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Fionn's Story - Ch. 1


springacres

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It was morning in the Contested Lands. The young blademaster stretched, yawned, rolled stiffly off the pile of dried grass and blankets that had served him as a bed, and fumbled into his clothes. A quick meal of last night's leftovers washed down with a mug of herbal tea, and he began to feel almost human again.

 

He stepped outside the abandoned barracks where he and his scouting partner had bivouacked the previous night, blinking and squinting as he strode purposefully towards the outhouse. A few minutes later, he reappeared, washed, refreshed and fully awake.

 

Now he was ready to start the day's work. He drew his longsword from its scabbard, got into a fighting stance, and began. Stroke and counterstroke, thrust and follow-through, attacking, parrying, defending; right hand to left hand to right hand, then two-handed, with ever-increasing speed and fluidity - was he battling invisible enemies, or simply dancing with the sword for his own enjoyment?

 

"Fionn!"

 

The sound of his name broke the blademaster's concentration. He misjudged his footing, tripped, staggered, tried to catch his balance, failed, and sat down hard, facing the woman who had called his name. His sword went spinning out of his hand to land with a muffled thump in a patch of nearby grass.

 

"Damn it, Silke, don't scare me like that when I'm holding a blade!" he sputtered once he'd gotten his breath back.

 

Silke just grinned. "I'm not the one whose warm-up exercises make more noise than a pack of hungry wolves," she reminded her trainee. "Anyway, you'd better get off your rear if we want to get today's patrol started. We're due back at Rockridge Keep tomorrow. I don't know about you, but I'm looking forward to hot bathwater and clean clothes. Come on."

 

Fionn couldn't help but smile back as he got to his feet. "Agreed. Clean clothes, a hot bath and not having to eat my own cooking will make a nice change for the better." He bent over to pick up his sword, wiped the blade against his breeches (not that that helped much) and put it back in its scabbard. There would be time to clean it properly later.

 

"Your cooking has improved, I'll say that for you. It doesn't taste like feet marinated in week-old vomit anymore." Silke moved to the door of the barracks and peered inside. "Time to break camp."

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Fair warning... this story will be updated approximately "whenever I feel like it" - which generally means whenever inspiration strikes AND I have access to a computer.

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