in open air. He felt the leaves fall in open air, detecting intentionally the minute shifts in the static atmosphere. He focused on his footwork. Arguably the most pivotal portion of mastering quarterstaff technique was allowing oneself the proper grounded foundation, remaining strong and rooted, your placements exclusively intentional. Your arms and your weapon come after solidification. A mountain is as strong as its incline.
He placed his heels firm, allowing them to float softly, noiselessly, above the earth.
Intentional.
Light.
Careful.
His Gift allowed him the ability of awareness, but his abilities with his staff were his and his alone. His muscles remembered with precision every movement, every position Quiet took, and he moved seamlessly between them, utilizing every stance in fluidity.
He had been under that tree for a number of breaks, meditating.
Patient.
Attentive.
Driven.
When the first leaf fell, Quiet broke into action, swinging his quarterstaff from position to position, its twin tips lightly grazing the body of the leaf. His movements were swift, forceful, and certain, but his control allowed him the ability to halt his strike before contact with the falling foliage. He would deliver just enough force as to lightly propel it back into the air, never letting it reach the ground.
As time went on, more leaves began falling. Quiet diverted focus between them. Juggling two, his staff moving as quickly as his attention of focus, was simple. Three, just as simple. Instead of binary movements, Quiet translated his expertise to accommodate three targets, focusing them into areas geometrically resembling a triangle with Quiet standing in the middle. He would repeat the pattern with four, and then five, and at the sixth, Quiet’s muscles began to ache. He, however, refused to cease his practice until he failed.
Resilient.
Strong.
Focused.
His body was flawed, but his technique was practiced. Though bountiful and plenty, the wealth of New Haven allowed its residents a decent amount of free time from their work to better the island. This time, for those who had earned it, was filled exclusively with practice of their martial art, as to connect themselves better with the elements around them, and, for those with The Gift, to practice their craft. For Quiet, The Gift and his ability with his quarterstaff were tied together as is the air with the wind and sky. When he used his hands, he would sometimes curse that they were not as familiar to him as his staff. He may not have been the most able-bodied, he may not have been the most capable, but he was connected to his culture, his heritage, and The Gift. A tree rooted firmly. A lake in land.
Seven. Eight. His grip tightened, as did his joints. He knew that as soon as his elbows and shoulders locked, control over his movements would soon falter as well. He grit his teeth and clenched his eyes, attempting to keep the leaves in the air. When the tenth fell, however, Quiet shifted focus, and a leaf to his back hit the ground.
Detecting this, Quiet immediately dropped to the ground, reassuming his meditative position.
He knew, eventually, he would fail.
But he did well. And he knew it.
His name was not one of glory, or one of skill. It was not one of prestige, or one of honor.
But it was one of virtue.
Quiet would make sure of it.