Celyn Training Guards
Celyn has been putting a lot of effort, really, into integrating with the village on village terms; this may be a Sembaran village, but it’s still a village, and he understands how those work. Which means, aside from his extended ramblings around the area, and his conversations with El and Eleanor about the workings of the temple and how better to support the Wyrdling’s presence— he has made sure that the herbs planted in the garden include those that the Wyrdling’s out-of-season people need to treat themselves and properly grow, for one thing— he does his best to do ordinary things. Which comes down to spending a fair amount of time spinning, since spinning is the sort of infinite task that everyone in the village who isn’t doing other labor contributes to, and other simple sorts of things. He’s best at the spinning, though, both deft with his hands and clearly reasonably experienced with it once he remembers how it goes.
He is, in fact, spinning with a small cluster of people who are talking about village business and goings-on while they spin, when he first hears how Catherine de Brune is talking about the trade arrangements, from someone who has joined the circle to share gossip from Cleenseau. At the phrase “miracle-touched Celyn” he closes his eyes and lets his fingers automatically stop the spindle. Nobody notices immediately, and he lets the gossip flow on another minute or two before murmuring, “Thing I have to attend to, but I hope that helps,” and returns the work to the person he had been helping.
He rolls to his feet, stretches, and ambles back towards the manor house, emerging only a few minutes afterwards with his armour on. He pokes his head into a few places to see if he can roust any guards or would-be guards to train with him. “I was thinking,” he explains, with an edge to his affability that perhaps they don’t know him well enough to recognize yet, “I might teach you all a few things about fighting a dangerous opponent as a group. I’ll play the monster.”
It takes him a few minutes to convince them both that he is happy taking on a group and that nobody will be upset if he gets injured by accident, but eventually he manages to get four of them together to be willing to have a go, and pulls out a training sword, standing with his weight on one foot and the wood resting on his shoulder in an excessive display of casual attentiveness. “I’ll talk you through how to think about some of it, all right?”
The crew of opponents got a mixed set of weapons, which got Celyn’s approval, and arranged with the two with spears in back and two with shields in front. “There you go,” he said. “Now, you’ll want to pay attention to what you can figure out about your opponent’s capabilities. Come at me.”
The formation fell a bit apart as they tried, but Celyn did not take advantage; he deftly avoided the weapons, brushing one off with the practice shield he’d picked up with the sword.
“You’re not attacking,” one of the guards complained.
“Do you want me to? I’ve got a clear line to one of your spearmen right now because you went too far to the right.”
They tightened up promptly at that, and another flurry of attempts remained inconclusive. “You’re very quick on your feet,” said one of the others, the one with the wooden mallet to practice hammer technique with.
“I am. And I’m using it. What do you think you need to do with that?”
They were visibly not sure, and Celyn deflected one of the spears downwards as he danced to one side.
“Work together. You’re a team. Try to occupy my defenses, front line, so the spearmen can try to get a strike in.”
The front line did, indeed, work at that, and both spearmen landed a hit, one poking Celyn’s arm behind the shield, the other with a much more solid strike to the chest that he bounced back from, laughing. “You see?”
“You let us,” one of the spearmen grumbled.
“Nah. You worked together,” Celyn said, “and you got lucky.”
The other spearman snorted, as Celyn freed his blade from the shieldman who was trying to occupy it and knocked his weapon aside. “Didn’t stay lucky.”
“Don’t count on luck in a fight. You ready for me to fight back yet?”
They were not at all sure about that, but when one of the spearmen landed a particularly solid hit that made Celyn grunt, the rogue’s eyes sparked with a certain savage glee, and he said, “Well, whether or not you’re ready, I am.” He pivoted in a quick motion, ducked, and thrust the practice sword straight into the chain-covered chest of one of the shieldmen, who staggered back, quite winded.
The spearman who was partnered with the other front line man landed a blow that Celyn managed to partially deflect, while the other was clearly entirely discombobulated by losing his assistant and flailed helplessly. “He hits hard,” gasped the man who was getting himself back into the fight, just as Celyn spun and repeated the move to near-identical effect on the other man.
“Really— hard— for a little guy,” agreed the second man, who was not quite as knocked back, but also had the wind somewhat knocked out of him.
Celyn was visibly enjoying himself, not because he was winning, but for the sheer joy of the fighting. He suggested, “You in the front might want to focus on defending yourselves rather than helping your fellows, now. I’ll be easier to hit while I’m focusing on the attack, and you don’t want me hitting you again.”
“Don’t think we can stop you,” muttered one, but he put his shield up manfully only to have Celyn duck and stab up under it, knocking him firmly onto his backside.
“Probably not,” Celyn agreed, and then added a solid, “Oof!” when the spearman who had landed a solid hit on him before repeated the feat. “You’ve got promise,” he said, cheerfully. “Of course that means I want you to stop hitting me.”
“Try me,” she said, with a grin that matched his own.
Celyn snorted, and delivered a thwack to the shield fighter with the sword that had the man shake his head and declare, “I’m out of the fight.” Both spearmen landed strikes, and Celyn chuckled. “You’ve got my measure or the Wyrdling’s given you luck,” he said, and stepped in, and poked past the woman with the spear’s defenses, catching her arm.
She stepped back to proper spear distance, but was enough off-balance that she did not manage to land a strike, though her companion did. “You’re having fun.”
“Mmm.” He stepped in, and knocked her back and over with a sharp thrust. “I like to fight.”
The remaining spearman stared, eyes wide.
“Remember, I’m the monster,” Celyn said gently.
He set his jaw and made a stabbing motion with the spear that was too tentative to do more than barely connect; he brushed Celyn’s responding strike aside with a flailing motion of the spear.
“Good job! Now hit me again.” Celyn laughed, good and hard, when the man’s jab actually landed, hard enough that he missed his own strike.
The shieldman sitting on the ground had recovered enough breath to say, “Oh, you look brilliant when it’s four of us and now you miss.”
“Don’t jinx it!” said the spearman left standing, as Celyn brushed aside the spear and struck home. “You— did.”
“Sorry,” said the shieldman, not sounding terribly repentant.
The spearman got in a solid jab, and Celyn dodged back, breaking from melee deftly, radiating visible delight. “Good job! You’ve driven off the monster!” he proclaimed, and waved a hand to one of the spectators who had collected to watch what was going on. “Could you go up to the big house and get my friends some beer?” he asked, and then turned his attention to checking on bruises.
The woman said, appraisingly, “So that’s how a hero fights.”
“That’s how I fight,” Celyn corrected her, as he inspected the scrape on her elbow. “Robin is totally different.”
“I suppose Lord Robin would be,” she said, carefully, a little uncertainly.
Celyn beamed at her. “Maybe I’ll convince him to spar sometime and you can see. Better that than seeing us take on an actual monster. Though I hit harder on actual monsters, this is too blunt for my best tricks.” He gestured at the wooden sword.
“That’s a little disturbing.”
“Is it?” Celyn paused, head cocked to one side. “Oh. Okay.”
“Hadn’t you noticed?”
Celyn shrugged. “It is what it is,” he says. “Also I’m mad enough that most things that disturb people don’t disturb me so I can’t always tell what will.”
“Fair enough. One of the Wyrdling’s, after all.”
That mention of the connection to the god did not bring the irritated spark back to Celyn’s eyes; he simply said, “Yes,” and offered her a hand up.