Mountain Man

[Guest]

Peaceful days were overrated.

There was no clashing, no wars, and no world-ending crisis to prevent. For someone of his relatively new military standing, there really were no major battles to be fought, and no heroes to be had. There were no damsels in distress, nor knights in armor. No, this day was meant to be a peaceful day.

God, did Ichiro hate peaceful days.

On a day full of sunshine, fresh air, and no fighting, there was only one thing for a bored militant alchemist to do. Train. Hard. Everyone had their own way of developing their skills, some fought live opponents, some meditated, others, like Ichiro, only trained in private, and they trained intensely.

In Brigg's mountains, right in front of the mouth of a small cave on the side of one of said mountains, there was a clearing. The clearing was about thirty feet in diameter, and was surrounded by a ring of trees. The trees in the ring were each twenty feet tall, and had a various assortment of branches about them. In the center of the ring was Ichiro, the permanently pale-skinned, white-haired alchemist that stood at roughly five feet, seven inches in height. His red eyes dead-set in concentration as he practiced the one thing he had mastered over most alchemists. The one thing that held him even marginally above the crowd. His swordsmithing.

Because of the noon sun bearing down on him in the clearing from directly above, Ichiro had opted for training shirtless. As far as pants went, he simply wore shorts. Easy to train in, easy to maneuver in. Ichiro made sure he was standing dead center in the circle before crouching low to the ground, slamming the palm of his black-gloved hand into the dirt. As the back of his glove glowed, he pulled his hand back, a long blade appearing from within the dirt, or so it would seem. In reality, he had just transmuted an amount of dirt equal to the needed amount to make a longsword. if anyone were to look at where his hand just was, they'd see a long hole in the ground, where the dirt used to be. Ichiro held the dirt-blade up, making a "kyah" from the back of his throat and spinning, throwing his blade at the ring of trees and pegging the bullseye he had drawn on a specific tree, dead-center. Ichiro smiled in silent victory and cracked his neck, sitting cross-legged and closing his eyes to meditate silently as his swordsmanship tutor had once taught him to do.

[Guest]

Viktor walked through the forest, delighted to see a peaceful day for the first time in a long while. For too long had he been cooped up in that wall of steel, finally giving himself a chance to explore the wilds of Briggs. It was something this grizzled veteran rarely had a chance to do in Drachma, so he was damn sure to enjoy things now while he still could.

Making his way through the forest, he took light steps, helping him bide his time. Plus, he didn’t want to attract, or scare away, any wildlife. That that they would pose much of a threat to him, but, rather, he didn’t want to cause any trouble.

Hearing the crackle of electricity, Viktor turns and heads to his right, soon coming close to a clearing of trees. In the middle was a young man, holding a blade in his hands, over a sizeable hole in the ground. “Must be that Amestrian alchemy,” he mutters. He watched as he spun around, releasing the blade into the center of a target on a tree. “Not bad.” He was amused when he saw the warrior alchemist sit down cross-legged, probably going deep into thought. Viktor stood still for a for moments, looking the young man over. He sensed… Impatience? Perhaps. Maybe it was something else that he sensed.

Stepping forward into the clearing, Viktor looked back at the thrown sword. “Is not the point of a sword to hold on to it?” he asks, his heavy accent revealing his Drachman origins. "Or does that not apply to warrior alchemists?"

[Guest]

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