Our bittersweet farewell to youth.
The Queer Sort I
It has been a little while since I heard those drums. Nor much else. The last of the children returned to their monasteries and gymnasia some hours before. I do not envy their circumstances; bright and warm enough is the sun through the teahouse’s walls.Bits of toasted bread and green and brown custard uneaten. Half of a sip’s worth of black tea clings to the cup’s bottom. And still in his slumber is Ging. He’ll whine about the soreness of neck and headache when he wakes. He’ll whine about what was consequent to his doing, but for now, it is not so intolerable to have his head on my lap. A lection without audient is a bore, so the broadsheets seize my eyes and hands - my daily prescription of suffering.On the first page are: poor handling of fireworks and blown off and re-stitched fingers; quarrelsome men sobering through jail and pillories; and the monthly obligations of every publishing house — announcing the lottery numbers and reminding the folk of civic duty. On the other and third page are news less grave; news from the province; news from elsewhere provinces; news from the monarch. Nothing that interferes with the Fechtschule from the looks of it. A portion carved out for law folk. Taxes. Civic duty. Marriage. Inheritance. Trade cards for folk intending to keep away from suits, or intending to win them. If I had any intention of giving birth thrice, this would be of help. Beyond those are page-long apologia and addresses of the inkhorns. I have my doubts the youth (well, low company) would cease killing each other were the iron on their hilts a little less weighty, or carried not on their bum. Mastupration with a scalloped knife would do me more good than continuing this reading. In any case, what is of importance here is Vunpen. She will be out of town for three weeks and so will her store. I’ll need to get more tabaco soon.“Heya, punk.”“Hei.”
“Um. Hei. Yok.” A half-awake Ging looks up to Baiyok. “Ow.” She did not take too kindly of the circumstances of his headache. Another is judiciously given through a pair of wax tablets. “Five Udd grubs, by the way. That’s what you risked getting brained for.” Her fingers seize the blonde tufts. “No punk will let you fuck her cunt for that much. You can’t buy one-fifteenth of a horse with that much. Can’t even pay frontage taxes with that much. So why the fuck are you risking your life. Your limb. For some chickenfeed.” They squeeze and tug and pull. And relent. “Miserly little faggot you are.” Baiyok droops her head and sighs. “Promise me -swear on it now- you will not do this shit again. Don’t throw your life away for this- this chickenfeed. This cunthair’s worth of grub or whatever the fuck the case may be. I- I. I...” Her thumb slides down, catching his lips.“I know. I know it’s- I— you needn’t worry of it, yea? This. This. this appointment of ours. This does not ruin my poke. Not mine. Not hers. Not in the remotest. If something’s out of reach. If money truly is a difficulty, I shall tell you.” She idly rests the thumb on his teeth.“So.”“With that being not the case. Promise me, yea?” Before finally withdrawing.“Ye- yea. I do.” “I do promise. I shalln’t risk my life and limb for some chickenfeed- some cunthair’s worth of grubs.”“Then again.”“Yours is pretty long so the—”The fullest breadth and length of brain damage, judiciously put into words.“Ughhhhh. Look at this shit, Unshun. look at the way he talks to his seniors. Next time he falls, stomp his head in. Turn that shit into syruped bananas. With a mouth like that, how Unshun didn’t rape you yet is something I’ll never comprehend.” My skin is not that brown and my clothes are not impregnated with tumeric. So probably not. “I’m not a Guest.” Additionally, stepping on him would not have the result she wants. “You -ought- to eat more curry, then.” Walking on her knees, she plops onto our side of the table.“Sharing an eating place with such filth is not what I consider a worthwhile use of my time. And the stench that follows their ilk would—” Whilst I busy myself making the table less cluttered for this forthcoming lection, Baiyok is content with using his head as a handrest. And watching.“Mind getting the attendant? black tea. toast with green custard.” “That sounds like an excuse to stuff your tongue in his mouth whilst I’m gone.”
“it is.”
With the matter resolved, our lection may properly begin. It shall be ___>Tales from the Waking Path - Saint OngkulimarnWe, the Freefolk, have a saying: should you chance upon a snake and a guest, strike the guest. But there was an aera when such a race was not so low (or low enough it was tolerable, I suppose). When the guests were Our Honored Guests of the Jambu Continent. Our religion, our folkway, our food, and our crafts are the afterbears of their instructions. With great reluctance can I say it is all vestigial. “He was born under the great bandit star…” But cruelty was never inborn to him.[+Guestlore: religion and history]>Frankfolk stories - The FreeshootistNearly fifty years have passed since we have declared and won our independence, in no small part due to the outlandish arquebuses, guns, and volunteer corps. It’s been some time since the junks entered our port (these days, they much prefer the capital and her three rivers) nevertheless, much of our modern conveniences come from them; the coffeehouses, the broadsheets of the printing presses, even the kiseru Baiyok and I carry. And seldom smoke. “So be it. By the gates of hell tomorrow: he or you!” Samiel awakens the Free bullets, for a price. [+Franklore: outlandish folkway and instruments]
>>6315855>>Tales from the Waking Path - Saint Ongkulimarn
>>6315855>Tales from the Waking Path - Saint Ongkulimarnwelcome back, OP
>>6315855>>Frankfolk stories - The Freeshootist
>>6315855>Frankfolk stories - The FreeshootistHon hon hon, time for le baugette!
A tie. Huh. I’ll be checking again tomorrow.
>>6315855>Frankfolk stories - The FreeshootistOur friends don't seem too fond of the "guests," so let's go along to get along. Also: guns are fun!Welcome back, QM.
Frankfolk it is. I’ll try to get this out in a couple hours.
>>6315855>Tales from the Waking Path - Saint OngkulimarnWhy does OP like the word cunt so much
>>6316225sorry if I did not make this clear, but voting’s closed, afraid.
about halfway done. See you tomorrow.
>>6316225It's a pretty good word.>>6316250See you soon!
Hello hello. While writing, I realized this update is a bit bigger than others. Can’t finish it tonight, so I’ll be releasing two-thirds of it now then finish up tomorrow morning, ideally.
The Queer Sort II
>Frankfolk stories - The FreeshootistSome ideas are universal. Garum.Ketchup.Fish sauce.Little wonder, then, civilizations so different in coalescence would cherish similar qualities.“The removal of foreskin without the consent of the person?”… let us shun the mosalman for now, Yok. “I thought we already do that?”Might being chief among them. The skill to put forth your will and force the world to yield to it. Whilst not the entirety of it, violence -is- the chief way of doing so. The ancients knew it as much as their descendants. And from this, folkway. The celebration of arms. The Art of Defence. Our tale begins in a time where not the bow, rather, arequebus accompanies the hunter in the forest and the festival. Standing before Wilhelm's marriage to Kathe, sole daughter from a family of hunters, and his station as the new forester is a trial. A man of good character, but a good shootist he is not. A Kasper approacheth. A Free bullet is produced.“He’s a fraudsman!”He once sought the very same station as Wilhelm, but was turned away by Kathe.The shot is pushed down with a scouring stick. Powder fills the pan and a gentle blowing shoves away the excess. The pan is closed for now. A slow-burning cord is fixed to a serpentine. The pan is opened. The eagle becomes little more than a smudged droplet of ink. His hands unevenly jitter and cook under the afternoon sun. The serpentine lunges at his fingers’ command. A flash. A bigger flash, scantly visible from the eyes of someone behind the barrel. And smoke. Two-thirds of a second passes before it drops the eagle.As so often is the case, that was the last one he had. He needs Wilhelm’s help in forging a new batch, midnight at the Wolf’s Glen — but he mustn’t tell a soul. In the meanwhile as the shot, a picture of Kathe’s forebears falls. A splinter pricks her as she tries to hang it again. More unnerving is Wilhelm saying he needs to venture into the Wolf’s Glen later in the night to fetch a bird he shot. Frightened, she goes to the local hermit for advice.
The moon, milk-like in brilliance. A cool air and a cooler-blooded man arrives before midnight. “Samiel, Samiel!” With his hand on a skull of a late Player of the Free Arts, he calls forth the black huntsman. Your time is almost up.To delay his immediate obliteration, he offers his friend’s soul and the family — with the seven Free bullets he intends to forge; one will be under the devil’s lordship; a shot to slay and murder Kathe would sunder the family and Wilhelm. “So be it. By the gates of hell tomorrow: he or you!” The day arrives. And with it, a bridal wreath for Kathe. What ought to be that, but its visage bears too closely a semblance to one from a funeral. Their bullets go through small and large beasts alike. One remains.Shoot this dove, the prince commands. The folk watch and murmur. Powder. Shot. Pan. Cord. The serpentine springs forth. Dust and smoke, and a collapsed Kathe. AND a collapsed Kasper.The wayward shot was deflected by the hermit and struck him in her stead. “Who would lay so strict a sentence upon him? Who shall cast the first stone?” As the truth came out, the prince intended for the marriage to be rendered null, and Wilhelm banished under threat of death. “Only the love and the fear of losing her force such a man to stray from a life without fault.” The hermit pleads his case. It pans out - the sentence is reduced to a year of faultless behavior. End.But a lection is more than reading printed text, of course.“The bollocks-shaped hilted daggers you see on Kasper and Wilhelm are… bollock daggers. Before the close-hilted ones of today, or these were frequent companions to men of all stations.”“We actually do have written reports of how these Free bullets are supposedly made in [law]suits; among the ways of making them are shooting at a crucifix, a picture of Cristo, or at crossroads.”“Much like the Fechtschule, the Schutzenfest can vary greatly in length and breadth; some are a gathering of a few close friends and relatives, whilst others are city-wide and attended by the local lord. The one we’ll be having soon is probably the largest we’ve had...”
Huh, so the religion of this world is very, very similar to the real one, just with several demihuman races. We know that magic works, and that there is a Vedic-style tiered afterlife, though... Garuda-like birdmen and nagas are canon, too. But so are Jesus, and the devil? Interesting.
Sneak-peek of the next post.
good news. Update’s in six ish hours. This is probably the longest it’ll get for a while. Thanks for sticking round.
>>6317131Waiting warmly!
>>6316710>>6316711The Queer Sort 2.5
The ringing of the clocktower’s drums reminds us all of the passing afternoon. At the heart of Pig’s Blood street, squeezed between the bodies of cookshops and eating places lies a house as brown as the tabaco she sells. Hanging above the door is a pair of penis fetishes, carved from wood and bone. Her children used to carry them, but that was a long time ago.Rows and rows of the hand-sized tabaco boxes make a stronghold of the table. To its left is an even shorter one with mugs showing the different types; from finely cut, nosehair like to haylike to ones you could mistake for shredded pork. “You’re smoking again, child? What ails you so?” Vupen sighs as she writes down the sale on a wax tablet so aged and large, a quick glance may mislead some to think it is a wedge of cheese. “In-laws.” Or folks I -intend- to make my in-laws, in spite of their best efforts to the contrary. “You’ll wear your lungs out long before you make ‘em all happy. Needn’t you worry about it much, child. I stopped giving a damn a year in. Served me well so far.” Sage advice from the seventy (or so) year old goblin. Probably. Whilst Ging and I have gotten what we wanted, Baiyok is still mesmerized by the mounds of chocolate and cocoa; squatting down, eyeing the bricks and feeling each and every pouch’s weightyness. “Come on. You’re the miserly one. I’ll be taking this.” With a gingerly shove, I send him on his way. And. Oh? What’s this? More inksticks and bricks of tea he could lend me whenever I linger at his house? Lovely.
Yellow and orange encroaches upon the roofs. It won’t be long before the road becomes tighter packed than potted meat. Boiled cockles? They’re a little small right now, though. Later, mayhaps. I’m not having duck noodles for supper again. And I’ve eaten far too much chicken and pig’s blood jelly for the week. Hm. Yes. Soba does sound nice. I—… someone returns my gaze. A man at the road’s middle. The black spot on his upper right arm and the tufts of hair that sprouts from it. The unevenly shaved hair around his mouth. And the penis fetish hanging from his neck. “tch. Do you intend on not greeting your senior, Unshun?” He must be twenty-three by now.“Ah.” Clasping my hands together, I briefly bow; my thumb resting at my nose. “My mistake. It -has- been some time.” “I think that much is self-evident.” Xong returns a nod. The Night Watch officer shifts his eyes away from my face. A long sigh is let out as he notices a kiseru around my waist.“You know, I don’t approve of this. Nevermind what I did- what I do. Is being a barber so stressful, it pushes you to smoke, junior?” It’s nice to know listening to him is as grating as ever. “Lice is one -hell- of a thing, senior.”“Whoa. What’s with the hostility?” The senior puts his hands up and steps a bit further back. “I do not… understand?” A puzzled expression strikes my face. My brows are starting to hurt from all the tension and twisting it does.“That sounds a little too coarse.”“I- that— that wasn’t my intention, senior.” I am certain my tone was not so different than before. Whatever. “fault mine. again.”“Hm?” He appears vexed, as if my previous words disappeared into the air before it reached his ears. “fuckin’ dog’s cunt.”“The fuck did you say, junior.” His hands drop to his hips. The fingers curl, in imitation of a claw. It does not make him any less a coward.“How sharp your ears become. So suddenly.” Interesting, is it not, how my —quieter— murmurs reach his ears fine. “That’s out of line, junior. You will be taking that back.”
“I’ve shown enough respect. You heard damn well my words the first time a I needn’t make a repeat of it. Five years my senior but you act as if your brain was retarded for the last ten. You’re a fucking dog’s cunt.” Instinctively, my left fingers wrap around the kiseru on my belt. “You will -not- call me that again.” Xong widens the measure between us, keeping his left side foward.“Then acknowledge it.” Last chance, Xong. “Acknowledge what? I will not acknowledge something that was not real to begin with.” He pulls his own kiseru from his waist, cradling the metal pipe between his thumb and forefinger. As do I.“A dog’s cunt till the end.” His is only an elbow in length [50 cm]. Mine’s a couple inches longer, and that means the world.“Stand.” He flips it around. As do I.With a passing step, he lunges forward, throwing a cut to the left of my head. Instead of a full cut that traverses from my upper left to my lower right quadrant, though, he keeps it tight; his point forward and hand at breast height - as soon as I void the cut by stepping back, he reels the pipe back up again for a cut to my right; I have to pull my hand back to keep it safe. But since it -is- tucked back, my kiseru is ‘loaded’. I send my point forward - shooting a straight, vertical cut aimed at the crown.Xong turns his wrist and raises his hand, keeping the ‘hilt’ and the strong of his ‘blade’ above his head, the tip pointing downwards. As I suspect, the moment my cut connects, he wheels the tip back up, throwing a cut to my left again.This time, though, the motion is bigger. His elbow is further out.Hm. Stepping a couple inches back, keeping my hand tucked against my breast and point high, the cut passes before my face. What would have been a perfect thrust to the pit of his stomach gets battered away by the immediate cut that followed the missed. He can’t get back in measure fast enough before I recover my guard, though.
“I think- I think that is enough.”
Our breaths are heavy and our hands are starting to sore from all the parries and cuts. The kiseru return to our waists.“So. Will you take back the things you said?”“You’re enough of a headache. I already have enough on my plate today. I need- I need. Coffee.” He means it literally; he digs his fingers into his scalp as he leans on the wall of the store. Xong still hasn’t acknowledged what I said. “You guys good?” Creaking the door open is Yok. A bauernwehr is already in her hands. Not a moment too soon.>Get him coffee [+combat tutorial]“I never hated you, senior. Even before I began my apprenticeship. But. I can’t let doubts to my honor - and my words - go unanswered, either.” And even now, he has not recanted. There will be a next bout. But for now…“Let’s get us some coffee.”“Tch. That ought to be my words, you know.”“Very well.”one step closer to “Cavaliers” route>Bow out The bout is over. The dog’s cunt has shown some heart, I’ll give him that but he’s still low company. “I’m good, Yok. We ought to leave.”one step closer to “Monarch” route
>>6317461>Get him coffee [+combat tutorial]
I’ll be checking the votes again in the afternoon, then writing.
>>6317461>Bow out
coffee it is.
>>6316748Historical backdrop; fantasy story. Much like Sekiro.
Updating tomorrow
>>6318797Looking forward to it!
Feels a bit sick. Can’t make it tonight. Here’s a sneak-peak, though. and the end of the prologue.
>>6319124Feel better soon, QM!
>>6319291Thanks. Feeling a lot better now. Update should be out by evening of today.
The Queer Sort III
>Get him coffeeLike a wart on a finger, a less-than-thorough digging and plucking will not cure the difficulty. A whole lot of hurt for a chickenfeed’s worth of frith. Our next bout -will- be a proper one, a thorough cutting; the matter will be settled, witnessed by our seconds. The possibility of him taking the dog’s cunt way of settling things - backing up on us with ten, fifteen of his cutters and beating us bloody - is remote, but not out of the question. Having Baiyok and her folk near the place ought to keep him in check.“First time seeing you in ages and you’d take me to a coffeehouse and pay for my drink. Tch. You know, if I hadn’t known better I thought you might have feelings for me, junior.” An attempt at laughtercraft was made. It’s pathetic. I am fond of pathetical men. “Such a doing would indeed be hard to grasp the intention-”But I do have my limits.“-but since senior is above the age of eighteen, I wouldn’t worry about it.” His expression is worth the afternoon’s quarrel; a perfect reproduction of a catfish drinking vinegar, if only for a moment. “What a dreadful way of saying you wish only men your age.” Naturally, the nearing twenty-years-old Baiyok says this. If only Ging would let me stand on his shoulders so I could pull her ear. “I always thought he was a catamite you two keep—” Xong immediately takes the comment back. I expect nothing less.We walked. Our sandals brushing against the ways, the pebbles, dust and sand. And soil. And shade. And shade. More shade than light. In a day so scant in grace, the leaves of mango and plantain trees give so generously; only the tiniest sliver of light touches my skin as we visit the coffeehouse that has become Baiyok’s intimate as of late: Sheraim’s. The great hall-sized coffeehouse’s walls are a blemished white, much like an old elephant's tusks, and scantly holding it together are seams as black and wrinkle-filled as vanilla. There is better, and cheaper elsewhere, but the coffeehouse is there. Always there. A third of the benches are taken by flocks of older folk, men and goblins who have sold all their wares for the day. The other third are mothers, fathers, relatives of children soon to leave school. And promiscuously scattered across the empty bits that are left are small gatherings, fellows much like ourselves.
Coffee. A couple particulars we could agree on. A second he already has in mind. And a few choice words. And the steady, fast click of his shoes against old wood follows him out the door. “So. That’s that, then?” Baiyok turns to watch Xong as he leaves, her forefinger lesiurely tapping the wax tablets. “For now.” Having satisfied myself with one last look, I return to the cup of chaculato. With how many egg yolks are this thing, it’s practically supper. “Good.” Ow. I don’t recall her being this hard on Ging.“You’re insufferable, you know that. THIS afternoon what did I say. I said Ging should not risk his life and limb for no reason and here you are, gambling - doing the same fuckin’ thing.” She seethes and droops her head. The only thing stopping her lips from kissing the table is the hand on the side of her throat. “He pushed his luck. I had no quarrel with him until he started abusing his seniority. That is not how the older ought to behave. I have to stand against that.” My thumb brushes against the spot where she struck my scalp. It still stings.“No. That’s not. It’s— it’s not that. Not really. It’s him. Him being Night Watch. I couldn’t care less if it was anyone else. Hell, even a peace officer.” Unspoken but loudly enough said is her meaning. I’m sure her, through her father, knows the fullest breadth and length of their crookedness. “It’s going to be a huge pain in the cunt when it's dark. They’ll back up on us and beat us bloody because the fuckin’ cunt won’t be able to take a loss- hell. He. He and his folk don't even -NEED- to do that.” They need only to be elsewhere when we need them the most being the other unspoken words. “I know his character. He’s not doing that. And if he does, well…” Baiyok returns my gaze. I can almost see the fangs from down here. “Ugh. Fine.” “But this is the last time. Swear on it. Don’t get into affrays with folks like him. And when I mean affray, I mean quarrels and brawls and whatever the fuck it gets called in court and whatever the fuck the broadsheets puke out. I won’t always be there. Got it?” A light nod dispels the growing tenseness on her brows. “You have.”“My word.” Then again, is it really her place to say such things? For someone so critical of Ging being so miserly, she sure took her time in that store. Were she present with—A slap to my waist briefly dispels that thought. He’s lucky I like him.
As the fechtschule looms over Silverport, more and more folks linger at monasteries; children brandishing the spare sticks of rattan as if they were actual sabers and they themselves were filibusters; the older folk praying for fortune and buying lottery tickets, their logic I know not and dare not to ask; and fellows who wish to advance their grasp of the Art of Defence gathering at the handful of rooms the monks have to spare. It’s better than being outside and having my skin cooked brown in a matter of minutes. >[Combat tutorial]The measure and time are the chiefest parts of the art of fence. Everything we do is ruled by these two. Footwork. Handwork. Edge alignment. Grip. The devices we execute. To hit without being hit back. That is the heart of the Art.“You can shoot your thrust in a couple ways. The first is a covered thrust. You’ll need to gather their weak, first.” Ging dips the point of his singlestick from one side of my ‘blade’ to the other. We can divide a blade into two parts; the ‘weak’, the upper third of the blade, and the ‘strong’, the lower third. The weak can move and BE moved easily, whilst the strong is earthfast in the parry.As soon as the weak touches, he shoots his point forward - pushing my point and edge onto the leather guard while his point is at my upper arm. “Even if you go for a cut, I’m still covered.” There’s no chance to double, essentially are his words. “But gathering their weak takes time. If they see it coming, they can turn their edge towards your attempt - catching it lower instead.” Ging repeats the motion, and this time, its his blade that gets brushed offline instead; my point is aimed at his head as I catch his attempt near the middle. It takes less than a blink of an eye to snap my point forward and shoot it into his elbow.“The other way is to throw it uncontested.” With a lunge, Ging dips his point under my blade and shoots it to my left breast. “You want as much distance as possible between your and your antagonist’s blade - his parry will take longer to execute and he’ll most likely miss it.”“However, this will NOT stop a double if he goes for a blow.” His left fore and middle finger points at my unsubjugated blade - free to cut at his head.
“Right. I think I’m ready now.” Ging nods. We both bring the hilt to our nose and swing that edge back down, our hilts resting a little above the hips.I pull the edge back, turn my wrist and lunge; throwing a horizontal cut aimed at the outside of his upper arm. He catches the attempt and returns with a cut to my head, but it doesn’t take much time to bring the blade up and cover my scalp.As soon as his hit is caught, it begins. I wheel the blade back up and immediately throw a cut like the one he gave. Traversing to my right, he slaps away that blow by cutting horizontally at what would have been the flat of my blade. Hopping back, I bring my blade toward before he could get into measure again.A moment passes without the edge blow or thrust being thrown out; only us inching closer and closer.Ging tries to shoot his point uncontested to my left breast again, but I slap it down. Before he could wheel that edge back up, I flick a cut towards his hand, forcing him to pull it back to void it - and abort his own attack.Entering the measure again, I try to dip my edge under his hilt, but he sinks the hilt down before I could rip it back up. My weak is inches away from his strong and his point is still forward. This is bad. It’s now or never.>Covered thrustBrush aside his weak and snap my point forward to his waist. >Uncontested thrustTraverse to the left and get as much distance from his blade as possible as I shoot my point to his ribs.
[Choosing the correct choice: +Art of Defence][Either way, progress to “The Queer Folk IV”]
>>6320398>Covered thrustI think this is right, to defeat his stronger leverage?
>>6320398>Covered thrust
>>6320398>Uncontested thrust
covered thrust it is.good choice.
>>6320747>My weak is inches away from his strong>The other way is to throw it uncontested.” With a lunge, Ging dips his point under my blade and shoots it to my left breast. “You want as much distance as possible between your and your antagonist’s blade
>>6321064I see it now
About halfway done with the update. Should be out by tonight.
A work in progress.
Still working on it, don’t worry.
>>6324043a time spent in waitinga sense of being owed creeps in, unbidden
>>6324185I know. So here’s something a little extra.
The Queer Sort IV
>Covered thrustThrough an outward turn of my wrist -and nothing more- his weak is brushed aside by my strong. Without needing to think, my hand pushes my hilt up, snapping my point down and sends that to his waist. Instead of backing away, I press this vantage; running in with a passing step and seizing his elbow for long enough to put my edge near his neck. Yes, I think I grasp the spirit of it now. Originally, he subjugated my blade using his weak against my weak because those two were the furthest extended - thus, closest to one another. Here, since my point was at his hilt, and the same is true for his point, I can straightway subjugate his weak with my strong because of how close they are. Additionally, the strong’s stronger leverage helps me do even that faster. Gathering and subjugating the weak; pushing it away for long enough to make my strike. That’s the heart of it. “Ah, man. You got me good. You must’ve had a fine instructor.” A slap to his waist keeps Ging from being a little too proud. With the point practiced, we move onto the edge. A man can be divided into four quadrants; the upper left, upper right, lower left, and lower right quadrant. Through this, we can separate cuts into three sorts; a cut thrown from the upper quadrants [oberhau], a cut thrown from the lower quadrants [unterhau], and a cut that moves horizontally [mittelhau].“Imagine throwing two cuts. You can throw the first from one quadrant, and the other from the opposite, but you’ll need to completely stop the cut and turn the edge before you could cut again. Has its uses, but not the fastest. Throwing the cuts from the same quadrant or the neighboring quadrant preserves your speed, but you’ll still need to wheel that edge back up or down again.” Ging blades his hand and moves it around as if it was a sword. “Throwing an oberhau or unterhau and following with a mittelhau preserves your speed AND cuts the distance you need to wheel that edge in half.” Now that he mentions it, that’s probably why Xong threw those so often; either the first cut lands or the miss provokes me into attacking — right as the second cut comes out. A ‘fail-cut’. Venomous little trick.
Between the bouts, practice with the pell, study of his notes, and all the breaks and wandering about the monastery, the evening arrives in a blink of an eye. A bittersweet taste lingers on my tongue as I watch him leave; days as carefree as these will be as summer enters its full blood. All the incoming and outgoing slaves will need tending to.“So. What do ya say? Mhm?” In high spirits, Waroon gulps down the mug of lime tea; her lips so richly red as if blood. And what a bloodsucker she was - the entire afternoon, Baiyok has been stitching dusacks back together and sanding nicks off the wholly wooden ones, at such a modest fee her first and other poke were kin to gunstone in sense of breadth and weight. I really do need a commercial head like hers. “If I get to pick our supper. I got a place in mind. ” A smirk appears on her face. It swiftly shrinks as she chews on and digests the notion. “Ugh. You don’t ever get tired of cock, do you.” For someone so interested in cockfights, she shuns its meat as if poison. “Well, I never could—-” chatter from a large gathering at a hall, evident by the stairs coated in sandals, jerks my head and arrest my lips. “I don’t recall a sermon at this hour.” Equally vexed as me, Baiyok turns around to get a better look at the frontage. “Wanna check it out?” “In a bit. Let me finish this.” I pallasch what’s left of the syruped bananas and empty the cup of black tea. A singular, loud voice grows louder and louder still as we climb the steps so promiscuously covered in wood and straw. The air is thick with burnt incense.“Can be DIVIDED into THREE-” How could I forget that violent voice, miss Lumduan. Seated on the stage where the monks would sit as they led us in prayer and ceremonies are instead a couple interesting characters; sharing the center is the elder barber-surgeon, and another woman, a giant who is even taller than Baiyok. She must be eight, no, eleven shaku* 11 shaku: 3.3 meters in height If I judge correctly from this distance. A steel-ribbed fan rests on her hand and to her right sits an almsbowl. Looking to the left of the stage reveals the source of all the smoke: tending to a pot of ashes and incense sticks is evidently a young man, in spite of the black cosmetics on his lips and eyes. He’s only a couple years older than me I suspect.
Miss Lumduan addresses the folk regarding a matter Baiyok and I already know, that of worms - the sort which commonly infest food and soil, their visage from young to old, signs to look for if infestation is suspected and what you ought to do or shun to protect your life and limb. “The eggs of flat-bodied worms are the size of sago seeds; a watery, PALE yellow sac.” The giant dressed wholly in white reaches into the almsbowl and scoops out a mound of -what I presume to be- the sacs. The folk, chiefly children at the front, crawl on their knees to get a closer look. She withdraws it after a moment. “Once grown, they cling to the small intestines. They can grow for a while, actually. Ones found in cow can be TWENTY to FORTY elbows long*10-20 meters.” The giant reaches into the almsbowl with chopsticks and stands up. Pulled along is a flat-body worm, as pale as chicken skin and indubitably as long as mentioned. As miss Lumduan mentions the different sorts; flat-bodied, round, leaf-shaped, the giant continues to brandish the corresponding forms from the selfsame almsbowl. Frankly, it makes little sense given the size of that bowl and how she can -without effort- retrieve what she precisely wants in a single motion if all of—-Unless.Unless there never were multiple sets of eggs and worms inside. Or more precisely, none. She’s a Player of the Free Arts. The young man fanning the burnt incense sticks (no doubt planted by her) and her gaze. Two out of the five senses. In all probability, enough to oblige us into seeing this illusion. It didn’t take too long for me to grasp what was inside: a handful of sticky rice and egg noodles. Well played. A fun little show.As the address was on its wane, questions were asked. Some were, of course, an ask to repeat what the asker had missed or had forgotten, others, were further elaborations for the examples and circumstances given by miss Lumduan. And where would we be without a couple attempts at laughtercraft.
“Is it really true you scalped The Tiger?”
A child asks, and immediately is pinched in by upper arm by his mother. “That is NOT the purview-” A grave expression appears on Lumduan as she growls at the boy, before turning to face the giant. She already has her hand out. It’s fine, she says to the goblin through the gesture.“In making this ask, you are imposing on us - whether considered or not - a notion: that my past has a greater importance than the spirit of our gathering, to such a degree it ought to be made public.” A far less coarse, yet firm voice of the woman lingers in the air. “Are you… cross at me?” Another squeeze of the arm. For talking back, I presume.“In all probability, I doubt I am one-tenth as crossed as your mother. A little redder and you may need to cut that arm off soon.” Even through the veiled hat and a slight droop of her head, the laugh is inalienable. The young man brushes a thumb across his neck. Come the fuck on, that’s a little coarse, he all but speaks. “This ‘Tiger’ I may reasonably assume refers to Vipud?” A nod from the child returns words to the social intercourse. “Firstly it must be said he is neither a true ‘Tiger’ nor part of a ‘rape-gang’. He does not lead a bandit clan nor are he and his associates filibusters that wantonly slew and murdered and violated the folk. He --was-- an associate of robbers and ‘cutters’ as they are often called. And secondly I cut his head off. The province of Hundredfields does not accept the scalp of an outlaw as reasonable proof of death.” Only now do I recognize the woman as Waroon Tongbai. “He and his folk made a play for relatives of Vunnapar and mine and we did not wish to tarry long in such circumstances. I am quite sure you still have your questions, child, but safe to say for all intents and purposes: I slew my demons years ago.” With a nod to the barber-surgeon, she concludes the gathering.
“It’s in their nature to be such. I would not fault him so deeply; my own had a similar character in his youth.” Only a handful still linger in the hall. Naturally, among them is the child and his mother.“You’re too kind, senior Waroon.” The mother seizes the child’s ear in order to encourage him to bow. It’s easier to slap a hand on the back of his head and push down instead, but that also works. “Your son is so quiet and—” Her giggle gives the mother pause. “Oh- oh. Your husband?”“Husband, son, slave, what’s the difference? Huhuhu.” Even with the fan covering her visage, the silk partlet around her neck and the veiled hat, there’s no hiding her character, or his: they’ve always been The Queer Sort.“His dress was like mine even before we adopted him.” For a moment, even the somber Jiragarn sounds a little happy. Eventually, there’s only us. “You were close. Not bad, child.” With the folk gone, she pulls back the curtain on the contents in the almsbowl; a handful of rice with their husk still intact, a fist-sized portion of egg noodles and glass noodles and folded paper to cleanly segregate them. “The breadth of egg noodles exceeds that of hookworms. It’s easier to oblige with glass noodles.”Baiyok has her own questions as well. “Keeping my breasts bare would be pushing it at this age.” Waroon dryly comments on the visage commonly associated with her youthful self and the world of difference to her present. “Perhaps it is fate which sets our courses and makes paths cross.” Waroon remarks on the probability of a Child of Messengers being this far south of the country. “Or taxes.” Jiragarn would rather make mention of our lord’s means of encouraging economic growth. The talk of which inevitably lead to the fechtschule. Apparently, he’s one of the invited fencers. Oh dear. Ging is going to have his work cut out for him. “It has been fun talking with you, child, but I am afraid I must bow out for the day.” Her hand squeezes the steel-ribbed fan shut. Darker spots and nicks around the knuckles and back of the hand makes self-evident the length of time she has been an alewife. “Although I’d like you to humor me: I have a feeling I have seen you elsewhere before.”>At Green Lamps district, Half Moon alehouse. Their cock ale and chicken make for decent supper. Or breakfast. It’s better than the porridgehouses (and the whorehouses) near it. And not that far from the barbershop. “Ah. Her alehouse. How fascinating you mention that…” >At Cutler’s Lane, Youngtree & Saffron’s workshop.What -was- left of that lane since the Child of Messengers obliterated the guild, in any case. Baiyok and I bought our byknives and pokers there and it served us well so far.
[Either way, progress to “His Fechtscule I”]
>>6325254>At Cutler’s Lane, Youngtree & Saffron’s workshop.
— Tidbits of History — The names of characters and their meanings. Some live up to it. Some don’t.--Waroon Tongbai--Waroon (วารุณ): Nectar. Alternatively, ambrosia.Tongbai (ทองใบ): Gold leaf.--“Nin” Jiragarn--“Nin” (“นิล”): “Black” [gemstone, such as onyx or black spinel]. Jiragarn(จิรกานต์): Forever beloved.Ging (กิ่ง): [tree] Branch.Unshun (อัญชัน): Butterfly pea.Baiyok “Yok” (ใบหยก “หยก”): Jade leaf “Jade”. Vunnapar (วรรณภา): Unblemished, beautiful skin.
Cutler’s it is.
a WIP of Unshun.
>>6326478Cute!
tomorrow.
>>6327325Feeling a little sick right now. I’ll have to delay this by a bit.
>>6327744Damn get well soon QM.
>>6327744rest well, OP
Thanks, guys.
Hey. Feeling a lot better now. From the looks of it I should be able to update tomorrow.
>>6329518I'm glad to hear it, OP!
Hey. Thanks for still sticking around. Work and sickness has been a handful.Updating now.
>Cutler’s Lane“It must have been at Cutler’s Lane. At the Youngtree and Saffron’s workshop, earlier in the year, when they exhibited those arms.” A bittersweet taste clings to my tongue as I speak. A little before I was deemed old enough to carry my own, I could walk through the street and wall-to-wall there would be workshops; their long knives, byknives, and pokers as plentiful as mackerel in our wet markets. Since his war with the guild, I could count the number of workshops whose doors remain open.Then again, had we bought our feders back then, it would have been us at the sickhouse, bits of our neck and ears and noses sheared off by the poorly made tips of such swords.“Ah. I do recall it now the adventuress and her queer little retinue.” Miss Waroon brushes her knuckles against her chin. “You- you knew them before they were in the country? What were they like? Did you buy arms from them too?” Baiyok shrinks a little as she realizes the silence between us. “Oh. Uh. It’s- if it’s fine with you. I don’t wish to pry.”“I think the whole of it is beyond the scope of today, but we do have a moment to spare.” The blackly dressed man pets her arm before turning to face us. “We first heard of them from Jinfolk tradesmen, and the case of the Headwater Gate…”As Jiragarn speaks, I notice a couple particulars that betray the apparent youthful visage; a little below his hairline is a row of scars, large and small, wrapped around his head like a crown of thorns (Flick cuts from live edges aren’t -that- big, are they?); the slight crease and wrinkle beneath the eyes only visible when he looks up (twenty four, twenty five years?); and the few dots and streaks of darker skin on the wrist and back of hand (Hot metal, most likely. Burns from molasses and liquids aren’t pretty little dots as these). “… could be done, but the heart of it is the bind; it bites wood with more might than plain edge. It’s better to throw that cut at the head or hand of the man.” Senior Jiragarn mentions something about the undulate sword of his and its purpose: not necessarily to cut off polearm heads, rather, to bite into the shaft for long enough so it can be seized and subjugated. This works with swords as well. “And that is the endsay. Now, I believe it is time for us to leave. Have a good evening, junior.” With his fingers around her wrist, they bow—-For a moment, I thought I saw… nevermind. Veins don’t move like centipedes. They can’t. They…They bow out.
His Fechtschule I
“Fifty safflowers. One hundred fifty alligator tails. Five bottles of wormwood oil. The next batch will reach us by the eighth month.” “Noted.” Like a cat, Waroon is still scratching away at the wax tablets. “I’ll be with you soon, Nin. Get some rest.” “Ja~”“I’m sure you will, ma’am.” Which is exactly why the plate I return to her table is refreshed with rushlights. “Making a habit of forsaking sleep would not good you in the least.”“Your ways of curing me seem to good you plenty from what I’ve seen.”
It takes not longer than a blink of an eye for the day of the fencing school to reach the province of Silverport. As tightly as badmen to pillories so too are the freefolk bound to festivals and holidays. The waxing summer afternoon brings forth the folk in its whole to the Everviolet park; the bolder among the youth with their leather and rattan swords circle and glue themselves to the outermost ring of ropes and fences, their parents a little behind them and waiting for their inevitable return to the shade and the mats they so painstakingly brought; peace officers shamble about the park like spectres, their forks and push poles and man catchers catching the light as keenly as the featherswords of his fencing school, their presence revealing to buyers and sellers alike what is best to do or not with the sausage-greased bowls of plantain leaves and cups of half drunk sherbets and small beer. “Through power and might of our gracious lord, whose privileges and freedom have been graciously given to I, Kommgal Vunnapar, Freifechter, with permission of the city council, to set up a free -and- public fechtschule with all the knightly weapons present …” Following the arrival and procession of lord N’pud and his retinue, ‘Gal’ Vunnapar gives his address. In spite of his present skin and station (the peruke of ivory hair, the white lace on his cuffs and collar, and the brilliant buffcoat) I can still feel the flat, ever drowsy tone seeping from a few of the accountant’s words. Before and behind him are the two stands which seat the mentioned folk of note, backers of this school, masters of defence, and the handful of shearers and surgeons. Around the school are of course the invited practitioners of the art of defence and the arms; leather swords with wooden cores, featherswords and staves of many lengths and breadths.“ … let all good fellows who are present who have learnt the Free, Knightly, and Noble Art of Fencing and are experienced in it, intending to bring joy to the folk and maintain the passage of arms come forth unhindered.” Few among the fifty whether they be judges or players did not perk up a little upon hearing such words. “Yet all men ought to know what is forbidden in this fechtschule: the use of the point aimed at the face, strikes with the crosspiece or pommel, breaking of an arm, a violent push, seizing the unmentionables, reaching for the eyes, stone-throwing and elsewise dishonorable devices which -many- no doubt know how to use but I cannot mention them all.”
‘And have never learned them’ goes unspoken for a number of reasons.
The rest of his piece is as expected: a repeat of what is standard for fencing schools. For the most part.“I wish if the two of you bear loathsomeness towards one another, you will not fight in this school.” “This is a dry fechtschule. No live edges under any circumstances. All feders must flex by -this- much or more when thrusting and their tips either rolled or spatulated.”“Those who might desire combat be for money or something worth money or for a good blow should come forward in good hearts and spirits and to stand freely - to not spare their swords, rather, their fingers, and strike where the hair is thickest.”“And THAT’S why you always wear a codpiece.” Stepping forward with a staff lazily resting on his shoulder is a giant by name of Aeg, a long-time fellow of Vunnapar and presently his second. His try at laughtercraft is clearly better than mine judging by the equal parts sighing and wheezing and laughing by the folk. “Not the head I meant but it is ill-advised to not shield it.” Vunnapar sighs as he flips the staff in his hand. “These days, it -is- more common to wear them on the inside of your breeches rather than the outside.” He flicks his staff to the giant’s breeches. It bounces back as if he had struck rubber. “This visage. This sort is more vestigial compared to the firstly mentioned but that’s beyond the scope of this fechtschule. In any case, yes, either is acceptable in most schools.”“Now then.” Following a tap of his staff, a flourish from the troupe’s instruments and the cheer of the folk inside and outside does the school truly begin.
“I’ll be seeing you, senior Jiragarn.” With a wave, the youth with black hair and bits of golden yellow approaches the middle. Among the folk at the edges of the school I do notice for a moment the violet dressed woman and an equally golden yellow haired giant. Baiyok and Unshun I believe are the names of those barber apprentices. “I hope so, Ging.” I return the gesture.It will not be long before I have to pick up a weapon.>Singlesword [+Art of Defence: Singlesword]Leather sword with a wooden core in shape of a saber. Mine is forty inches, the selfsame length as my undulate sword’s. Leather swords are more costly than pure wooden ones but are far safer in the cut or thrust and demands far thinner clothes from the practitioner. Practice with this means I can better defend my life and limb with my undulate sword should a goblin or man or giant stand against me. >Battlesword [+Art of Defence: Battlesword]Two-handed feathersword with a blade of forty seven inches and a widened tip. It can ward off many foes whether in a gangway, alley, road, or the battlefield. They are often commonly wielded by body-guards.Practice with this means I can better defend my own or someone else’s life and limb should a pack of foes or one with a polearm intending to do hurt.
>>6331059>Following the arrival and procession of lord N’pud and his retinue, ‘Gal’ Vunnapar gives his address.Pic related.>>6331062>Battlesword [+Art of Defence: Battlesword]A different technique than past protagonists.
>>6331062>Battlesword [+Art of Defence: Battlesword]>>6331059>” Following the arrival and procession of lord N’pud and his retinue, ‘Gal’ Vunnapar>>6331061>Stepping forward with a staff lazily resting on his shoulder is a giant by name of Aeg, a long-time fellow of Vunnapar and presently his second.the boys are back
Battlesword it is
Regarding Gal’s dress, it is modeled after this 1630s outfit. Just add a buffcoat ontop. he’s the only person who could wear these in the summer without sweating like a pig.https://gbacg.org/finery/cavaliers-and-rakes-fashions-of-the-courts-of-charles-i-and-charles-ii/
>>6332039such drip
Updating most likely tomorrow.
Sorry for the long wait. It’s up now. This is going to be a long update.
>Battlesword [+Art of Defence: Battlesword]It must be said it is rare for two battleswords to meet; on the battlefield their most common foe is the longer pike and polearms of like length, and in cities they are chiefly carried by body-guards whose presence seldom has challenge. Nevertheless there is joy inborn to us all in swinging a large stick and since it good the shoulders it is practiced alongside the more common weapons even though they are among the more dangerous of them; featherswords are little more than swords with thickened edges and their cut can easily break a finger or redden a thigh. For this reason among the forty five practitioners there are only eight of us. The bouts did not take long in revealing the character and skill of each.“Aw? Feeling a little lightheaded, my child? Shall I lend you some of my blood?” Oubshei bows and extends a hand as she laughs at Ging.“Thanks, ma’am, but I’d rather not get a venereal disease.” The happy wiggling of her ears stops with the comment as the goblin straightway kicks the tip of her blade back up to her shoulder. Characters that make Vunnapar stick fingers in his collar.>Ging: Art of Defence<I must admit I like the youth; he does not have the most wins but he fences cleanly with few doubles, far fewer doubles than I at his age later and his character is…“Fechtmeister Vunnapar! If you would.”Interesting.The heart of fencing schools is the gathering of practitioners of the art and this too includes the judges and fightmaster. Whilst the monetary prize goes to the folk who wins the most there is a reason fencing schools bestow two crowns: one for skill in the art and one for honorable character.“Five grubs he gets two-three’d.” Already Oubshei and the rest of the battlesword practitioners are making bets on how well he would stand. “Two-three’d? He’s going to get NO-three’d.”“I think one-three is not out of his reach.”“Can I do four grubs and a beer?”“Come on, man.”“I’d rather another mango sherbet.”“I’m not getting in that fucking line again, hell no.”“Is there going to be any left by the end of the afternoon to begin with?”Looking at elsewhere corners and sides of the school I can see the staff and leathersword folk huddling together no doubt making talk like ours mayhaps with a little less cursing given their distance to the stands, although considering what has been said without rebuke in the gracious lord’s fencing school it’s probably more.
“So. You are approaching me, Kommgal Vunnapar.” Vunnapar trades the long staff for a battlesword that looks two or three inches shorter than mine. Instead of a crosspiece it has a pair of large and thick rings around the hilt which led him to call this a ‘pretzelsword’ due to the shape being alike.“Well, I can’t take the fall out of you without getting closer.” Ging has a more modern battlesword with a crosspiece, two smaller side rings and two little hooks on the strong of the blade and a blade that looks the same length as mine.Through removing the hat and the large and fluffy ivory peruke Vunnapar reveals a head of shorter straighter hair and an expression I guess to be close to joy. “Then come as close as you like.”The youth inches forward with the battlesword tucked closely to his right waist and point forward while Vunnapar keeps his a little above his shoulder.“Hm.” Vunnapar throws the first cut and it is a middlecut aimed at the calf. By letting go with his other hand, the sweep has more reach than if it was thrown with two hands. Ging voids it but could not return the compliment before Vunnapar reels the blade back into his hands again.Vunnapar throws the next strike and it is a flick cut done straightly vertical at his head. Ging brings his blade up and once he catches the blow Vunnapar straightway pulls his back to throw a belowcut to his waist but before he could Ging shoots his point forward forcing him to retreat and slap away the thrust with the belowcut he intended for the body. Vunnapar returns with point forward and hands extended as if he was holding a shorter sword. Ging retires from the point forward guard and brings the hilt above his head, the edge looming over the fightmaster. After an aborted cut that got Vunnapar to miss a thrust to his breast Ging brings the edge down which in turn makes Vunnapar wheel his edge back and retract his hands to void the strike and return with a belowcut.But the mark wasn’t the arm at all, it was the side of the calf and it lands! As the sword bounces off Vunnapar’s hose the youth gets away from the afterblow. The staff from a judge further separates them as he calls an end to the bout.Well played. The extended guard was a ploy Vunnapar played so Ging would strike at his main arm so he could void it and return with a cut from below. Ging willingly missed and went for the calf instead. I needn’t turn around to know Oubshei’s expression and that of the man who betted on the fight being a zero to three win by Vunnapar.
Once the other bout starts Vunnapar enters the measure with an abovecut that takes the weak of Ging’s sword and as soon as they are in a bind Vunnapar turns his sword so his edge faces his flat and aligns the point to the youth’s right breast.As soon as the thrust comes in Ging brushes both their swords away to the right which allows Vunnapar to transverse left and push his upper arm. It takes only a blink of an eye for Vunnapar to free his pretzelsword and wheel that edge to the side of the youth’s neck. The bout is over from the beautiful bladework and handwork. One to one.“Oh wow. That was fast. I got you plenty mad, didn’t I?” The youth laughs as he brushes away dust from his linen shirt, his other hand holding onto the battlesword with its point to the ground.“I’d be more mad if you did not go hard on me.” Vunnapar rests the pretzelsword on his shoulder as he makes talk.“I’m always hard for- you— you. You, ugh, you know what I meant.” Ging stutters and sighs as he realizes the laughs from the folk following such words.“Of course, young man. I know plenty of good catamites and its only the three-fourth of them that rape children and give such folk a bad name.” For a moment the entire fencing school goes silent as the blackest tries at laughtercraft today haven't matched that and even Aeg looks a little nervy.“Wow. You know them so deeply. I wonder how many of them penetrated you before you got the number.” The compliment returns laughter and sighs and wheezes to the school. “One, actually, your da. That’s why he isn’t around in your life anymore - too much coition and he couldn’t handle the strain.” As he would any good cut Vunnapar goes for another. “You’re the biggest catamite I’ve seen.” Ging kicks the weak of his sword up and the blade returns to his shoulder.“That’s what he said, too.” He goes for a third.One to one becomes one to two.And a double. “Oh, shit, you good?” Vunnapar drops his pretzelsword and runs to the kneeling youth. “Ye- yeah. I- I need a moment. Shouldn’t have. Lunged. Into your point. I thought. I had. Cleared It.” He extends an open palm to stop him while the main hand presses on the right side of his waist.“We can finish our bout later; you needn’t push yourself if you really can’t.” He squats down to talk at the same level.“Yeah. I get it. I- I’ll be in the corner for a bit.” Fightmaster Vunnapar nods and gestures to Aeg for the next set of practitioners to come forward.Following a few with leatherswords and staves the two return and it was a hardfought one to three win for Vunnapar.
“Vorfechter Aeg.”
Naturally I challenge the other partly due to the lack of giants among the battlesword practitioners but mostly for fun as the emmenagogues and small beer brings enough grubs to our table. “You can see me anytime, Jiragarn.” The giant ruffles his golden yellow strands and trades his long staff for a battlesword seventy inches in blade length. Sprouted from the crosspiece are two pairs of siderings and a pair of fingerrings which join the two like a rappier’s. It’s far weightier than mine but its reach and protection it gives is of note. “Gonna buy me a sherbet after this?” “If you win.” With one hand we bring our edges together. The sweet ringing of steel linger in the air as we get out of measure and begin the bout. We both take postures which are a little deeper than normal; due to me being nearly half his height, I need to go even lower to lessen his reach and number of angles he can strike me from whilst he does the same to keep it. I keep the hilt tucked closely to my waist and my point forward while his hilt is a little further from his body.Aeg enters the measure with an abovecut aimed at the weak of my sword which I void by pulling the blade down. Once the cut misses I bring that point back up again and shoot it at his left breast. With a fan like sweep blade he batters the thrust away but as I retreat I rip my short edge up underneath his right arm. One of the upsides of a double edged sword.A thud and a clean escape. One to zero.
The other bout starts and I enter the measure with a middlecut from my left to batter aside his blade but Aeg sees it and through the turn of frontfoot he moves the blade in time to catch my strike, his edge biting against mine. With both our blades crossing at the middle Aeg transverses to the right whilst turning that edge horizontal, using the spot where we bind as a fulcrum and trying to cut my neck with a middlecut. I stifle that try by mirroring the movement; by turning his edge horizontally whilst mine is more vertical, I can subjugate his blade from above. As I make that cut, though, I realize my edge does not have enough reach to touch his neck from this distance and in that moment he shoots his hilt up, bringing both our edges and points to the sky, a last-ditch parry to get danger away from his limbs. Had I saw it coming I would’ve ran in and pushed his elbow but that’s not on the table right now. I’m in a bad spot: my weak is collected on the first set of rings and I can already see him thumbing on the flat of the blade and turning that edge horizontal. He is going to throw a crosswise cut to my right; by having his main hand’s thumb on the flat he can sweep his sword as if opening a fan. Hm. I know I can void it by kneeling under a horizontal cut but if it’s thrown as a belowcut, it’s going to smack the side of my neck even if I do so. I have to make my play now.>Press the armsPulling back my edge from his sidering and turning it a little to avoid cutting into the ring again I keep my point high and press my edge against his newly raised arms. >Crosswise cutSince my weak is collected at his strong I can reel that edge back and mirror the cut, keeping my head covered as I transverse to the left to buy time.
[Correct answer: +chaculato][Either way, advance to “His Fechtschule III”]
>>6334869His Fechtschule IIforgot this, whops.
>>6334878>Crosswise cut
>>6334877>emmenagogues...Menstrual stimulants, at a fencing tournament?>>6334878>Crosswise cut
>>6335634[Small beer and emmenagogues are among the things they sell in their day job. Nin wouldn’t mind the prize money, though.]
His Fechtschule III
>Crosswise cutI have to keep myself safe at all costs. To hit without being hit is the heart of fencing.I reel my edge back whilst turning the hilt as to put the thumb of my main hand on it. Covering myself with the sweep as I transverse to my left, the crosswise cut coming for my head is pulled back and thrown again rising from below. I snap my hilt to the right side of my waist to block it and ready to shoot my point onto his breast after his edge is collected.If only that panned out.As I pivot on the balls of my feet and bring the hilt to my waist Aeg transverses to my right and as he throws the belowcut he pushes his hilt up with his other hand sneaking the cut around my block and striking my upper arm whilst my point pricks only empty air. One of many upsides of a double edged sword. I kept fighting in the ‘after’ for too long and Aeg was able to set up his feints and layer his strikes with several intentions. Had I pulled my edge back to press his hands I would have stifled his crosswise cut early whilst hitting at the same time. Push cuts are not the mightiest among the cuts but a breadth of two or three inches will stifle an arm or hand as strongly as an alligator’s jaws. One to one quickly became one to two and following a double two to two. I enter the measure with an abovecut thrown from the right that misses his blade by little more than an inch. Once I see him not springing my trap I rip my point up and shoot it forward and as he too presents his point I abort the thrust and through reeling my edge back I gather and push away his. Powered by reeling the edge back and up the abovecut thrown from the left would have struck him had he not shifted his weight to the backfoot and divorced his other hand from the hilt so his main could be pulled back to its fullest.I press this vantage and throw a belowcut from the right as it is the furthest from his blade. Aeg keeps shifting his weight back and his chin voids the cut. I need to aim lower to stop that.As I sink my hilt lower and push the point forward I see his edge being lowered and his other hand returning to the hilt again. Aeg rips his edge up in time to smack my left arm and push aside my thrust as he retreats. “If mine was a little longer I would have had you.” With the end of the fight I bring my edge against his. Whilst the usual gesture of respect and removal of any ill following a fight whether it be boxing or fencing is the hug owing to the difference in height this instead is done.“I’m sure so many folk say that about their schlachtschwert all the time.” Aeg returns to the middle and I to the edges.
Sweaty calves and heaving breasts accompany the practitioners as commonly as cups of lime and mango sherbets. “Eh. I think they’re going to double again.” Oubshei and the rest of the battlesword folk continue the betting whilst eating from the box of mortar hotcakes. The crust and the coconut milk filling is a touch too greasy but considering I did not pay for it I do not really mind.“Whoa, what the hell man. I said the bout’s over!” At the same time a judge calls an end to a bout one battlesword fencer struck the other again. The judge shoves the man away with his staff as he gives his rebuke. He must be Achirawit judging by the hair on the sides of his face and the thin trail above his lips. “Alright, man.” Achirawit looks away as he returns his sword to his shoulder.“You were out of line. I called and you didn’t respect that. I am letting you know this is your one warning. Both of you are not to fence each other again.” Achirawit shakes his head and huffs before returning to the edges.“What’s with him?” I lean on the fences and take another sip of the mango sherbet.“Fuckin’ cunt lost one bet and jumped off since.” Oubshei scoffs at the present state of a man who takes his anger out on a person closest to his hands.“You think he’ll ease off soon?” Ging leans over to ask for her advice. “Fuck no.”“Maybe.”“Can’t say.” “Don’t know man.” are among the things the battlesword folk (ones interested in his ask) say.“I wouldn’t bet on it.” Partly in jest but mostly in earnest Oubshei says her endsay regarding the matter.“Yeah. I suppose I couldn’t either.” Even after her words a wishful look lingers on the youth’s face and betrays what is spoken. The sort of thinking gets folk slew and murdered by cutters. You can not soothe a pack of wild dogs by offering an arm - they must be brought to heel with the longest rattan.
With the afternoon on the wane the vanished folk return to watch fencing school again hoping to see a husband or a son crowned and take home enough grubs to buy themselves some weeks worth of three layered pork.Few words are spoken between Achirawit and Ging perhaps due to tiredness or a desire to stifle loathesomeness as they fight. Instead of keeping the point loaded and ready to be shot out following a parry the two keep the hands extended more often and cut more freely with both edges relying more on beats and cuts in opposition to keep themselves safe. “Fucking shit.” Ging mouths those curses following a failed try to push aside Achirawit’s elbow which ends with him getting a point between his breasts. The blade flexes as if a bow’s limbs but it still recoils the youth.“That’s the end! Two to three win for Achirawit.” A judge puts a staff between two and calls an end to the bout. Ging returns the battlesword to his shoulder as he steps back. “WHA-” The very moment the judge reels his staff back and turns to look at the youth Achirawit with a cruel expression on his face throws a cut at his head. Ging brings out the crosspiece in time to block but it partly collapses and he ends up mashing his own edge into the side of his cheek. “What the FUCK man.” The judge steps back as he presents the point of his staff at him as if a spear. Only the presence of Vunnapar and Aeg at his sides does he sit the bottom of the staff to the ground. “You don’t FUCKING lose and curse me like that you dog’s—” Achirawit lowers the blade and keeps a hand on the hilt. He must have thought Ging said those curses to him instead of to himself for being struck or this could merely be a ploy to give a revenge blow. “Wit. That was out of line. You are out of this fechtschule.” Vunnapar taps his staff. “Make way! No man molests him. No dussack touches him!” Aeg with his staff points to the left side of the fences. Children and parents alike retreat from the gate and the area around it as if a plague touched those grounds. Even the rowdiest youth recoil at the command and lower their leatherswords.“Gladly.” As he walks away Achirawit keeps his gaze on the youth for a moment.
“Hold it. Wit.”
“What the fuck NOW?” He shakes his head in anger like a buffalo molested by a pack of mosquitoes as he turns around.“You will not look at him like that. You -will- swear no oath of vengeance.” Vunnapar drops his staff and presents an open palm to his folk, ‘It’s fine, I can deal with this.’ the gesture says.“What- what are you, a judge now? You want me to swear an urfehde next?” His other hand curls up whilst the main keeps his battlesword on his shoulder.“This is my fechtschule, Wit. I will not have anyone braining a fifteen, sixteen year old out of rage and walking away without admitting fault. You will cease this doing.” Vunnapar points a finger to the ground.“I return what grace given to me. They fence well, I fence well. They respect me, I respect them. And he! Has. Not!” Achirawit shoots his palm forward and points to the youth presently shielded by the judge and Aeg. “Cease.” Achirawit throws his battlesword to the ground so strongly it bounces off once and approaches him…
>“You can leave now or you can leave with seminal aura in your eyes.” Those words stop Achirawit as if a company of arquebusiers had presented their barrels at him.“What. No. The saying’s supposed to be: “with tears in your eyes” not whatever this- what the hell, man?” The fury behind his words mutates into vexation and fear. “I -meant- what I said.” Vunnapar stares him down his fingers curling and hovering at the height of his thighs. Messengers are vehicles of deities great and small and their might is the lordship of all living things. Children of Messengers are bestowed a small part of such might. [A greater nudge towards MONARCH route, a judicious and cool blooded path.]
>There was no more words between them. Vunnapar is not that sort of man.Achirawit approaches Vunnapar with ill will and he gets a punch to his jaw for such a doing. Far too many teeth garnish the ground as he drops.Vunnapar drags the man by the collar to the gate and brings him and his battlesword to the peace officers waiting outside the school. He will spend the night in a jailhouse and by the morrow a pillory.“Gracious lord. If you would allow me to continue this fechtschule.” Vunnapar returns to the middle and kneels, staff in hand. Every practitioner some faster some slower follow this doing.“How long will he be toothless for, child?” Lord N’pud stands up making the gold and silver ornaments of his broad brimmed hat glisten.“Without your consent, he will never grow them back, gracious lord.” His large goblin ears droop by quite a bit upon hearing that. “I do not wish to see him live forever toothless, child.” The lord returns to sitting after saying his piece.“Yes, gracious lord.” Vunnapar rises and we follow.[A greater nudge towards CAVALIERS route, a bold and romantic path.]
[Either way, progress to “His Fechtschule IV”.][Both MONARCH and CAVALIERS route will be fully unlocked in “Those Distant Days I”.]
>>6336344>There was no more words between them. Vunnapar is not that sort of man.
>>6336342>“You can leave now or you can leave with seminal aura in your eyes.”I got confused at first, but I'm going with this. It sounds like he'll cum on his eyes, kek
>>6336722is that not what he's threatening?
That’s exactly what Gal is threatening to do, although, he doesn’t need to use his own penis for this…
>>6336731I thought it might mean something else because I don't see him doing that one golden kamuy memehttps://www.youtube.com/shorts/dKg8nZ2p7m8>>6336753I see. Shouldn't be surprised since casting pussy-wounds is a thing here.
Well this is interesting. I’ll be rolling a tiebreaker tomorrow if its still like this.
Rolled 2 (1d2)tiebreaking!1 = punch2 = threat
His fechtschule IV
>“You can leave now or you can leave with seminal aura in your eyes.” “What the fuck man.” Achirawit mouths those curses as he recoils back.“You’re— you’re not going to…”“Like, here? You’re really going to do this in front of everyone?”“You’re- you’re fucked up, man!“Vunnapar returns no words instead taking a step forward. “Alright, alright! My bad, man!” Achirawit puts his other hand up as if a buckler. “I’m…”“I take…”“I take what I did back. I should not have done that.”“I’m…”“I’m out, man. I bow out.”“Your feder, Wit.” Before the beaten dog could turn away and leave Vunnapar presents to him his battlesword. It takes him a moment to grasp such a doing.With a light droop of his head, a poor copy of a proper nod, the stray dog retrieves his weapon. Perhaps due to tiredness or an unwillingness to push his luck again Achirawit carries it by the strong of his blade and at his side as if a scabbarded sword.Aeg walks with him staff in hand as he leaves the grounds of the fencing school and into the hands of peace officers. No commands were shouted no strikes were thrown no mancatchers seized his limbs nothing but the faint whispers of sandals ruffling against grass and dirt followed them out the park. “Gracious lord. If you would allow me to continue this fechtschule.” After Aeg returns to the school Vunnapar kneels and gives his address to the lord. All the practitioners some faster some slower follow his lead. “You may continue, my child.” Lord N’pud stands up making the gold and silver ornaments of his broad brimmed hat glisten. In spite of the many transgressions today there is little annoyance in his tone. With his return to his seat so do we return to our feet.Following the banishment the surgeons tend to the youth and fortunately his wound is far from grave: a long trail of crumpled skin runs down the side of his cheek as if a tear which shows a sliver of pink and red, the collapsed block turning what would have been a black and purple wound into a few days of inconvenience. With the youth retiring to the edges fightmaster Vunnapar returns to the middle to give his address to the folk.
“I wish to thank you all for your patience with me. Such a doing is not what the fechtschule ought to be and I’d like to take this moment to say: whether you are a Master of the Sword, a journeyman such as myself Kommgal, or someone new to the Free and Knightly Art of Fencing, we are -not- fighting in earnest for our life and limb. Go after your man with all the devices and plays you learnt but show grace, too - you really don’t need to throw with all your might a cut into a man’s neck for the opening to be recognized. The battlesword fencers: Jiragarn, Oubshei, Ging. They all know how easily they can break fingers and shatter jaws with their feders and so, they do not strike too strongly at spots where flesh is thinnest.” Vunnapar paces around the school as he wheels the staff in his hand. “And on the matter of character: chaffing. It is true chaffing is inborn to the Art but how far you take it depends on you and the other - are they in the mood? Can they return the compliment? Laughtercraft can very quickly breed loathesomeness. Lastly, do respect the judges’ calls. You may not agree with them partly or fully but respect their authority; if a judge calls an end to the bout -that- is the end of the bout.” The selfsame tiredness from before starts to creep into his words by the end of his address. “Don’t strike your fellow too strongly. Don’t chaff and mock the folk who do not return the compliment. And respect the judges.” Aeg puts in brief the spirit of the address. “And I, uh, noticed you seem quite tired mentioning the last part.”“Recent incidents —have— gnawed at my bones somewhat.” Vunnapar sticks his fingers into his ivory peruke as his voice turns even flatter.With the passing of the afternoon comes the end of the fencing school and the giving of its crowns and prize money; woven from the yellowest and brightest of Royal Flora flowers and given to practitioners with the most wins of their sort are crowns of martial skill, alongside grubs of varying sizes and amount proportional to the practitioner’s accomplishments. As for the other, its shade is given by ever violet Bloom Without Falter flowers, the namesake of this park and such crowns went to folk of honorable character.
A part of the folk still linger near the fencing school after the council and the lord had left; mothers and wives talking to boast about the wins of their husbands and sons, children running and playing savoring the last few hours before sundown and grandparents forming into circles to play cards and gamble. “Hei, junior. A moment of your time.” As we approach the violet crowned youth and his folk on the now empty stands Vunnapar is the first to speak.“I have seen many men like him and they are not the sort to fall with grace. He and his fellows may try to make a play for you and your folk. Be on your guard for these next few weeks, mayhaps the next few months. Stay away from him. Don’t be alone when you are about town.” Vunnapar takes a seat near him and says his piece. As he does the fingers of his left hand curls up and wrinkles a part of his breeches. Even he is not immune to being flustered.“There’s always folks who would stand by such massive cunts and stake their lives for them. I’m not alone in this, we all have seen far too many of those; men who look the other way when their fellows slay and murder women; mothers who stand and fight for their husbands and children’s rights to rape children; guildsmen, entire guilds, entire companies who brush off all sorts of vile shit if it meant- if they THINK their pokes would remain unharmed.” Aeg sits one knee up his hand cradling it as he recalls a few of the low company we each stood against. “In any case, Aeg and I will not be there to shield you forever. We came here with matters to attend to and when it is done -which ought to take two to three weeks- we will leave the province.” He turns to look at us. “These are my fellows. If there is any difficulty, you may lean on them.” “Senior Id is at Pig’s Blood street on most evenings. You’ll find him about the soba stalls or cookshops.” The Child of Serpents and chiefbuilder fourth ranked in leathersword waves his wrinkly goblin hand at Ging and his two fellows. “This is Gar. He’s about Mangoroot around the late morning and midday for most of the time.” The staff fencer and clocktower’s keeper nods.
“And should you find yourself in the Green Lamps district, though I wish you really shouldn’t-” Right away Oubshei stands up and walks on the bench to seize a fistful of Vunnapar’s peruke. “Wow~ since when did you turn into such a faggot.” “This is..”“Senior Oubshei. She is keeper of the Half Moon alehouse. She’s around during the evening and late afternoon.” The older goblin huffs and puffs as if an angry child before relaxing her grip and returning to her spot on the benches.“And this is Jiragarn and Waroon. They sell amberwater and... potions to alehouses. They’re around the district from first light till afternoon.” We return a nod.After gathering a folk who could defend their lives and limbs Vunnapar gives his advice on legal battles before handing them trade cards of legal advisors and lawyers. The rest of us give our piece about where we most commonly see Achirawit and his folk.“All of this is heavy, I am aware, and whilst I doubt you’ll need it, do keep these things in mind.” Vunnapar pops open a small pouch on his waist. It takes him a moment to fetch a card for each of them. “Don’t hesitate to summon me if things jump off.” “Wow. This is… uh.. quite the handful.” Ging seizes it between his pointing finger and thumb. “Thanks. We’ll try to not inconvenience you too much.” Baiyok leans over to look at the one Ging got. It’s alike in every way. “Thanks for all of this, senior.” Unshun gives a nod and slips it into her poke.“Now then, if there’s nothing more-” Ging reaches out with a hand.“Wait, senior. If you don’t mind me asking, did you really intend to do what you said to Achirawit if he did not recant?” “Wringing seminal aura out of a penis is not something I am proficient at nor is it very good at stopping an antagonist, but it is a dreadful thing to consider. I’d rather tear up his foreskin.” Vunnapar entertains the ask. A hint of a smile forms on his lips as he droops his head.“I don’t think anyone would have faulted you if you had struck him.” Baiyok crosses her legs and tries not to laugh at the thought. She fails. “Well. If he got too close before I could say my piece I might have done that.” “Then again.” Vunnapar nearly fails to stifle his own laughter. “If I wanted to spend my afternoon fisting a cunt, I would have stayed at his mother’s place.” Slapping a hand on Aeg’s arm Vunnapar gives his blackest comment yet.
We stayed at Everviolet park for some time.
The province did not tarry long in the case and within the week Achirawit was fined, whipped and for an afternoon put in a pillory for all in Pig’s Blood to see. Achirawit was a little worried when he saw a pile of blemished bricks near the pillory, a result of an unfortunate carriage accident earlier in the day, the peace officer said. About two hours into the afternoon the peace officer who was supposed to watch over him vanished without a word and so do most of the folk who normally occupy such a road.“I know what the fuck is going to happen. Lord N’pud didn’t like me fucking his school and now he’s sentencing me to be stoned to death. By you. By his golden boy. Spare me the fucking grandstanding, the fucking talk, and whatever horseshit they make you puke out ever since you prostituted yourself to the crown.” The beaten dog growls.“Let’s be frank, then, Wit, if he wanted you dead he wouldn’t do this; you’d spend a few nights in prison, two weeks later you’d die of some sickness likely caused by food and two more weeks your cremation would go unmentioned in every broadsheet in town.” Sitting on the pile of bricks his legs crossed is the man in the selfsame ivory peruke and broad brimmed hat. “No.”“Your present situation is him warning you.”“And I’m here because I want to talk. What made you jump off like that, man?” Achirawit sighs and curls his fingers.“You ask me that? You ask me that! Fuck, you’re- you are such a fucking cunt, you know that? Are you willingly doing this? You’re not even— you’re not, at all, are you?” He tries to smash his fingers into the boards. Unable to reach, they wiggle meaninglessly.“Well shit, since I’m such an unlearned cunt, mind enlightening me?” Vunnapar uncrosses his legs as he leans forward.“Oh, good. A Child of Messengers calling himself lowly. It’s this horseshit again. It’s chaffing like this that makes me want to peel my skin off.” Achirawit does not even try to look at him as he speaks.“It took me -three- years to become a Freifechter. You did it in one. Who the fuck does that. Who else -could- do that?” Vunnapar’s tone grows increasingly venomous.What felt like several minutes passed as the two calmed themselves. The sky’s gotten dark. I ought to be leaving before the rain comes.“Is this—” Vunnapar cuts him off. “It’s not me. You can believe it or not.” He spares a look before walking away. After a moment he returns, hat in hand.“I don’t want your pity, Kommgal.” He leaves following the comment. He does not return.
“Did you really expect me to brain him?” With him out of sight Vunnapar turns to look at me and extends a hand. He misses my shoulder by a few inches.With a sigh I stop biting down on the beads of the vizard and remove it from my face, undoing the invisibility. “It seemed that way, yes.”“I am starting to regret not doing that now.” He brushes a thumb across his neck.“Well, if you need him hurt…” Vunnapar droops his head and looks to the side following my comment.“I’m sure you and Waroon can inject him with a lifetime of hurt within an afternoon. Probably a couple minutes. Keep it proportionate -if- he tries to make a play.” Vunnapar waves away the thought.And that was what we did or rather, did not do. From what Waroon and I could tell Achirawit never did make a play for Ging, Unshun, or Baiyok for the past five months following his punishment.Speaking of those youths…>We’ve been seeing them less often Those two barber apprentices and the tattoo artist apprentice have been keeping themselves straight for the most part. That’s probably a good thing.[A nudge towards MONARCH route]>We’ve been seeing them more oftenIn spite of Vunnapar’s instructions they have been spending more time in the Green Lamps district with Oubshei and us. I do enjoy being with them somewhat. [A nudge towards CAVALIERS route]
[Either way, progress to “Irregularities I”.]
>>6338744>We’ve been seeing them more often
>>6338744>We’ve been seeing them less often
>>6338787>>6338949The council as spoken, and they say: more hookers and swordplay!
Stage’s set, then. Be seeing you."Our bittersweet farewell to youth"
Hello, hello. Still working on it. Don’t worry. Here’s something related to the update you can watch in the meantime.https://youtu.be/giPXpKy2lQ0?si=zjdpihWlkw1bl_C_
>>6340618Ah, Max Miller. I love this guy's stuff.
Updating tomorrow. See ya.
>>6341487Waiting warmly.
