DK - The Desert Comes Calling - CH 25th TT

[Malakhai Qinua]

Malakhai's estimation of the guarrdi immediately went down a notch as he registered the friendly, relaxed response of the guards. These Westerners were too trusting. No camp of the People would welcome a complete stranger into their midst with open arms as these men had just done. Of course, a lone rider posed little threat to a fully garrisoned fortress such as this one, even if he were of the Tribus Negri - and given the peace and co-operation between the two peoples, the guards had little reason to suspect hostility. Still, old habits died hard. Trust in the desert was as rare as water, and assigned just as grudgingly.

Offsetting this loss of respect were the fortifications themselves, which continued to amaze Malakhai even at close range. The Drum was a more permanent structure than any the tribesman had ever seen, which was as it should be for a castle designed to withstand dragon assault. Age-old aggression was best countered with age-old defences.

Malakhai carefully dismounted from his camel and tethered it to the first secure thing he could find in the area. As he did so, he unwound the cloth wrapped around his head, allowing the people of the keep to see his face and wavy hair. Anonymity wasn't important, seeing as he hoped to be staying for a long while.

He made his way around the gates and barbican with a relaxed, loping stride, looking to the left for the promised causeway, and, beyond, the green-painted door.

[Vanadius]

The painted green door was an easy thing to spot, as nearly every other door within Malakhai's vision was simple bare wood with iron bands, stained dark or greying from exposure to the elements. The Marshal's door stood out like a bright green beacon in a sea of grey stone and brown wood.

Getting to it however was perhaps less easy. There were no obstacles in his way, at least not in terms of a barrier, but there were several men standing in a line as a large, fully armored man was mounted on a large destrier and tilting with a quintain. As Malakhai came into view of the causeway, the mounted man charged, and galloped at full speed towards the mock knight. As he closed the distance, the point of his lance dipped, and crashed into the mock knight's shield, causing the entire crossbar to spin around from the impact. Several of the men in the line nodded and few made gestures of how the man held the lance and gripped his shield.

The mounted man trotted back to the line and raised the visor of his helm. His voice was strong and proud, and carried throughout the open causeway.

"Guide the point of your lance into the target. Keep your grip loose right up until impact. Then just before the tip strikes, thrust forward, driving the tip in where you want it. Understood?"

The mounted man dismounted and removed his helmet, revealing a shock of thick red hair and a broad red mustache on a weathered, craggy face. The man's bright blue eyes roamed over Makakhai.

"Now, suit up. Midge will help you into your armor, and once you're ready to begin, I'll get the Warden out here and you can test your mettle against his."

A short, stocky man carried a saddle over one arm, and a beaten and scratched breastplate in another. He walked right past Malakhai, looking up, as he was barely five foot tall himself, at the significantly taller desert dweller for just a heartbeat. The shorter man was muttering under his breath.

"... Midge do this. Midge do that. I see no slings or bandages... their arms ain't broken none..."

He led the others into under a large tent that had been erected at one end of the causeway, where several suits of armor were standing at the ready. The men began to buckle and strap into the armor, leaving the causeway free to cross.

The red haired man went inside the green door, and left it open behind him. The open door was enticing and inviting.

[Malakhai Qinua]

Entranced, Malakhai watched the spectacle unfold. Of course he'd heard of mounted combat - he'd even sparred with some visiting horse-riding Ochre tribesmen who claimed to be able to fire a bow as effectively at a gallop as when stood still - but the fact was that he'd never witnessed it himself. In his region of the desert, camels were the mount of choice, and although they provided excellent transportation only someone with a deathwish would ride one of the stubborn, contrary beasts into battle. A trained horse, on the other hand... with proper understanding between a beast and its master, a mounted warrior could be so much more than the sum of its parts.

Malakhai gave the diminutive Midge a rueful smile as he passed by. The desert-dweller knew full well what it was like to be the dogsbody, as he'd spent long marks shifting sacks of different coloured sands around for his father Oyon's shamanic rituals - unnecessarily, as it seemed to him. Malakhai could sympathise, but in the end his main concern was to ensure that someone else ended up with the grunt work rather than him. Leaving the practice field behind, he strode in sandalled feet across the causeway to the doorway he'd seen the red-headed man enter.

Again, doors were something the tribesman was more familiar with in theory than in practice, and he wasn't acquainted with the etiquette involved with them. So rather than knocking he simply cleared his throat loudly, waited for a few flickers and then ducked through the aperture into the room beyond.

[Vanadius]

In contrast, the light inside was much dimmer than the bright sunshine outside, so Malakhai was plunged into immediate darkness. However, within the matter of just a few flickers, the chamber beyond the painted green door began to emerge in his vision.

Directly in front of him was a man in armor, no, just a suit of armor he could determine as his eyes adjusted. An empty suit standing tall and proud against a brick wall. A red feathered plume erupted from the steel helmet in the armor's gauntlets, as if the figure was holding it. It was a proud looking thing despite the dents and scratches from wear and use.

The strong scent of a lit pipe reached him and to his left lay more of the chamber. The red haired man was sitting before a large, carved wooden desk, slumped casually in a thick and heavy chair. One hand stroking his mustache as the desert dweller entered. Another man, sat behind the desk. This other man had a short, pointed goatee and striking blue eyes. He was dark haired and burnt brown and tanned from long yahren in the sun, much like any member of Malakhai's own people were. He wore a charcoal gray doublet and was writing something with a quill. He dipped his quill into a nearby inkpot as the young man entered, and looked up. Clenched in his teeth, was a well crafted pipe, carved to resemble the head of a dragon, the sweet smoke trickled in lazy trails to the stone ceiling.

"Good day sir. May I help you?"

His voice was rich and deep. He gave the red haired man a quizzical glance as he waited for the young desert dweller to speak.

[Malakhai Qinua]

Drawing a hand across his eyes as if to sharpen his view of the dark room, Malakhai was silent initially. Not through any reticence to speak, but because he was trying to bring to mind the words that he had been rehearsing internally at sporadic intervals throughout his journey from the other side of the desert. "Kal'essen. If you are the Marshal Commander of Knights, then you can indeed help me," he announced. Clearing his throat, he performed an awkward bow, intended as a sign of deference.

"I am Malakhai Qinua of the Black Tribe," he stated in a steady, undulating tone. "I have travelled here because I have heard many times that you and your kinsmen fight against the great kzaohcks, the dragons. Most of my people are too fearful to stand against them, and say that they are Nature." He gestured to himself. "This one wishes to show that he is not afraid. I wish to learn to combat them, so that I can better protect my kin." He left a slight pause before his last statement. "Therefore I would like to join your unit, and to train with you as a Dragon Knight."

Having spoken his mind, Malakhai folded his hands together in front of the sash of his robes, waiting to hear the responses of the two older men.

[Vanadius]

The man behind the desk puffed once on the dragon pipe and smiled.

"Aye. I'm Nathan Lockwood, Commander of the Dragon Knights." The Marshall stood, and gestured to the red haired man, who remained seated.

"This is Denbar, called the Red. Welcome to Dragonskeep, and the seat of Duke Joris Drakedoder, the fourth of his name."

"Big one." Came the strange reply from the newly introduced Denbar.

Lockwood grinned again. "Yes you are rather large, aren't you?" The commander said, taking in the size of the young man. The question was more of a reaction, than a true question.

"Joining the Knights could be uncomfortable for you sir. We have set ways, standards and traditions that have brought us success against the... kzaohcks."

The word was not totally unfamiliar in the Commander's mouth, it seemed it had been a while since he used it however. Denbar sat silent, and merely served as a witness.

"If you are willing to delve into our customs and not resist them overly much, then I'm certain you will be a welcome addition to our ranks."

The Commander motioned towards an empty chair, at the hand of Denbar.

"Come, please sit. Rest from your journey. I understand your people know a great deal about the Dragons. I would be interested to hear how your tribes have fought them in the past. Perhaps there is much you could teach us as well."

Lockwood's mind mulled the possibilities.

Newly arrived from ther Dunes, smelling of Camel and sand. What does he know of Dragons? Black Tribe too. Last one that came this way was Asa'Kriel, and he sure stirred things up. I'll have to speak with the Seneschal about them, see what I glean from him about their ways.

The Marshal walked over to a baked clay pitcher and cups, and poured the newcomer some water.

"Here. Water for you. To wash down the thirsty work of crossing the Dunes."

Although perhpas half a head shorter than Malakhai, he still stood tall and proud, a warrior from head to toe. He held the water for Malakhai to take and enjoy.

[Malakhai Qinua]

At the mention of the tribes fighting the dragons, Malakhai's face became grim. "Teach you? I can tell you what I know," he replied, "but my knowledge is made up mainly of stories, legends of the People." Of course, to Malahkai, the legendary nature of such stories did not mean that they were untrue. Most of the tribesmen of his acquaintance took the word of another at face value. However far-fetched and unlikely a story sounded, it would only generally be disbelieved if convincing proof existed of its falsehood. Life was too short and too fragile in the desert for it to be worth abusing another's trust. "This one means that he has not experienced battle against dragons at first hand." He'd seen his kin stand and watch unblinkingly, but never had he seen them fight.

Malakhai took the seat beside Denbar and the offered water, and for a few flickers his astonishment at this generosity was even greater than his surprise at his ready acceptance by the two seasoned campaigners. Water, offered freely... The young man took the cup and put it to his lips almost jealously, gulping it down as if he were afraid that the Marshal would suddenly change his mind. When he finally finished the cup, his broad mouth was split into a guilty, embarrassed smile, revealing a row of teeth only a little yellowed by opium-eating. I have a lot to learn about the customs of the guarrdi. And not only about how they fight.

"If I resist, it will be through ignorance alone," Malakhai proclaimed boldly. "My people have their ways, and I may not easily be rid of them. But I wish to learn all that you have to teach... dreshi." The tall tribesman hesitated before applying the honorific, although only for less than a flicker. He was no warrior, but he knew the demeanour of one by sight. In his estimation, this Nathan Lockwood was a man who could not only stay alive, but make sure that others did as well. The other, the aptly named Denbar the Red, appeared no less of a survivor. "This one will submit to your ways if that is what is required for learning."

Such promises came easily to Malakhai - and there was no falsehood in them. For the flicker, at least, his heart was truly behind what he was saying. All that he failed to consider was whether that heart could change... as it undoubtedly would. His face betrayed only a wave of innocent enthusiasm. "So where should I start?"

[Vanadius]

"Every little bit of information is valuable when it comes to facing the great drakes." Lockwood said earnestly.

"Whatever you can share would be most welcome. The Dragonknights have had their ways for a long time, many yahren now, but I'm not the sort to get tied down to too much tradition when lives are stake. What we've been doing has worked for a very long time, so why tamper with what works? But if there's something we can learn from those stories, I for one would be eager to hear them."

"Here here." Agreed Denbar.

"Well I hope that during the course of our training, that we don't trample too many of your traditions in the process. If we ask something of you that goes against your ways, just let me know and I'll do what I can to be sure it doesn't happen again."

"So where should I start?"

The men grinned and stood.

"Lets get you out among the other trainees and see where you stand, so to speak. Denbar, what do you think?"

The Red gave the desert dweller an appraising once over with his eyes, his tongue clearly pressed into the side of one fuzzy cheek as he though for a few flickers.

"I'd pair him with Duncan." He finally replied.

"Agreed. My thoughts exactly." Lockwood said, nodding his assent.

"Head back outside and once the Warden arrives, we're going to begin with some weapons practice. Expect the Warden to spar against you himself, he likes to get a personal account of the men."

He gestured towards the door.

"We'll be back out to join to you shortly."

[Malakhai Qinua]

Malakhai didn't need telling twice. "This one thanks you, dreshi," he responded, and bowed once again - but it was only a sketchy bow, because he was eager to get involved outside. As soon as he'd finished he virtually leapt out of the room, his hand drifting to the khukri at his belt despite the fact that he would probably not be using the short curved sword. Little spurred Malakhai on as much as the thrill of impending combat, and this was a special challenge. He wasn't just to be defending his personal honour. The honour of the People of the Sands, and their reputation in combat, was at stake as well, and depended on his performance. Of course, given the young man's less than rosy view of his own people, their reputation actually meant very little to him. But thinking that way made him feel highly important.

He brushed a strand of black hair out of his eyes and made his way back to the causeway where he'd first seen Denbar demonstrating horseback fighting, heading for the tent at the end containing the metal shells. The tall tribesman, flushed with the pleasure of acceptance, walked like he owned the place.

[Vanadius]

Out in the causeway, two more knights were readying themselves to joust. A shorter man with a black tree on his shield was speaking to a younger man. Malakhai remembered seeing neither before, so they must have come while he was in his meeting inside with Lockwood and Denbar.

When they both seemed ready, one of the others dropped a flag on a short stick and they thundered towards one another. The pair was rather inexperienced at such an art, and the jarring impact left them both flailing through the air and landing hard on the ground. No one laughed, although knowing smiles could be seen everywhere around the causeway.

Behind Malakhai, Denbar and Lockwood emerged from the Commander's office.

The Red spoke in a loud, booming voice.

"That's enough for now. We're going to move on to single combat training. Line up for your chance to knock the Warden's teeth down his throat. Warden Blacktree, they're all yours."

The short and lean Blacktree began to put his gloves on and was handed a blunted tourney sword by Midge, who brought the weapon without forewarning or complaint. Blacktree ran a boot heel around in a wide circle in the dirt. Once he had finished marking the circle, he stepped inside and put on his helmet.

The young knights chattered and spoke in nervous, anxious, quiet tones. This was obviously their favorite part of their training. No trainee yet had defeated the Warden in single combat, but they all were very willing and enthusiastic to try.

The first cadet in line, put his helmet on and stepped into the circle, and shouts of encouragement followed him in. The Warden, hit his tourney sword against his shield sharply one time, and the combatants began to circle one another.

[Vanadius]

"Well met, then, Sir Blacktree. Aye, I shall wait, thank you." the young swordsman answered, taking a slightly uneasy stance near the smaller man. Khalaros stood watching as the two new competitors mounted their horses for their run.

He was about to ask Blacktree about the Dragon Knight Order, just to keep up conversation, when the elder knight spoke. "You any good with that hand a halfer?"

"Decent, for an untrained man, I'm told...but nowhere near your skill level, I'm sure, if your jousting run is any example..." Khalaros gave Blacktree a respectful nod, then returned his stare to the jousting knights.

[Khalaros Lehan]

OOC:
Just a little help needed here, Van...could you change my quote to read "Well met, Sir Blacktree..." rather than Lockwood? *shrugs* Overtired when I wrote it, I guess...

BIC:
Khalaros stood, eyes narrowed, studying the rider's charge at one another, learning little more than the obvious fact that neither was an expert jouster.

Across the way, a large young man emerged from the Commander's office, blinking in the bright sunlight and watching the competion commence.

A tribesman? Perhaps an envoy or ambassador of some sort, here to judge the knights training? I suppose I shouldn't be surprised...the Keep does lie on the edge of their lands. He's a Big one, I must say...might even be taller than I.

Behind Malakhai, Denbar and Lockwood emerged from the Commander's office.

The Red spoke in a loud, booming voice.

"That's enough for now. We're going to move on to single combat training. Line up for your chance to knock the Warden's teeth down his throat. Warden Blacktree, they're all yours."

Next to Khalaros, the short and lean Blacktree began to put his gloves on and was handed a blunted tourney sword by Midge, who brought the weapon without forewarning or complaint.

"Good luck to you, sir." Ros offered. He found that he genuinely liked the man, much to his surprise. Warden, eh? Well...tis now or never, time to show some bravado...

"...perhaps if you have time, Sir, you could save a round for me, as well." Khalaros added as Blacktree advanced to the center area.

Blacktree ran a boot heel around in a wide circle in the dirt. Once he had finished marking the circle, he stepped inside and put on his helmet.

The young knights chattered and spoke in nervous, anxious, quiet tones. This was obviously their favorite part of their training. No trainee yet had defeated the Warden in single combat, but they all were very willing and enthusiastic to try.

The first cadet in line, put his helmet on and stepped into the circle, and shouts of encouragement followed him in. The Warden, hit his tourney sword against his shield sharply one time, and the combatants began to circle one another.

Khalaros watched the bout, intently.

[Malakhai Qinua]

When Denbar spoke from behind him, Malakhai moved to stand with the other trainee knights, although he didn't quite insert himself into the group. Instead he placed himself next to the other man present who wasn't participating in the shouting and chattering: Khalaros.

Pushing his hair back over his brow with a sun-darkened hand, Malakhai sized the man up, as best he was able. He seemed tall, at least for a guarrdi, and well built. The tribesman wondered whether he was another newcomer to the ranks... and thus a potential rival. Regardless, he was observing the combat with an intense concentration, and Malakhai did not wish to be outdone by anyone in any field. So he fixed his own brown eyes on the circling combatants, folding his arms across his chest and drawing his robe together as if feeling the wind.

Needless to say, he did not react to any looks or comments made his way by the other trainees, and in fact hardly spared them a glance while the duel was in progress. Malakhai knew the situation - he was a stranger in a strange land. It was their game, and he'd resolved to play by their rules, at least until he could beat them at it.

[Khalaros Lehan]

Advance. Parry. Counter. Withdraw. Khalaros watched the bout with ravenous intent, hungry for knowledge of the craft he so loved.

His eyes darted to and fro, taking in every movement of each swordsman, both proper and those made in error. One could learn almost as much from what not to do, as what you were supposed to do.

Ros gave the lean tribesman a glance as he approached, and the slightest of nods, keeping his gaze almost completely on the mock duel. The time for courtesy would come later, after the combat, as blonde swordsman did not wish to lose even a moment of prospective learning time.

Still, no sense in offending the man. he chided himself.

"Do you enjoy swordplay, sir?" he offered, his attention never swaying from Warden Blacktree and his student.

[Vanadius]

"...perhaps if you have time, Sir, you could save a round for me, as well."

"Fear not, everyone shall have a turn..." Blacktree responded casually, as the trainee suddenly screamed a wild battle cry and came rushing at him. The slight, slender Warden ducked under the wild blow, striking the trainee's back as he went by, as the trainee's momentum carried him out of the circle.

"You're dead. Strike to the spine. And save such theatrics for a final charge. The only thing you've done there is waste a good deal of energy and get yourself killed." The Warden said flatly. The young trainee got up, somewhat dejected.

"Next." he shouted as a few of them shouted taunts and jeers at the loser.

For a few flickers, no one moved. A sense of anticipation and fear of being next hung in the air.

"Next!" The Warden shouted again. "You there...Anddi-hu" He said, pointing the tip of his tourney sword towards Malakhai. "Show me how your people fight."

[Malakhai Qinua]

"Do you enjoy swordplay, sir?"

A little surprised to be addressed, Malakhai turned and grinned at the blonde-haired man. "Oh, I do," he responded. "When I'm on the right end of the sword..."

It was true that being wounded greatly diminished most people's enjoyment of the thrill of combat, but with Malakhai the effect was particularly noticeable. At home in the City of Tents, in fact, having blood drawn during a friendly bout had often been enough to put the young man into a foul mood for days. Since then he liked to think he'd matured a little, but in truth he was still temperamental at heart.

The first combat, it seemed, was over almost before it began, and Malakhai was a little disappointed - especially when he himself was called to fight next. He'd hoped to be able to get a feel for the Warden's style, but the contest had been so short as to render that impossible. "It is my hope," he murmured to Khalaros as he went to pick up his equipment, "that I last a little longer than that."

If Malakhai was being completely honest with himself - and he was - he did not seriously entertain any notion of beating the man in the circle. In fact, he was almost hoping to lose. He'd come here to learn, and for that he needed a dreshi considerably more advanced in swordsmanship than he himself was. No, his aim, as stated to Khalaros, was to "survive" for as long as he could. That in his mind was the best way to gain respect from the other Knights as well as to learn. He dropped his khukri to the ground and picked up the tourney sword, shield and helmet.

Hefting the sword and shield, Malakhai found that all the equipment was heavier than he was used to, but it was the helmet that troubled him the most at first. With it on his head he felt as if he had to face an opponent somewhere in the distance, down a long tunnel, and it was constraining. Not to mention the fact that it flattened down his impressive head of hair so much that he'd have to rearrange it completely later on. Trying to get over the feeling, he stepped wordlessly towards and into the circle, his dark eyes seeking out the Warden's. The tribesman knew that confident gaze could do much to tip the course of a preordained combat by showing the opponent that he was unafraid. Perhaps Malakhai should have been afraid, but for the moment he wasn't. Just excited.

[Khalaros Lehan]

"Oh, I do," he responded. "When I'm on the right end of the sword..."

"A man after my own heart." Khalaros returned the tribesman's grin with one of his own, before returning his gaze to the surprisingly short sparring match. Or, perhaps not so surprisingly. This was a place of learning. It only made sense that there would be others like Khalaros who were at the begining of their sword training.

Then, the Warden chose Malakhai next.

"It is my hope," he murmured to Khalaros as he went to pick up his equipment, "that I last a little longer than that."

"Such is my hope as well, my friend. Good luck, to you. I'll cheer you on if you return the favor." Ros said, good naturedly.[/quote]

[Vanadius]

Warden Blacktree gave Malakhai a wide berth as the desert warrior stepped into the circle.

The other men watching, once raucous and boisterous in their support and derision of the man who had gone before and lost so quickly did not quite fall silent, but they were no where near as loud with Malakhai.

Shouts and hoots receded into a few supportive claps and the words of Khalaros were noticeable and clearly heard. Another spoke loudly, giving those who had yet to face the slight yet experience Blacktree some extra information and incentive.

"There's a free ale at Pete's for any man that can strike Blacktree, and a month's worth if you can disarm him!"

Denbar the Red shouted from the back row, "And I'll give a yahren's wages to any who manages to defeat him!"

Lockwood smiled with the carved dragon pipe in his lips. Blacktree's face might as well have been carved from stone. He simply nodded his readiness to Malakhai, and gave the desert warrior a few probing test strikes. The tall tribesman was a good foot taller than the smaller Warden, and outweighed him by at least fifty pounds, but Blacktree was experienced and sly, and judging by the way he had outmaneuvered his first foe, the older man still had panther quick agility.

After his first few pawing, probing strikes, he cut in low and fast towards Malakhai's legs, testing how the desert warrior would respond.

[Malakhai Qinua]

Under the helmet, a little sweat began to bead Malakhai's brow as he began to circle the Warden. The older man delivered a few test strikes - these the tribesman deflected without making any of his own, much as he was itching to try out the long blade. He was more interested in seeing his opponent's fighting style.

It wasn't long before Blacktree made his first real move: low and aimed at the legs, as Malakhai had expected given their difference in height. This time, rather than try to block the blow, he allowed himself to act instinctively. Malakhai attempted to dodge into the circle to the Warden's left. Avoiding a blow often had better results than the jarring impact of sword-on-sword or sword-on-shield.

At the same time, when his conscious mind kicked in, he swung his tourney blade up and then down in a lateral, overarm strike, aiming for Blacktree's own extended sword arm. The blow was one more suited to a khukri than to the sword he wielded, but it had occasionally served him well in the past. His left hand brought his shield up to cover his exposed torso as he tried to regain his balance.

[Vanadius]

Perhaps it was imagination, perhaps it was truth, but Malakhai could very nearly feel the blunted edge of Blacktree's tourney blade whisper past the hamstring of his leg as he dodged away, leaving the cold and frightening feeling behind of what a true strike with a true weapon would have done.

Perhaps it was that fear that drove Malakhai's sword down in a rush towards the Warden's arm, but the older man was equal to the strike and brought the edge of his shield in enough to deflect the desert warrior's blow by a slim margin.

The crowd of men roared in approval and the Warden gave a satisfied wink and nod to the young Malakhai.

Denbar shouted again. "You've met your match now Blacktree!"

The Red's words were followed by several shouts of encouragement from the onlookers.

The Warden circled the younger man to his left, this time not pressing the issue, but simply biding time, waiting for Malakhai to give him his best strike.

[Malakhai Qinua]

His rather wild riposte may have elicited a roar of approval from the onlookers, but perhaps only Malakhai and Blacktree would ever know just how close the tribesman had come to falling - quite literally - at the first hurdle. He cursed internally, and responded to the Warden's wink with a half-smile of bared yellowing teeth. Any more of a reaction was at present beyond him as he circled and breathed heavily, the exertion beginning to take its toll. However, this was compensated for by a rush of excitement as he rapidly considered his next move.

His plan had been to fight defensively, in order to stay "in the game" as long as possible, but Malakhai had never been one for plans. They tended to evaporate as soon as the heat of combat was upon him. He therefore didn't take long to make another strike.

Breaking suddenly but smoothly out of the circling motion, he bore down upon the shorter man, shield held high - and at the same time kept his sword low, swinging it in an upward arc. He aimed this time to sweep in under the Warden's defences at his legs and lower body. It would be difficult for him to pull off due to his greater height, but he was hoping that it might at least surprise the wily older man a little.

He wasn't quite cocky enough to believe that it would work perfectly, though, and so he remained ready to attempt to block any return strike with his tourney shield.

[Khalaros Lehan]

On the sidelines, Kalaros cheered along with the rest of the crowd at Malakhai's show of skill. The lean desert warrior was obviously talented, and someone not to underestimate.

Though, of course, the same would need to be remembered of Warden Blacktree. 'Ros watched as the aging Knight circled the tribesman, wary, his form and attention focused on his opponent.

[H`saan Alai]

It was, if not a day full of giants, then a day full of Very Tall Men for the Dragon Knights. The two newest recruits, both over six feet tall, were joined by a third while Malakhai’s duel was still in its early stages.

Following Jome Amah’s directions, H’saan found the causeway with little difficulty. His quest to locate Sir Sterling, however, was quickly derailed by the excitement surrounding the swordfight.

Now this was peculiar. An expression of mild puzzlement came over his face. The Seneschal had mentioned that the warden liked to test his trainees – but H’saan could think of no reason why one of the desert men would choose to join the Knights. According to their culture, waging a war against dragonkind was considered akin to a waging a war against the sun – quite possibly disastrous, and ultimately futile.

Seeking answers to this little mystery, the healer found a space at the edge of the circle and tapped on the shoulder of the closest man. He was a relatively tall blonde one, and unlike the others, he was not dressed in the armour of a knight.

“Your pardon, sir,” the half-giant healer murmured to Khalaros. “But why is that soldier doing battle with tribesman?”

[Khalaros Lehan]

“Your pardon, sir,” the half-giant healer murmured to Khalaros. “But why is that soldier doing battle with tribesman?”

So intent was Khalaros on the match playing out in the circle, that he started at the half-giant’s touch on his arm. The blonde-haired swordsman glanced quickly at H’saan, did a double take, and found himself staring directly at the half-giant's torso and arms, rather than where he expected the man's face should have been. Khalaros blinked, flushing, then glanced upward, seeking the other man’s eyes.

God’s above. He’s even taller than the tribesman...before today I thought of myself as tall…but now?

Realizing that his actions were far less than polite, Khalaros coughed lightly, clearing his throat, and answered, “Er…they aren’t exactly doing battle. You see that Soldier there? That’s Warden Blacktree. He’s testing the tribesman’s skill level. Apparently, like myself, he’s an applicant to the Knighthood…”

A pause, and then he added, “I am known as Khalaros, by the way.”

[Vanadius]

The Warden had seen his fair share of combat, and been in quite a few battles in his day. The tall desert warrior came at him in a rush which was a surprising move to say the least, but Blacktree's experience would see him through.

In a deft and subtle move, he ducked under Malakhai's sweeping upwards strike, and as the momentum of the swing carried his arms and torso upwards, the Warden struck low and fast to the taller man's exposed knee. It was short, smart, stinging blow that took Malakhai off balance and caused him to fall roughly to the dry, dusty soil of the causeway.

The Warden held up a hand for a moment against the cries of disappointment that were illicited from the onlookers. A concerned look was evident on his face as pulled off his helmet and let it fall to the ground. He reached out an arm to help the desert warrior up.

"Well done." He said in a surprisingly friendly way.