Renoir's Journal
Jun 18, 2015 16:25:17 GMT -6
Post by Renoir on Jun 18, 2015 16:25:17 GMT -6
A plain, leatherbound journal typically sits in Renoir's things at home. He isn't much of a writer... As of now, it sits empty. He's let it collect dust over the years. However, there is one entry he wrote a few months ago, a reflection of sorts, about his days in the military, and how he learned how to fight...
----
Flashback 6 years, age 18 (explanation of exotic seal/fist)
"But sir, if I can fire a bow, the odds are good that I'll never need to be in hand to hand combat."
"Quiet! I'll have no talk like that. All Ilian military are trained in effective hand to hand combat. You will not be given even the rank of private if you cannot defend yourself. Now! COME!" The man shouted.
Renoir looked down, through gritted teeth. He avoided his captain's gaze. He was just a young boy, skilled enough with the bow. Did he really need to learn how to use his fists in battle? Was that really so important?
Before he could think anymore, his captain was upon him, slugging him so hard in the left cheek it sent him flying back, slamming into the back wall of the dojo, cracking the wooden support beam. "Tch..." he breathed, a trickle of blood coming out of his mouth. He had never been in a fist fight. Was this truly the way to learn? Renoir thought the idea of ranged combat was to be able to avoid such nonsense. He guessed he was wrong. Perhaps the military was wrong for him, after all.
The man was on him again, and Renoir knew better than to take the hit. Clumsily, he rolled out of the way, dodging the blow without much skill. It was a weak, easily-counterable roll, and his captain sighed with distaste. "On your feet, Monet." Renoir was up quickly; he knew better than to disobey his captain.
The harsh, battle-hardened man softened his gaze and spoke kindly to Renoir. "Listen to me, son. You must become one with your body. You can shoot a bow better than any recruit I've ever seen, but none of that means anything if you get yourself killed when a soldier gets close to you. And I promise, they will get close to you. You'll have to learn. Now, listen," his captain parted his feet and raised his hands palms open, not formed in fists. "For someone of your physical build, your best bet is what I like to call Counter and Reverse. It relies on the physical strength of others, using their motion and natural energy and inertia against them. If you can do that, you can disarm. You can also deal some lethal damage with just a little training."
Renoir nodded, indicating he understood.
"If you can change the tide of battle with your fists, it might buy you enough time to nock an arrow and fire. You see?"
Renoir nodded again.
"This isn't about brute strength, like many combat styles. It's not about tiring your opponent out, either. It isn't necessarily even about winning, unless you can get really good at it. This is about countering. This is about incapacitating your opponents to give you an advantage. Do you understand?"
Once more, the boy nodded.
"Good. Your body will flow like water. You must become one with the atmosphere of battle, turning yourself into a fluid, energetic force. You will dodge, parry, and disarm effectively. You will be able to use your lithe frame to your advantage in this way. When an opponent strikes hard and fast, you will be faster, you will be ready, and you will be anticipating his every move. This style is chess. It is picking your opponent apart, guessing his moves, locking his limbs, and being three steps ahead of him. Always. Do you follow?"
He was tired of nodding.
"I am going to come straight at you with a punch. I will give you thirty seconds to figure out what you need to do. Ready yourself."
Renoir froze. He was going to do what, exactly? He hadn't been trained, he had just had something explained to him... That didn't do him any good at all! He tinged. He parted his legs. His mind may be young, but it is sharp. He knew that. Let's see..
If he came straight forward, Renoir to dodge right, come around from underneath with his left arm to lock his opponent's punch, and use his right arm, palm open, to bend the captain's forearm back. But would it work?
The captain came at him. A slow, powerful punch. The moment stood still.
Dodge right. Arm up, come from underneath Renoir, come on. Yes, that's good. That's the way. Bring your forearm up around his. Alright, now palm his forearm with your right hand!
"Very good." His captain was pleased. Renoir had him in a lock, and had dodged the punch. It didn't even take much out of him. "You understand. You must be like the water... Taking whatever shape your opponent takes, but faster, quicker, more adaptable. You will be fine."
---TWO YEARS LATER---
Renoir spun his body around fluidly, a kick coming high up from his left leg. He hit the opponent perfectly, right in the neck. The second man came at him from the side, throwing a straight punch at his face. Renoir instinctively moved his left hand up, palm open, and stopped the punch. The inertia with the man's swing still strong, he used to continued motion to spin his body around, and with his right hand, opened his palm and hit the man in the stomach, dropping him to the ground.
The third man came from behind him, leaping up with a fast and powerful kick. Renoir had seen this coming. He simply stepped to the side, as fluid as water, bouncing on the balls of his feet. As the leg came past him, Renoir grabbed hold of the mans upper thigh and spun him around, bringing him down on top of the first man.
Finished, he brought his legs together. He wasn't even out of breath. He hadn't broken a sweat.
"Very good," his old captain said, extremely pleased. "Two years has hardened you."
He nodded, like he always had. The twenty year old man was beginning to understand the purpose of this fighting style. He could easily out-maneuver anyone he wanted to, if he could predict their movements and use their energy and motion against them. Easy enough.
A fourth man came from up high, hiding in the rafters of the training room. Renoir leaped back, flipping his body, springing himself off the palms of his hand as they hit the ground. The man was upon him faster than the other tree. He came with two quick jabs from both hands. As the right came, Renoir simply turned his head left; as the left came, he turned his head right. It looked like the man was dancing. Renoir came in, ducking under the man and moving forward, placing both open palms along the man's stomach. He pulled the man towards him, then side-stepped, throwing the man off to the side. He was pleased with himself.
The captain called time. "Four men in under one minute. You're getting good, Monet. Really good. Your superior officer will be proud. An archer that can fight hand to hand like this is rare. And necessary on the battlefront. Now, go see your new captain. Your unit is leaving for Bern."
"Thank you, sir." Renoir said smoothly. He wiped his hands off and exited the room. Today would be a good day.
----
Flashback 6 years, age 18 (explanation of exotic seal/fist)
"But sir, if I can fire a bow, the odds are good that I'll never need to be in hand to hand combat."
"Quiet! I'll have no talk like that. All Ilian military are trained in effective hand to hand combat. You will not be given even the rank of private if you cannot defend yourself. Now! COME!" The man shouted.
Renoir looked down, through gritted teeth. He avoided his captain's gaze. He was just a young boy, skilled enough with the bow. Did he really need to learn how to use his fists in battle? Was that really so important?
Before he could think anymore, his captain was upon him, slugging him so hard in the left cheek it sent him flying back, slamming into the back wall of the dojo, cracking the wooden support beam. "Tch..." he breathed, a trickle of blood coming out of his mouth. He had never been in a fist fight. Was this truly the way to learn? Renoir thought the idea of ranged combat was to be able to avoid such nonsense. He guessed he was wrong. Perhaps the military was wrong for him, after all.
The man was on him again, and Renoir knew better than to take the hit. Clumsily, he rolled out of the way, dodging the blow without much skill. It was a weak, easily-counterable roll, and his captain sighed with distaste. "On your feet, Monet." Renoir was up quickly; he knew better than to disobey his captain.
The harsh, battle-hardened man softened his gaze and spoke kindly to Renoir. "Listen to me, son. You must become one with your body. You can shoot a bow better than any recruit I've ever seen, but none of that means anything if you get yourself killed when a soldier gets close to you. And I promise, they will get close to you. You'll have to learn. Now, listen," his captain parted his feet and raised his hands palms open, not formed in fists. "For someone of your physical build, your best bet is what I like to call Counter and Reverse. It relies on the physical strength of others, using their motion and natural energy and inertia against them. If you can do that, you can disarm. You can also deal some lethal damage with just a little training."
Renoir nodded, indicating he understood.
"If you can change the tide of battle with your fists, it might buy you enough time to nock an arrow and fire. You see?"
Renoir nodded again.
"This isn't about brute strength, like many combat styles. It's not about tiring your opponent out, either. It isn't necessarily even about winning, unless you can get really good at it. This is about countering. This is about incapacitating your opponents to give you an advantage. Do you understand?"
Once more, the boy nodded.
"Good. Your body will flow like water. You must become one with the atmosphere of battle, turning yourself into a fluid, energetic force. You will dodge, parry, and disarm effectively. You will be able to use your lithe frame to your advantage in this way. When an opponent strikes hard and fast, you will be faster, you will be ready, and you will be anticipating his every move. This style is chess. It is picking your opponent apart, guessing his moves, locking his limbs, and being three steps ahead of him. Always. Do you follow?"
He was tired of nodding.
"I am going to come straight at you with a punch. I will give you thirty seconds to figure out what you need to do. Ready yourself."
Renoir froze. He was going to do what, exactly? He hadn't been trained, he had just had something explained to him... That didn't do him any good at all! He tinged. He parted his legs. His mind may be young, but it is sharp. He knew that. Let's see..
If he came straight forward, Renoir to dodge right, come around from underneath with his left arm to lock his opponent's punch, and use his right arm, palm open, to bend the captain's forearm back. But would it work?
The captain came at him. A slow, powerful punch. The moment stood still.
Dodge right. Arm up, come from underneath Renoir, come on. Yes, that's good. That's the way. Bring your forearm up around his. Alright, now palm his forearm with your right hand!
"Very good." His captain was pleased. Renoir had him in a lock, and had dodged the punch. It didn't even take much out of him. "You understand. You must be like the water... Taking whatever shape your opponent takes, but faster, quicker, more adaptable. You will be fine."
---TWO YEARS LATER---
Renoir spun his body around fluidly, a kick coming high up from his left leg. He hit the opponent perfectly, right in the neck. The second man came at him from the side, throwing a straight punch at his face. Renoir instinctively moved his left hand up, palm open, and stopped the punch. The inertia with the man's swing still strong, he used to continued motion to spin his body around, and with his right hand, opened his palm and hit the man in the stomach, dropping him to the ground.
The third man came from behind him, leaping up with a fast and powerful kick. Renoir had seen this coming. He simply stepped to the side, as fluid as water, bouncing on the balls of his feet. As the leg came past him, Renoir grabbed hold of the mans upper thigh and spun him around, bringing him down on top of the first man.
Finished, he brought his legs together. He wasn't even out of breath. He hadn't broken a sweat.
"Very good," his old captain said, extremely pleased. "Two years has hardened you."
He nodded, like he always had. The twenty year old man was beginning to understand the purpose of this fighting style. He could easily out-maneuver anyone he wanted to, if he could predict their movements and use their energy and motion against them. Easy enough.
A fourth man came from up high, hiding in the rafters of the training room. Renoir leaped back, flipping his body, springing himself off the palms of his hand as they hit the ground. The man was upon him faster than the other tree. He came with two quick jabs from both hands. As the right came, Renoir simply turned his head left; as the left came, he turned his head right. It looked like the man was dancing. Renoir came in, ducking under the man and moving forward, placing both open palms along the man's stomach. He pulled the man towards him, then side-stepped, throwing the man off to the side. He was pleased with himself.
The captain called time. "Four men in under one minute. You're getting good, Monet. Really good. Your superior officer will be proud. An archer that can fight hand to hand like this is rare. And necessary on the battlefront. Now, go see your new captain. Your unit is leaving for Bern."
"Thank you, sir." Renoir said smoothly. He wiped his hands off and exited the room. Today would be a good day.
