Remember I had that whole allusion to academic dueling that I had to cut because I couldn't think of a place for it to fit? I loved the idea, still do, but the passage was a clunker. Made of pure lead. It's just head-canon that my Galmans engage in some quasi-medieval form of mensur.
Have the excerpt!
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The rapiers were old, but kept sharp. Maces and flails had long been turned to mining implements, old war-axes had been taken as tools. Even the noble broadswords were left idle, since the weight behind them could be lethal in inexperienced hands. Infection was a constant worry, underground: things were dark and damp, medicinal herbs were in short supply, and any wound was nursed carefully, just in case.
In the old days, in the life under the sun, it had been enough for Narnians to test themselves on a field of battle - during wartime or peacetime, valor could not be proven without blood. The honorable getting of a scar was the important thing, and it mattered little whether enemy or countryman had delivered the mark.
It was impossible to have a joust in the caves. The few mounts they’d managed to keep hold of were the smaller strain of dumb Narnian pony, long-haired and stocky, as hardy as the Dwarfs who’d first tamed them. They were well suited for labor but impossible for any but children to ride. The larger horses, and the finer ones, had been picked off by the dragon, or wasted away underground until it was deemed kinder to kill them for meat and leather.
But they made do, well enough: there were still ways, and duelists, and while their grandsires may have been perplexed at the careful ways of Galma, it served well enough for their purposes. They were the last of the Narnian Guard, the Men reminded themselves, and they were still under orders: to keep themselves sequestered away until such a time as they were needed again.
The trick was to balance old tradition with current practicalities. It was impossible to send a promising youngster out on a proving against a dragon or giant, but the contingent on Galma still had each other. They had hands, and eyes, and minds, and stores of knowledge.
The scar was a by-product, an after-effect. The getting of it was the thing, the measure of self-control required to stand firm as the blade struck, the ability to continue a duel even after the mark-strike had been called by the blademaster.
They had their orders, the last Guard of Narnia, and the passing of years did not dull their resolve. They would keep their bodies strong, teach their children all the knowledge they knew, and, as always, train themselves against fear.
Have the excerpt!
-----
The rapiers were old, but kept sharp. Maces and flails had long been turned to mining implements, old war-axes had been taken as tools. Even the noble broadswords were left idle, since the weight behind them could be lethal in inexperienced hands. Infection was a constant worry, underground: things were dark and damp, medicinal herbs were in short supply, and any wound was nursed carefully, just in case.
In the old days, in the life under the sun, it had been enough for Narnians to test themselves on a field of battle - during wartime or peacetime, valor could not be proven without blood. The honorable getting of a scar was the important thing, and it mattered little whether enemy or countryman had delivered the mark.
It was impossible to have a joust in the caves. The few mounts they’d managed to keep hold of were the smaller strain of dumb Narnian pony, long-haired and stocky, as hardy as the Dwarfs who’d first tamed them. They were well suited for labor but impossible for any but children to ride. The larger horses, and the finer ones, had been picked off by the dragon, or wasted away underground until it was deemed kinder to kill them for meat and leather.
But they made do, well enough: there were still ways, and duelists, and while their grandsires may have been perplexed at the careful ways of Galma, it served well enough for their purposes. They were the last of the Narnian Guard, the Men reminded themselves, and they were still under orders: to keep themselves sequestered away until such a time as they were needed again.
The trick was to balance old tradition with current practicalities. It was impossible to send a promising youngster out on a proving against a dragon or giant, but the contingent on Galma still had each other. They had hands, and eyes, and minds, and stores of knowledge.
The scar was a by-product, an after-effect. The getting of it was the thing, the measure of self-control required to stand firm as the blade struck, the ability to continue a duel even after the mark-strike had been called by the blademaster.
They had their orders, the last Guard of Narnia, and the passing of years did not dull their resolve. They would keep their bodies strong, teach their children all the knowledge they knew, and, as always, train themselves against fear.
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