Training

Eduwiges of Faldham listened to the grunts and clanging of men at battle. The shield-maiden smelled sweat, leather, grimy carpet and shame as it wafted across the giant room being used as a training hall in Minas Tirith. Eduwiges was amazed. In her eyes, a place to train was outside a fort on the plains of the Norcroft or under the trees of Imladris and flets of the Golden Wood; not in this huge palace hall with giant chandeliers and dangling tapestries.

Deflect. Hook around the wrist. Pull. Twist arm under. Get them in the neck.

Slash slash! Make them lift their arm higher and higher. Run in close. Get them in the gut.

Let them come closer. Deflect their arms upwards. Get in close. Get them in the side.

Push his arm downwards. Punch them in the face. No time to wait! Get them in the knee.

Fake them out. Let them charge forward. Meet them with both blades and latch on. Get them in the stomach again.

Long and untrimmed fingernails brush up against the bark of a soggy tree as tall and bare fingers fumble with a rope to tie it in a secure but undefined knot. The rope follows back up to the horse it holds, and the black Clydesdale gives Stitches an unamused neigh, follow with a huff and a trod of the ground with a frustrated hoof.