Brobdingnagian [Richter/Rilcha C Support]

[Rilcha Winters]

Fingers curled so tightly around the hilt of the worn sword that the knuckles were bone white Rilcha swung, gripping it with both hands like one would a club. The boy's elbows slamming into his rib cage as his arms bounced unsteadily, wrists snapping forward with the weight of the weapon. It was only the third swing but his arms already ached, and the boy was not yet quite sure what to make of it. This was the fourth or fifth time that he had privately swung the blade around and he couldn't see any sort of improvement, just darker bruises on his chest.

He expected for it to be lighter, easier, to find more movement in his stance at the very least. If it came to a fight he wanted to impress Richter, the reason why he was taking up any of this in the first place. The man was impressive, and that was the least that he could say about him. Everything he ever wanted to be, that he never knew he even wanted to achieve was all that he was. When the Winter Lion entered a room there was a visible shift in the air, taking control of situations with ease and always knowing the right thing to say. Most of all, he was strong in mind, strong enough that he never needed to be fearful.

Raising the blade above his head he gave another mighty swing, slicing through the air and successfully jamming his misplaced elbows into his stomach. With the air driven out of him in a hollow puff he stumbled back until he regained his footing and harshly swung again, this attempt with his arms bent out at his sides. With no buffer the hilt slammed into his gut, the boy letting out a strangled choke as he doubled over in pain and let the weapon drop to the floor. Progress? He felt slighted by the thought that hard work would get him success with this unquestionable series of failures.

Wrapped up in his disappointment Rilcha hardly even noticed the open door, crouching low with his arms hugging his legs close to his chest for momentary relief and comfort. He almost wanted to weep in frustration, why had his mother ever given him a sword in the first place? It was her he wanted to blame, and that thought drove into his chest a jagged knife of searing guilt. She had done nothing wrong, he was far too old at the age of thirteen to stay at home under her care, it was her who had told him about it in the first place. Rilcha was frustrated, but more at himself than anyone else. He was the only one that fault could lie with, as it was a problem with himself that led to his incapability as a man. According to her all the other men his age were far more capable than he was, and reminding himself of it only fed to the growing fears that he carried.

He wanted to be stronger, to impress her, to have her smile and be proud to have him as her child. Yet, it seemed no matter how much he had practiced he grew no more capable with the sword, nor any more capable with anything else.

[Richter Abend]

“Have you even held a sword before?”

Standing in the doorway was Richter Abend, the Winter Lion. He hardly looked the part, though. He wore no armor, his hair was let down and messy, and his wounded arm was tucked snugly into his untucked shirt. Coming up on a week now, the man had clearly spent far too long indoors and so with very little to do he had come to see what Rilcha was doing, whether or not the boy was getting himself into trouble. Richter wouldn’t call this little display trouble, in fact it looked like the kid was actually trying to better himself, but, boy, it sure was pathetic. That said, it meant, at the very least, that there was something for Richter to do.

“Would you swing a stick like that?” Richter asked, stepping into the room towards Rilcha. He snatched the sword out of the boy’s hand, careful not to cut his hand on the blade, but once glance at the weapon made Richter realize that the condition it was in probably would have kept Rilcha from cutting the Ilian even if he had deliberately tried to do so. Probably a good thing, in retrospect, otherwise the boy would have likely cut his own head off by now. “Obviously not. The movement is unnatural, so why do it with a sword?” The Ilian held the sword out in front of him, his arm straight, then lifted the weapon just above shoulder level and swung the sword diagonally in front of him, slowly, so that Rilcha could see the path of his arm through the air. He repeated the action twice more, pausing in between each mock attack so denote the beginning and the end of his movements. He then flipped the sword around and held it, hilt first, towards the boy.

“Like that. Don’t piss your pants over it, it’s just a sword,” he instructed in his usual blunt manner. “It’s only going to cut you if you don’t use it right.” He jiggled the weapon at Rilcha in an attempt to be enticing, but likely he just intimidated the boy further. It seemed like everything he did did so. "Go on. Let's see you do it right."

[Rilcha Winters]

It was lucky that Richter had snatched the sword from the child's hand at that moment, Rilcha's grip faltering in surprise at the interruption. In simpler terms, he let out a loud yelp and nearly threw the sword in surprise as he raised his arms to cover his head instinctively. He hid his face in embarrassment at having been watched, and shame at having been criticized by someone like the pink-haired man.

“Would you swing a stick like that?”

"No..." he whispered, almost whimpering as she shrank back while Richter stepped into the room with his overwhelming presence and overtook it instantly in a way only a hero could. The man gripped the sword with his good hand and swung it through the air, the movement delicate compared to his own rigid and forceful slashes. Richter's wrist seemed to flow with the ease that a fish swam, and once again the child was struck with awe at the man he was accompanying.

Rilcha's fingers curled around the hilt of the weapon offered, but not after flinching once or twice when Richter wiggled it at him, flinching for the other rather than himself in this case. The man was the fearsome Winter Lion! But the boy worried needlessly that he'd cut himself holding the blade like that. He had held a knife like that once, the result of trying to play catch with one like he'd seen a boy in the village do. There still was a faint scar along his palm as a reminder of why that had been a horrible idea. His mother had even reminded him of it at every opportunity to be sure he wouldn't make the same sort of reckless mistake again. On another note Rilcha had thought that he had done well keeping the pants wetting a secret, and couldn't help but sulk slightly at it's mention.

Gripping the sword unsteadily in one hand he raised it up parallel with his shoulder, wrist trembling as he struggled to hold the weapon steady. Then, mimicking Richter he forcefully swung it down through the air, elbow tense as he kept his arm straight. Immediately the boy was disheartened by the results, while he hadn't injured himself there was certainly something lacking in comparison to the older male's. How was he ever supposed to match up to that? What point was there in even trying?

The desperation certainly showed on his face, lower lip protruding slightly as little puffs of air fluffed up his cheeks. "It wasn't right" he moaned, gazing at the weapon forlornly as if it was responsible for the chocking failure that he was being drowned in. Maybe it was because his sword wasn't anything special that he couldn't do it right. Gwen had a beautiful lance, Richter had his axe, Mavick had, erm. He wasn't quite sure what Mavick had, but he felt that it was a guarantee that it was something amazing in comparison to his own weapon.

"I didn't do it right..." he repeated with a soft sniff, crouching down and hiding his face in his knees to wallow in his misery

[Richter Abend]

Richter watched Rilcha in a sort of stunned silence as the younger boy took a crouching, curled up stance akin to the fetal position, and the Ilian had to suppress a not-so-small urge to kick the kid upside the head. Was this truly happening right now? Was this blubbering mess the boy he had agreed to bring along? Yes, the swing had been pretty terrible; Rilcha's arm was too stiff, and he had kept his shoulder locked, but it wasn't something to start crying over like a baby. Rilcha needed to get himself some good sense, and more than a little toughness, and given that Richter had already passed the point of leaving this kid behind, he'd have to make sure he'd get it. By Barigan's breath, if Richter needed to beat it into him he would. He had no patience for dead weight.

"No, you didn't," said the Ilian, shaking his head. He tucked his good arm into his bad one. "It was a bad swing, but it was already better than the awful ones you were doing before." Richter didn't pull any punches. He saw no point in it. If Rilcha was going to be anything more than a weepy, useless little boy, and when Richter had "recruited" him that had seemed to be his end goal, then he'd need to know how to deal with criticism. He'd never get any better if Richter told him he was good when he wasn't. So the commander's head tilted to the side as he thought of how to proceed, then after a moment of pondering, he gestured for the boy to pick up his weapon and follow him.

"Come, we're going outside."

[Rilcha Winters]

Better?

Rilcha swelled up with an odd sort of pride at the praise he received from the older man, slowly straightening up and rubbing his nose roughly with his sleeve. If Richter thought that he did better than the last time there was nothing the boy could do to challenge his judgement. The man had years of endless experience and certainly hadn't praised him like this before over anything. Also, with a moment bit of thought it was clear that he had indeed not injured himself with the swing. It wasn't nearly what he wanted and and did nothing to quell the overflowing failure, but it was something to cling to.

"Come, we're going outside."

The boy cast a fearful glance to the window, wisps of snow idly blowing across the glass with the frequent gusts. He wasn't too fond of the cold, and was more than thankful that they were waiting out the worst of the storm in the inn. But Richter wanted to go out and there was little he could do other than meekly bob his head and retrieve his cloak and mittens from the peg that it had been hung on. The sword in tow he trotted after him, awkwardly pressing the flat of the blade against his side with his elbow whilst he fiddled with the clasps on his cloak.

"Is there something outside?"

He wasn't horridly worried that there actually was something, somehow he would imagine if it was anything important he would have fetched pretty nice smelling Gwen instead of asking him along. Richter could be tossing him out in the snow of course, but for once Rilcha wasn't particularly afraid of that nagging thought. The man had praised him after all, and it wasn't as if he had done something recently that he could pinpoint as a fault.

"Does the inn need firewood?"

Another explanation for their little trek, but once again he doubted that Richter would want someone like himself to assist him over pretty Gwen. Maybe he simply wanted him to set the logs up on the block since he lacked use of both his hands? He couldn't help but whine softly at his own confusion, bracing himself as he stepped through the doorway and out into the cold.

[Richter Abend]

It only took a second for Richter's beard and hair to fill with snow, yet in spite of it he met the howling, icy tempest with nothing more than a blank stare. Was it cold? Sure it was, it was frigid, but Richter was Ilian and no self respecting Ilian would ever shiver in the face of a chill. And even as fierce the weather was, it had been worse the day before. Richter would take the calmer weather, if it was only marginally so, as a sign that it was time to take a break from the stuffy confines of the inn. Besides, what better place to toughen a boy than in the snow-laden winds of a blizzard?

As he stepped into the snowy world outside the inn, it couldn't be said that the Ilian moved with grace. His steps were slow and plodding since his legs forced to move in a stiff, unnatural motion to accomidate the thick layer of snow he had to wade through. Southerners often thought that Ilians had some sort of secret to living and moving in the frozen tundras of the north, like a race of angry snow sprites, but the fact of the matter was that the only secret to living in Ilia was not keeling over a dying as easily as everyone else did.

Richter walked past the long, wall-like pile of firewood that ran adjacent to the exterior of the inn. He was headed into the untouched field of white that the grounds had become, but rather than continue onward, he stopped himself, stepped back to the firewood, and took a closer look. Visually the pile was nothing more than a massive mound of smooth, lumpy white, but Richter could see the identation down neer the door where innkeeper's wife had been removing wood to use for fire, so he walked over to the recessed spot in the pile, and with a gloved hand, brushed off at least four inches of snow. He could feel the frozen water melt as it touched the skin between his glove and his sleeve, causing the inside of his wrist to become uncomfortably wet. He scanned the momentarily revealed hunks of wood, then grabbed a thinner piece and walked off into the snow. That said, thinner was a relative term. The stick, about three times thicker than a sword handle, was ungainly and hard to hold, especially through gloves, but it would be suitable for this little excercise. If he was lucky, perhaps it would freeze to his hand.

"So," began Richter, shouting over the snowstorm. "you're Etrurian right? How often did it snow where you were from?" Through squinted eyes he looked around. All he could really see was the inn. Everything else was just white. Would be best not to let himself get disoriented in case the weather got worse. "Ever snow like this?"

[Rilcha Winters]

For a few moments Rilcha was mystified by the wispy cloud that flowed from his lips as he breathed heavily. He raised a mittened hand and waved it through, the boy watching it disperse before trotting after the Ilian. He forced himself to match his stride, following in the man's footsteps to avoid stepping directly into the field of snow. The sinking crunch was unnerving, and matching another's stride gave him a small speck of amusement.

"It snowed every year" he chirped once he had arrived at the man's side, standing a step away whilst he watched him get a grip on a thick chunk of wood. He couldn't stop the thought that Richter was going to crack it over his head, and moved a few steps back to keep him out of range. Better safe than injured. "First there's frost, it came instead the mornin' dew and covered the fields a sprinkle of flour. Then the leaves all dried up and grew so heavy they fell. Then snow."

He rambled on nervously and rolled the hilt of the rusted sword between his hands, distracting himself from the cold nipping at the tip of his crooked nose. "Then there was lots. Of snow I mean, so much that it piled on up against the windows so you couldn' see out for weeks. I never was allowed outside in it, Mam said I'd get sick or freeze." The boy breathed out again, staring in amazement at the thick puff. He assumed that it was like smoking a pipe, but with ice.

"The year I was borned the Winter was so frightenin' that my Mam named me after it. She said it was 'cuse it was less painful to endure in comparison to havin' me." He craned his neck, peering back at the Inn behind them. "She wanted me to be strong 'cuse of it." Rilcha turned back and paused, casting his gaze at the wood in the man's hand once again. "I think at least..." The boy sounded hopeful at the thought.

[Richter Abend]

“What does the name ‘Rilcha’ have to do with…” Richter began thinking to himself as he stared at the young boy through squinted eyes. "Must be an Etrurian thing." He didn't bother asking for clarification. It didn't matter. They weren’t out here to share their life stories and get acquainted. Rilcha had tagged along to become a talented swordsman, and while Richter doubted this boy would ever be worthy of such a descriptor, the Ilian had grown tired of abiding the boy’s uselessness. He would try to make Rilcha at least a passable swordsman, rather the whelp he was currently, too busy tripping over his own feet to be anything more than a nervous tag along. And if the Ilian failed, he’d just have to get Rilcha used to hauling other people’s junk.

Richter raised the arm holding wood so that the thick stick was angled sideways across his chest, parallel to the ground. His brow furrowed as his relentless gaze continued to lay upon Rilcha.

“Attack me.”

The command was short and to the point. The Winter Lion wasn’t about to waste his time teaching actual swordsmanship to a skinny-limbed child who could barely swing a sword without hitting himself. If the boy was to become anything, he first needed to be toughened up. Richter’s father had a saying: “If the meat is too lean, the broth will be too thin.” He realized it wasn’t much of saying, the Abends weren’t much for sayings, and in fact his father had really only ever said it to the Abend boys each and every time they began gutting and cleaning game for dinner, but even so Richter found the words relevant. It didn’t matter what he taught Rilcha, if the boy was too weak to fight then no amount of fancy swordplay would make him anything more than a glorified training dummy, and a poor one at that.

“Attack me, and don’t stop until I say so.”

[Rilcha Winters]

The blunt command took him by surprise, eyes widening in horror at the thought of striking out against the man. What if he hurt him?! But then he felt so horridly silly at even entertaining such an idea. Him actually harming someone like Richter, it was just about impossible. Shoulders slumping, an expression of momentary relief crossing his face.

"Just swing?"

His words didn't tremble and there was no fear nor uncertainly weighing them down. Instead Rilcha simply looked confused at the simple command. However, none the less his muscles tensing as he shifted the blade into his grip and hurried to follow his word. He raised it up with both hands, elbows bent as he swung it like he had time and time before with his shoulders stiff and his back rigid. He stopped just a hair from elbowing himself in the stomach, teeth clenched and jaw set as he had prepared for the expected pain. Richter had shown him another way earlier, and as usual his stupidity made him feel hopelessly foolish in the man's presence. Sheepishly he shifted his stance, imagining something a little more casual like swinging a hoe.

With that he swung, a grunt of an exhale bursting from his chest as the glorified club with the stick with a dull thwack that reverberated back down his arm. It almost felt like his arms had turned to jelly under the sudden shock of numbing pain that jolted up his arm. It honestly hurt after one full swing, but the older man had not told him to stop. So he raised the dull blade up once again and swung it with a little more vigor. By the sixth swing his chest was heaving, the crisp air keeping him alert. By the seventh his teeth were grinding in frustration, eyes focused in upon the stick he was targeting in irritation.

[Richter Abend]

"That's pathetic," came Richter's emphatic declaration. But at least it's better, he thought.

The following sigh could be neither seen nor heard over the snowstorm they currently found themselves in. Good grief. The first swing had been pretty damn awful, like the ones back in their tavern room, but while Rilcha improved greatly in form by his final swing there was no power in his strikes. Hell, every time the boy swung he looked as if he was being shaken to his core. He wanted to become a great swordsman, hmm? He'd be lucky to find steady work as a stable boy, because from what Richter was seeing, he'd have a difficult time shoveling poo.

"I didn't say stop!" The Ilian shouted over the howl of the icy gales, tightening his grip around the chunk of firewood he held. The kid tended to get flustered when yelled at, but friendly tones didn't seem to do anything so Richter inclined to vent his frustration as they trained. "Again, with more power! Your arms are weak, and they always will be! Use your hips and your shoulders when you swing!" Then, suddenly and without warning, Richter raised his unoccupied hand up in he air, twisted his hips, and in perfect form brought it down upon Rilcha, connecting with the boy's shoulder and pushing him into the snow.

"See? I barely grazed you," he continued barking at his trainee. He didn't bother offering Rilcha a hand to help pull the boy back to his feet. "Yet there you are, ass in the snow!" The point of this excersize was exhaustion. Richter wasn't going to waste time taking things slow. If this shrimp could make just one good swing while both frustrated and tired, then he'd be moving in the right direction and worlds closer to the title of "swordsman" than when he'd woken up this morning. "Good form will do that. Now keep going!"

[Rilcha Winters]

There was neither pain nor shame on Rilcha's face as he lay sprawled back in the snow, rusted blade knocked from his hand in the fall. No, there was only shame. A prickling tension that overtook his forehead and left his jaw tight with parted lips as he panted. He couldn't even think of embarrassment, the usual waves that instantly overtook him at every turn surprisingly absent. All that he could think about was the deep gut dwelling stone of shame that he was such a disappointment to Richter. What had he ever been thinking. He was useless, he knew better than to think he could actually make something of himself alongside such vibrant and awe inspiring people.

Mam had been right, he really was no good to anyone for anything.

He wanted to pull his shirt up over his head to hide his face to sob out the crackling ball of frustration that had settled in his throat. It was all that he could think about, hundreds and thousands of his fears and anxieties creeping in through the cracks to overtake him. Rilcha was simply overwhelmed, floundering against a vile wave of twisted thoughts that sought to consume him. He sputtered, trying to form some sort of incoherent sentence with dim eyes that stared off up at the sky.

Richter's sharp bark snapped him out of his dazed state of woe, working just the same as a swift slap upside the head. He had to try just a little right? Even if it was fruitless Richter was trying to teach him and here he lay an ungrateful spoiled child taking advantage of another's kindness as usual. His Ma- It didn't matter, he had to get back up and do something, anything.

Rilcha shoved himself up to his knees and slapped his hand about in the snow to pull the rusted blade back into his grip, using the elderly weapon as a crutch until he got his footing. He couldn't do it, there was not the slightest drop of confidence in the fiber of his being that believed he could really succeed. But for Richter he'd at least try, just so that he wouldn't be wasting the man's attentions.

Squaring his shoulders the boy raised the blade and swung with every minuscule bit of might he could muster, keeping his elbows bent and apart so that he wouldn't repeat the mistake of shoving them into his stomach. He swung with all that he had, every bit of trembling terror and discomfort flooding into his arms as a shrill suddenly yell burst from his chest.