coyotepondering
Guilded Pervert
- Joined
- Dec 14, 2003
- Posts
- 3,012
As a sudden flash of wind surrounded Sir Jon in dust he swung his blade forward in a rough arc, warding off any impromptu attack on Schronenberg’s part. It quickly cleared and Jon found himself within arm’s reach of his enemy, too close for sword. Swinging upwards and out with a blow that should have caught the other man with the hilt, Sir Jon’s arm was unresponsive and instead barely nicked Schronenberg’s ear.
First blood, Jon thought.
The same thought probably occurred to Schronenberg who lapsed into his native accent more heavily as he snarled. “I’ll piss on your face in front of your curs and whore before we throw you into the tar pit.”
Waste your breath. Sir Jon slashed from the far left directly towards Schronenberg’s sword arm. It was a direct strike, easily blocked but instead Schronenberg wheeled to the side on one heel and parried the attack. It was an unnecessarily elaborate gesture unless Schronenberg knew Sir Jon’s plan. And Schronenberg was definitely more practiced with a sword than the Englishman had thought. Schronneberg had a reputation for laziness but also a cruel set of appetites.
Damn it man, keep your mind on the tip of your blade!
It was an old adage, one drilled into him a hundred, perhaps thousand, times by his first instructor. That instructor had been his father and it was a cherished memory. His father had little time for him as a youth but those lessons had been inviolate, the time his father made no matter what else pressed. And one day he would do the same for his son, a day that would be soon.
Suddenly the weariness passed. Sir Jon’s frame felt lighter and a surge shook him. It was rage but without the anger and determination compelled by need. The need was simply to ensure that not that he saw his family that night and thereafter but that they did not lack from his absence. Sir Jon no longer cared about his desire to hold Megan and marry her, he no longer cared about his desire to see Miranda and the grandchildren or to see Jon off to school. All these desires were still there but distant.
His need was to protect them and as the thought of Schronenberg as the man who would hurt not Sir Jon, but his family, focused him. He threw himself at Schronenberg and abandoned all science of defense. Sir Jon raised his sword and drew it down harshly and violently to Shronenberg’s head. Sir Jon’s opponent tried to sidestep but was surprised by the maneuver and barely avoided it. Throwing his weight forward Sir Jon slashed again towards Schronenberg’s sword arm and was again parried but not without a ringing in both blades that shook their arms.
Now the other nobleman was enraged and spittle like that of a rabid dog formed at his lips as he began to say something. Sir Jon’s own thoughts were quiet as the only thing he saw in his world was Schronenberg. Drawing up Sir Jon slashed downward, angling to strike where at the joining of the fat man’s neck and shoulder. He was easily blocked but before Schronenberg could withdraw Jon did so again, drawing up just enough to hammer down again. The blow would not kill a man, his blade having little cutting edge, but such a ragged cut could sever an artery. And so the space was defended as Sir Jon hammered down, forcing Shronenberg back. The defending swordsman kept trying to disengage but Sir Jon had abandoned subtlety and kept on him, staying within arms reaching and simply bringing his weapon down, near the guard. to place maximum force behind it.
And Schronenberg knew why. When they had briefly wrestled the night before Sir Jon had held Mr. Schronenberg’s wrists and felt their weakness. Furthermore he had bruised the offender’s wrist on the sword arm - the same one Sir Jon had been attempting to tire the entire fight. Hate was in Shcronenber’s eyes but he saw none mirrored in Sir Jon’s. In a last desperate act Schronenberg blocked Sir Jon’s latest strike and pushing away the blade dropped his own. Sir Jon fell slightly off balance but knowing it would happen sooner or later had been ready to pull the sword back and lunge and lunge from the bent knees that he had regained his balance on. But it also left him open.
Schronenberg had a dagger in his hand, probably concealed up the long sleeve that Sir Jon thought had only been to hide his wrist’s bruises and it was too late to wheel away. The blade was coming down to Sir Jon’s heart just as his sword would enter up through the man’s gut. Sir Jon stood and straightened but his enemy was mad and desperate. If they separated Schronenberg knew Sir Jon could easily kill him with a sword versus his knife. So, now he was the aggressor and pressed forward but the strike went low. Sir Jon felt the blade enter under his breast and stop in his rib cage on a bone. Sir Jon pushed forward, letting his weight fall on the sword, running three feet of it up through his enemy’s shoulder and the same force pushed the knife further into his ribs. Even when the sword would go now further he slammed down with both hands on the grip until he felt Schronenberg go limp and collapse. Though conscious the fight had left him and Sir Jon Still had his feet.
As Sir Jon stumbled back he balanced himself though how he would never know. By all logic he should have collapsed backwards but some accident of gravity kept him upright. And he still had his sword while Schronenberg was prone and weaponless, the knife lost on the ground several feet away. Sir Jon raised his weapon, tip toward his enemy. He saw to his right a white handkerchief being raised by Schronenberg’s second. It would be easy to claim he had not seen it. There would be no ill words. It was the way Schronenberg had always fought his duels after all. But instead Sir Jon turned and put his arm around the young Mr. Wilmington and saw Megan rushing toward him.
His words for Mr. Schronenberg would have to wait. His intent to tell Schronenberg his fate if he crossed Jon again suddenly seemed unimportant. And as Megan eased his head into the wagon and Wilmington said something about the blood, the world went away.
First blood, Jon thought.
The same thought probably occurred to Schronenberg who lapsed into his native accent more heavily as he snarled. “I’ll piss on your face in front of your curs and whore before we throw you into the tar pit.”
Waste your breath. Sir Jon slashed from the far left directly towards Schronenberg’s sword arm. It was a direct strike, easily blocked but instead Schronenberg wheeled to the side on one heel and parried the attack. It was an unnecessarily elaborate gesture unless Schronenberg knew Sir Jon’s plan. And Schronenberg was definitely more practiced with a sword than the Englishman had thought. Schronneberg had a reputation for laziness but also a cruel set of appetites.
Damn it man, keep your mind on the tip of your blade!
It was an old adage, one drilled into him a hundred, perhaps thousand, times by his first instructor. That instructor had been his father and it was a cherished memory. His father had little time for him as a youth but those lessons had been inviolate, the time his father made no matter what else pressed. And one day he would do the same for his son, a day that would be soon.
Suddenly the weariness passed. Sir Jon’s frame felt lighter and a surge shook him. It was rage but without the anger and determination compelled by need. The need was simply to ensure that not that he saw his family that night and thereafter but that they did not lack from his absence. Sir Jon no longer cared about his desire to hold Megan and marry her, he no longer cared about his desire to see Miranda and the grandchildren or to see Jon off to school. All these desires were still there but distant.
His need was to protect them and as the thought of Schronenberg as the man who would hurt not Sir Jon, but his family, focused him. He threw himself at Schronenberg and abandoned all science of defense. Sir Jon raised his sword and drew it down harshly and violently to Shronenberg’s head. Sir Jon’s opponent tried to sidestep but was surprised by the maneuver and barely avoided it. Throwing his weight forward Sir Jon slashed again towards Schronenberg’s sword arm and was again parried but not without a ringing in both blades that shook their arms.
Now the other nobleman was enraged and spittle like that of a rabid dog formed at his lips as he began to say something. Sir Jon’s own thoughts were quiet as the only thing he saw in his world was Schronenberg. Drawing up Sir Jon slashed downward, angling to strike where at the joining of the fat man’s neck and shoulder. He was easily blocked but before Schronenberg could withdraw Jon did so again, drawing up just enough to hammer down again. The blow would not kill a man, his blade having little cutting edge, but such a ragged cut could sever an artery. And so the space was defended as Sir Jon hammered down, forcing Shronenberg back. The defending swordsman kept trying to disengage but Sir Jon had abandoned subtlety and kept on him, staying within arms reaching and simply bringing his weapon down, near the guard. to place maximum force behind it.
And Schronenberg knew why. When they had briefly wrestled the night before Sir Jon had held Mr. Schronenberg’s wrists and felt their weakness. Furthermore he had bruised the offender’s wrist on the sword arm - the same one Sir Jon had been attempting to tire the entire fight. Hate was in Shcronenber’s eyes but he saw none mirrored in Sir Jon’s. In a last desperate act Schronenberg blocked Sir Jon’s latest strike and pushing away the blade dropped his own. Sir Jon fell slightly off balance but knowing it would happen sooner or later had been ready to pull the sword back and lunge and lunge from the bent knees that he had regained his balance on. But it also left him open.
Schronenberg had a dagger in his hand, probably concealed up the long sleeve that Sir Jon thought had only been to hide his wrist’s bruises and it was too late to wheel away. The blade was coming down to Sir Jon’s heart just as his sword would enter up through the man’s gut. Sir Jon stood and straightened but his enemy was mad and desperate. If they separated Schronenberg knew Sir Jon could easily kill him with a sword versus his knife. So, now he was the aggressor and pressed forward but the strike went low. Sir Jon felt the blade enter under his breast and stop in his rib cage on a bone. Sir Jon pushed forward, letting his weight fall on the sword, running three feet of it up through his enemy’s shoulder and the same force pushed the knife further into his ribs. Even when the sword would go now further he slammed down with both hands on the grip until he felt Schronenberg go limp and collapse. Though conscious the fight had left him and Sir Jon Still had his feet.
As Sir Jon stumbled back he balanced himself though how he would never know. By all logic he should have collapsed backwards but some accident of gravity kept him upright. And he still had his sword while Schronenberg was prone and weaponless, the knife lost on the ground several feet away. Sir Jon raised his weapon, tip toward his enemy. He saw to his right a white handkerchief being raised by Schronenberg’s second. It would be easy to claim he had not seen it. There would be no ill words. It was the way Schronenberg had always fought his duels after all. But instead Sir Jon turned and put his arm around the young Mr. Wilmington and saw Megan rushing toward him.
His words for Mr. Schronenberg would have to wait. His intent to tell Schronenberg his fate if he crossed Jon again suddenly seemed unimportant. And as Megan eased his head into the wagon and Wilmington said something about the blood, the world went away.
