A bored Zisiene tosses knives at a wooden target.


It is midmorning of the fourth day of the third month of the seventh turn of the 12th pass. It is the fourth day of Spring and 62 degrees. It is still pleasantly sunny, though storm clouds gather on the horizon.


Southern Telgar Steppe

OOC Date 19 Feb 2016 05:00



Southern Telgar Steppe

The savannah home of desert runners and hardy herder-folk, Telgar's steppe-lands along the northern bend of the Western Road are dry and wind-swept. No trees grow here, save around the scant rivers and lakes that dot and thread the terrain. Summers here are quite hot, and the winters are deep, with many a morning finding the low shrubs and grasses gilded in thick, silvery frost. The flatness here might drive a mountain-dweller insane, were it not for the rolling hills that break the monotony of the view every now and again. Navigation must be done relying on sun, stars, sense, and scant landmark alone, for there are no mountains or valleys to take a bearing by for leagues.

Thunk! Thunk! The blades in the girl's hand fly with a nearly uncanny accuracy towards the wooden target she's set up. One, two, three and walk to the target to pull the blades from where they stick out of the wood. Walk back to her marked throwing place, and throw again. Each time the blades hit precisely where the girl aims. One near the center of the target, one just above, and one just below.

Zisiene scowls at the target not happy with her aim, “That's not right,” she mutters as she tosses the blades she'd been given to practice with. They don't feel right in her hand. The balance is off. She has a myriad of complaints on these knives. One's too short, one's too long, the third is too thin. One's blade heavy, one's hilt heavy, and the third has virtually no weight. Disgusted, Zisiene tosses the blades onto the table she stands next to.

One of the guards she hasn't bothered to learn the name of eyes her for a moment before he goes back to his patrol. Zisiene looks around checking to see if anyone's watching. With a practiced flick of a wrist, a small throwing knife drops down into the palm of her hand. This is given a flip to be caught between thumb and forefinger at the tip of the blade. She tosses the blade, and watches with satisfaction as it sinks half way up the blade into the center of the target. It's all about the balance really, and in rapid succession she flips two more blades pulled from hiding spots on her person after the first.

Now if she could convince one of the cooks to let her use a butcher's knife, but she already knows that won't happen. After a few more minutes Zisiene collects her blades, and tucks them back into their sheaths. One on each forearm, and the third tucked down the front of her bodice next to its companion. A twitch of her shoulders settles the four blades down her back, and she's off to her first lesson of the day.

Add a New Comment