"Stance". (Larsa, Drace)
Title: Stance
Characters: Larsa, Drace
Warnings: None. Worksafe.
Words: ~475
Summary: When he is old enough that it is more likely than not that Larsa Ferrinas will live, the Emperor sends someone into the Solidor vaults to fetch the child a sword suitable to his station.
STANCE
When he is old enough that it is more likely than not that Larsa Ferrinas will live, the Emperor sends someone into the Solidor vaults to fetch the child a sword suitable to his station.
Drace is usually happy to receive Larsa when the child escapes his nursemaids long enough to visit the pavilions of the Judges Magister. There is something unexpectedly pleasing about the boy's wide-eyed curiosity, the fashion in which he schools his youthful mouth into forming questions, placing each word precisely in the effort to make himself understood. Drace still finds children a dull puzzle at best, but Larsa does his level best to compensate for his years, and she occasionally can imagine desiring a child such as this.
The sword he drags behind him this afternoon, like some sort of downed serpent from Tchita, somewhat exceeds the young Lord Larsa in height. At five years he has not as of yet shown any of the tallness common with his elder brothers. Neither does he have the strength to lift the weapon fully off the ground.
It is a pretty thing, a well-balanced broadsword set about the hilt with stones in Solidor blues. The imperial armorer has used the most delicate of acids to etch Larsa's name along the blade, below that of his great-uncle and several faded cousins of obscure degrees of consanguinity. The Solidors are a family with considerable history to spare.
Drace goes down on one knee, the plates of her armor creaking against each other, and holds out a hand to her charge. Larsa is still young enough that he hugs her around the waist instead, seeming not to care about the metal curiass between her flesh and his. She smiles at him.
He is all seriousness when he says: "Judge Drace, how did you learn to fight?"
The blatancy of his innocent conniving charms her, even as she wonders how he learned such trickery so early and so well.
Still, she takes his small gloved hand in her gauntleted one, and, leaving the heirloom propped unceremoniously against the wall, leads her Lord Larsa down onto the packed sand of the practice fields.
She has to hack the smallest of the wooden staves in half to make a training blade of the appropriate size. She folds Larsa's fingers around the rough hilt, positions his shoulders and hips so that his body balances, ready for forward or defensive motion.
"The point of your sword should not dip below the line of your sight," she explains, demonstrating. "Extend your arm."
Larsa does. His eyes are fixed on something invisible beyond the end of the stick he holds, his lips pressed together as the muscles in his shoulder begin to tremble, stressed.
Drace waits for him to beg off. He does not, even when the stick-point wavers and falls low.
"Again," she says, gently. They begin.
Characters: Larsa, Drace
Warnings: None. Worksafe.
Words: ~475
Summary: When he is old enough that it is more likely than not that Larsa Ferrinas will live, the Emperor sends someone into the Solidor vaults to fetch the child a sword suitable to his station.
STANCE
When he is old enough that it is more likely than not that Larsa Ferrinas will live, the Emperor sends someone into the Solidor vaults to fetch the child a sword suitable to his station.
Drace is usually happy to receive Larsa when the child escapes his nursemaids long enough to visit the pavilions of the Judges Magister. There is something unexpectedly pleasing about the boy's wide-eyed curiosity, the fashion in which he schools his youthful mouth into forming questions, placing each word precisely in the effort to make himself understood. Drace still finds children a dull puzzle at best, but Larsa does his level best to compensate for his years, and she occasionally can imagine desiring a child such as this.
The sword he drags behind him this afternoon, like some sort of downed serpent from Tchita, somewhat exceeds the young Lord Larsa in height. At five years he has not as of yet shown any of the tallness common with his elder brothers. Neither does he have the strength to lift the weapon fully off the ground.
It is a pretty thing, a well-balanced broadsword set about the hilt with stones in Solidor blues. The imperial armorer has used the most delicate of acids to etch Larsa's name along the blade, below that of his great-uncle and several faded cousins of obscure degrees of consanguinity. The Solidors are a family with considerable history to spare.
Drace goes down on one knee, the plates of her armor creaking against each other, and holds out a hand to her charge. Larsa is still young enough that he hugs her around the waist instead, seeming not to care about the metal curiass between her flesh and his. She smiles at him.
He is all seriousness when he says: "Judge Drace, how did you learn to fight?"
The blatancy of his innocent conniving charms her, even as she wonders how he learned such trickery so early and so well.
Still, she takes his small gloved hand in her gauntleted one, and, leaving the heirloom propped unceremoniously against the wall, leads her Lord Larsa down onto the packed sand of the practice fields.
She has to hack the smallest of the wooden staves in half to make a training blade of the appropriate size. She folds Larsa's fingers around the rough hilt, positions his shoulders and hips so that his body balances, ready for forward or defensive motion.
"The point of your sword should not dip below the line of your sight," she explains, demonstrating. "Extend your arm."
Larsa does. His eyes are fixed on something invisible beyond the end of the stick he holds, his lips pressed together as the muscles in his shoulder begin to tremble, stressed.
Drace waits for him to beg off. He does not, even when the stick-point wavers and falls low.
"Again," she says, gently. They begin.