Robin Hood - Weaponry
Title: Weaponry
Word Count: 453
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Allan, Little John
Spoilers: None
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is not mine.
Notes: This won first place in the rh_intercomm challenge in the flash fic category. I remain astounded, but proud.
John had been enjoying the peace and quiet for all of maybe two or three minutes when Allan apparently decided that he was getting off too lightly.
“What's this all about then?”
John looked around to see what Allan was talking about. Curiously enough, he was holding his staff.
“It's a staff.” That was clearly not what Allan was asking, but John couldn't quite figure out what he was asking.
“It's a stick is what it is - what're ya doing carting it 'round with ya?”
John grabbed his sti-...his staff from the insulting, cocky young outlaw forcefully.
“It's a staff. Perfectly acceptable, effective weapon, I'll have you know.”
“It's wooden. Made of wood. This,” he drew one sword out of it's scabbard a little way, “is made of steel. Steel cuts wood. Not much of a weapon, is it?”
“Are we playing rock, paper, shears now? That's not how it works at all.” John huffed indignantly.
“How does it work then, someone comes at you with a sword and you beat them off with a stick?”
“Staff. It is a staff, Allan, and you'd fare poorly in a fight against it if you can't respect it.”
“Yeah, yeah. Like to see you try.” Allan grinned in his infuriatingly conceited, jumped-up-git way.
“Oh really? We'll see about that, shall we?” John poked Allan with the end of his staff. “Move!”
Allan complied and they moved far enough away from the makeshift camp that they wouldn't do any damage sparring. Now it was John's turn to grin.
“Go on then,” the big man called, “gimme yer best shot.”
Allan drew both swords and rushed at his fellow outlaw. Before he was in swinging distance, something hit him, hard, between collar bone and shoulder.
“Ow.” He looked up at John, who was fairly sure Allan was very nearly pouting.
His left arm - which was his good one, as he was sure John had noticed - was temporarily useless to him, so he back off a bit and lunged again with only his right - only to be stopped mid-swing by a blow to the side. And still he wasn't actually close enough to hit. A third try got him a solid smack in the stomach, and he fell back with an oof and a satisfying thud.
“Greater reach - a six-foot staff will beat a three-foot sword every time - you see?”
“Yeah,” Allan gasped for breath, “I get it.”
“Good,” John extended a hand to help the younger man up, “thing is, Allan, no matter what the lasses tell ye, size is important.”
Word Count: 453
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Allan, Little John
Spoilers: None
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is not mine.
Notes: This won first place in the rh_intercomm challenge in the flash fic category. I remain astounded, but proud.
John had been enjoying the peace and quiet for all of maybe two or three minutes when Allan apparently decided that he was getting off too lightly.
“What's this all about then?”
John looked around to see what Allan was talking about. Curiously enough, he was holding his staff.
“It's a staff.” That was clearly not what Allan was asking, but John couldn't quite figure out what he was asking.
“It's a stick is what it is - what're ya doing carting it 'round with ya?”
John grabbed his sti-...his staff from the insulting, cocky young outlaw forcefully.
“It's a staff. Perfectly acceptable, effective weapon, I'll have you know.”
“It's wooden. Made of wood. This,” he drew one sword out of it's scabbard a little way, “is made of steel. Steel cuts wood. Not much of a weapon, is it?”
“Are we playing rock, paper, shears now? That's not how it works at all.” John huffed indignantly.
“How does it work then, someone comes at you with a sword and you beat them off with a stick?”
“Staff. It is a staff, Allan, and you'd fare poorly in a fight against it if you can't respect it.”
“Yeah, yeah. Like to see you try.” Allan grinned in his infuriatingly conceited, jumped-up-git way.
“Oh really? We'll see about that, shall we?” John poked Allan with the end of his staff. “Move!”
Allan complied and they moved far enough away from the makeshift camp that they wouldn't do any damage sparring. Now it was John's turn to grin.
“Go on then,” the big man called, “gimme yer best shot.”
Allan drew both swords and rushed at his fellow outlaw. Before he was in swinging distance, something hit him, hard, between collar bone and shoulder.
“Ow.” He looked up at John, who was fairly sure Allan was very nearly pouting.
His left arm - which was his good one, as he was sure John had noticed - was temporarily useless to him, so he back off a bit and lunged again with only his right - only to be stopped mid-swing by a blow to the side. And still he wasn't actually close enough to hit. A third try got him a solid smack in the stomach, and he fell back with an oof and a satisfying thud.
“Greater reach - a six-foot staff will beat a three-foot sword every time - you see?”
“Yeah,” Allan gasped for breath, “I get it.”
“Good,” John extended a hand to help the younger man up, “thing is, Allan, no matter what the lasses tell ye, size is important.”