#freydis.westreach

[witchertorsten]

@freydis-freydat location: Marinus Bay, Westreach notes: plot call for two characters who haven't interacted yet...

A witcher of ten years and a warrior for longer, Torsten stood in the training yard, his silvered sword gleaming in one hand and his mithril blade held lightly in the other. He'd pledged what he could to the defense of the Queendom with the hope of future returns, but while the refugees took to Marinus Bay, Torsten gathered what warriors were eager to learn and brought them to the training yard. Ymir's Spine was open again and Torsten often thought of the temple they'd found on the outskirts of Hrimthur's Wastelands. Fear is the mind-killer.

The guards and members of the warriors' guild encircled him, their practice weapons raised with determined grips. Torsten gave a small nod, signaling the three boldest to attack. Their hesitation lasted but a moment before they charged, their steps pounding across the dirt like an uneven drumbeat.

The first came straight on, aiming for a high slash to drive Torsten back. Torsten sidestepped fluidly, his mithril blade sweeping low to tap the man’s exposed ankle. “Overcommitted,” spinning to meet the second attacker, who lunged with a thrust aimed at his side. Torsten’s silvered sword snapped into a parry, the impact driving his opponent’s blade wide. He stepped into the guard’s personal space, his pommel striking the man’s wrist with precise force. “Grip too tight. You’ll exhaust yourself before the fight’s begun.” The man yelped, retreating as his weapon clattered to the ground.

The third warrior, bolder or perhaps foolhardier, swung in an arc meant to catch Torsten’s exposed back. Anticipating the move, Torsten pivoted, both blades flashing in unison. The silvered sword locked the attacker’s strike mid-swing, while the mithril blade darted forward, stopping just shy of his neck. “Telegraphed. Your footwork announced your attack long before your blade did.” He stepped back, lowering his weapons as all three men regrouped, faces flushed with exertion and frustration. “In battle, the one who keeps their stance steady while chaos rages has already won half the fight. ” He flicked the dust from his blades with an effortless flourish and motioned for the next group to step forward. "Adapt or die."

"Does the Jarl Icefang wish to provide a demonstration?" Torsten asked, in greeting he crossed a sword over his chest and gave her a light bow - if only to salt the wound a bit. Freydis had a reputation of her own now in Lysara: Jarl and Shieldmaiden, turned one who was taken, one who survived, and now perhaps something else entirely. He gestured around the crowd with his blade, encouraging those who'd come here to train the opportunity to step up before four, unsurprising, men came to stand within the ring. "Do you answer the challenge, Jarl?" Freydis was more than her title or reputation; he understood her preference, but the goad remained a point of interest for him.