Rites of Passage

[Kestrel]

As the sun began hinting that it would soon rise from its bed of blanketed snow upon the horizon, she slipped downstairs. One gloved hand came to tug its partner's armor against the elements into place. Fingers laced together, tightening the thin gloves around her fingers. They would keep out the majority of the chill, but would still allow her to maneuver.

Her boots crunched against the snow as she moved towards the stables with her sword upon her hip. Two wooden practice swords were tucked under an arm. She spared a glance towards the rosy glow upon the line where sky met land. The expression was almost yearning.

Where Son and Cherny slept, there was suddenly a raucous commotion below as Peropis thundered his mighty hooves upon the planks of his stall and squealed a high-pitched noise that would have been more at home in a nightmare than on this quiet morning. There was a sharp rattle upon the ladder and a low, appreciative laugh for the beast's antics. "It is far too late an hour to be abed for men looking for swordplay training!," the woman below thundered. As a result, more than a few inhabitants of the tavern likely found themselves awakened as well. Blurry eyes glared from many windows. She did not care. In fact, she would relish the conflict it might bring. Anything to ease the tedium that threatened to overwhelm her on a daily basis.

Should they glance down, her fingers had been wrapped around both sides and there was a quirked smile upon her lips. Playful. In the morning light, she looked much younger than her years. She pushed herself away from the ladder and turned smartly upon her heel to move towards the door.

Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe.

Her hands clasped at the small of her back. Her posture was ramrod straight. A cloud of breath followed her, signaling them of the unpleasant weather they would enter upon their nice, warm beds.

"You have ten minutes until I leave and to hell with your training," she called over a shoulder.

Discipline. She reminded herself.

[Cherny]

It's the squire's habit to wake early, rising at dawn with the birds to begin the day's chores; so that ruckus from below earns a raw voice's quiet chiding from above, the words indistinct but the tone protesting against the stallion's misbehaviour. At the rattling and shouting at the foot of the ladder he appears in the hatch above, most of the way dressed; doublet half-fastened, short hair still unruly, but at least awake.

"We'll b-be down, sera!" He manages to bob a quick bow as he fusses at his buttons with cold-dulled fingers, turning away in the moment after to tug on his boots, haul his mailshirt over his head and belt it around his waist.

"S-son." Called down the length of the hayloft, repeated more urgently a moment after. "Son. G-get up." Hurried steps carry him to the older boy's den, littered with his meager possessions, and he crouches warily at his side, uncertain how to proceed. "S-son." A glance back to the hatch where the noble lady will be waiting, and he comes to a decision; stretching his arm to its limit in an attempt to keep as much of himself as possible out of the older boy's grasp, grinning and grimacing in equal measure, struggling to stifle his hoarse laughter.

"G-good morning!"

And with that he lunges to poke a cold finger in Son's ear.

[catch]

He was a discernible lump in his blankets, floating between dream-time and awareness. The damned horse kept knocking it's hooves into vague, muddy dreams, dreams of someplace with hot, copper air, and a cloying smell of pollen and blood.

There was a voice. Something warm, a comfort-smell, was pulled away, snarling and writhing. Then another was taken, and he was alone in the cool, dark earth, but only for a moment. Before he could call for them back, something big and bloody gripped him, exclaimed, dragged him out as he fought and struggled and cried out as the bright light hit him, a physical slap in his face

"Fuckin' horse," is the only thing that comes from that lump, slurred and angry and promising blood. "Go 'way." That, to Cherny, a low and terrible growl.

The last of his warm bubble popped as Cherny jabbed him in the ear.

With a hoarse roar of rage, the bundle exploded into a tangle of fists and knees, lashing out with no real direction, simply seeking something to strike. Hay was stuck in his tousled hair, and eyes made bloodshot by little sleep and bad dreams glared around, coming to rest solely on Cherny with murderous intent.

[Cherny]

Son is not one for mornings. Certainly not one for mornings that haven't even seen much by way of daylight just yet. He'd expected such a reaction; anticipated it, so when that flailing of angry limbs erupts he is already scrambling hastily back, grinning with the thrill of mischief.

"Sword p-practice! Get your b-britches on, she'll not w-wait!"

That's all the explanation he offers before turning tail and fleeing, snatching coat and cap as he goes, croaking laughter trailing behind him. Clattering down the ladder, jumping the last few rungs and darting out into the bitter cold of dawn.

[Kestrel]

She waited outside, shifting occasionally as she faced the direction of the sun. It rose sluggishly, about as eager as Son was to leave the warmth of its bed. Her arms were behind her back as she waited patiently for the boys to emerge. Despite her warnings of giving up on them, it would take quite some time. After all, the colors thrown across the sky were lovely to see and the natural artistry kept her entertained enough.

She cast a glance behind her when Cherny, cheeks bright from his mad dash, appeared. She went back to ignoring him, however. No sense in starting until they were both here. They needed to discuss the rules and she did not want to repeat herself.

There was a vague gesture to the wooden practice swords. Apparently, since he arrived first, he would be able to chose his own. Son would be left with the remnants. It didn't much matter, they were basically identical.

[catch]

Sword-practice. That penetrated Son's sleep-muzzed mind. At least, it helped him not grab Cherny and find the nearest horse-truff, his hands fumbling for his trousers, for his great-coat. It takes him a moment, and a few, false starts of thrusting two legs into the same pantsleg, but he is, eventually, somewhat presentable.

A minute or two, and Son is trudging after Cherny, yawning, glaring. Feeling as if Egris has, somehow, gotten some sort of upper hand.

She'd never said that sword-practice would be at the crack of dawn.

[Kestrel]

And Egris, she smiled at Son as if she had gotten the upper hand.

She winked upon his arrival before the utmost solemnity stole over her features and she gazed at them down her nose. Measuring the boys before her.

"We will train each and every morning, no excuses. You will train with one another and you will behave as a gentleman must. We will learn both swordplay and when to use it. Our lessons will end once you can land what would be a lethal blow to me in combat. Do you have any questions before we strike our bargain?," she asked, her voice lifted as she paced in front of them. Every step was weighted. Every footfall was sharp and precise. Heel and toe. Toe and heel.

That young expression stole over her features, however briefly. "And most of all, enjoy yourselves. This is supposed to be fun." At least for the time being.