A Land Far Away

Aglaril had been standing for nearly six hours now at a small clearing, atop a lonely slope within a reasonably safe section of the Moonwood. This test of waiting was perhaps the most difficult part for him, for Aglaril in spite of his strides could hardly be accused of possessing the patience of Labelas Enoreth.

Unless it was a matter of life and death perhaps, which he reminded himself with effort, that it very well could be someday.

The Sword Coast would've been a better place for this, mused the Elf. Almost immediately after the thought flitted across his mind, he looked up to the sky once more, nodding to himself as he laid out a small parchment on the hilltop. The sky was finally growing darker, not with the approach of dusk but with the gathering of clouds.

Illeleste, Falling Rain. A style of elven bladework which is foundational training for most Bladesingers, relying on parrying and dodging an enemy's blow until an opening for a decisive strike appears.

As the rain drops began to fall, Aglaril drew his blade and took a deep breath. It had been more than a decade since he had seriously attempted this drill back on the Isle under the rather distracted eyes of his father. He remembered vividly how the elder elf had drawn his thinblade, winked at Aglaril, and proceeded to put on a dazzling display of agility, accuracy, and reflexes in the light drizzle, using only his blade to keep a small parchment on the ground completely dry by precisely deflecting raindrop after raindrop before they could land on the parchment.

Aglaril remembered too, that after a few minutes of the display, his father simply bade Aglaril to draw his blade and do the same, then walked away as his attention was caught away by a pretty etriel. After some minutes of frustration and anger, the results had been a drenched piece of parchment and a vow to never attempt the drill again.

A matter of life and death, Aglaril reminded himself, and bent his legs slightly at the knees into a balanced stance, his longsword held out before him over the parchment.

With a distant thunder, the first few raindrops began falling from the sky.

The sense of frustration had been growing slowly but steadily for a while. It had been lurking there, first felt in a corner of his mind as a seed of doubt, then moving almost physically outwards, through his chest, his heart, and eventually his limbs.

Aglaril stopped and lowered his blade. He considered the four glowing spheres of light dancing before him, as well as the similarly (but more faintly) glowing, vaguely humanoid shape standing in their midst. With but a thought he willed them all to move as he wished, the balls of light flitting around the larger shape at breathtaking speed, then the humanoid shape moving as well, resembling a strange and exotic opponent who moved his torso, arms, and legs with equally dazzling quickness.

The willing of the movements did not take much concentration, and there was a deliberate, constant predictability to them, no matter how fast the speed. After all, the movements were born from his own thoughts; he knew precisely where the movements would begin and end.

The exercise was a well established and relatively simple one on the Isle of Evermeet, where Bladesingers and other elven fighter-mages regularly honed their blade-eye coordination, accuracy and speed, while practicing the separation of both mind and physical movement that allowed them to cast spells fluidly in the thick of melee combat; it was, oddly enough, akin to the separation required to the playing of certain musical instruments where the left hand and right hand (and more so the player's mind and thoughts) were required to move and play in completely independent fashion... though this was far more complicated, ultimately closer to the feat of playing such an instrument in one hand while dancing with one's feet, while the other hand was engaged in deadly swordwork... all the while reciting a fairly complex book of poetry by memory.

Aglaril had always displayed some degree of facility with such an exercise, even as a much younger Elf, and the task was no longer such a great challenge for him. A shift of his weight, balancing into a basic stance - a flick of the wrist, a subtle turn of his forearm, quick, precise twitch of lean, taut muscles... brows knit slightly in relaxed concentration, even, steady breathing (so important), eyes following the flitting Dancing Lights rapidly back and forth - no, this was something he had little trouble with as the edge of his longsword scored hit after hit alternately on the moving spheres, then past the spheres at the humanoid shape. If anyone could have observed from a distance, the resulting blend of the spells' soft and swift moving brilliance, the flashes of light as the longsword danced, the movements and gestures of the two humanoid shapes, one luminous, one solid but seemingly otherworldly in the midst of the glitter, it would have been a rather impressive sight... although likely an actual master Bladesinger would simply have smiled rather bemusedly.

The building frustration, however, was undeniable. There was simply something not quite right about this. It was too... static, in spite of the rapid movement of the lights; by the nature of the exercise, the spell, it was... too predictable. There was a time when the exercise would have been important, perhaps critical, in developing more fundamental skills of accurate bladework along with the separation, but somehow Aglaril knew this was no longer sufficient.

Yet it was such a time honored and well established exercise! And not merely the exercise, but something of the thought, the approach behind it, was what bothered Aglaril. Does it have to be thus, the Gold Elf wondered silently as he stared at the lights once more. Then the thought came to him, a barely remembered phrase spoken decades ago.

"Classical stances and classic forms, exercises and rituals can become artificial and mechanical, and do not truly prepare the warrior for actual combat," Aglaril recalled the familiar voice in his mind, and wondered. "I consider it a form of paralysis, constraining what was once fluid. Their practitioners are merely blindly rehearsing routines and stunts that will lead nowhere, unless they grasp the greater truth."

A brief pause, then a smirk. "Tradition has it's place Aglaril, but don't let it make you stupid."

Sheathing his blade quietly, Aglaril did not even notice the cantrip fade away into nothingness as he cupped his chin in thought.

"Enough of this," Aglaril snorted indelicately after a while. "I'm going to find Elenaril."

((wink wink, BHM wherever you are, feel free to post here!))

"Hells, Elenaril... trying to score a hit against you... is worse than chasing Fairy Dragons blindfolded..."

Aglaril paused and panted quietly as he took a step back, moving out of the superbly crafted adamantine rapier's range. A small trickle of sweat rolled down his bronze forehead, coming to a halt upon meeting the ridge of golden brow. Aglaril studied the other elf's weapon, which had become both a very familiar vexing obstacle as well as an object of admiration and inspiration.

Talvael...

His own longsword was of fine elven craftsmanship, but looked and felt like a clumsy thing in contrast to the El Tael's superb blade. Similarly, while Aglaril's own agility and speed would've been judged as superior by most, the other Sun Elf's footwork, elegant grace, and technique combined to make him feel rather clumsy by comparison once more.

Aglaril shook his head and refocused, a determined expression forming on his face.

I cannot try to match his grace, nor can I match the speed and precision of a rapier... I must find my own rhythm.

With a small intake of breath, his longsword moved back into position as Aglaril approached the Bladesinger once more. The contrasting blades flashed in the sunlight as they met, the ringing sound strangely melodic, as the two figures renewed their dance.

"I'm not giving up yet, El Tael..."

He dodges a blow albeit barely, dancing back just out of reach of his opponents swing before darting forward again in an effort to land a strike of his own, his blade; Talvael, made of darkest adamantine, elven script along each face of the blade sparkling with diamond dust and subdued flames, moves deceptively slow flicking around a blocking parry to land a hit on the other elfs arm.

Or at least it would have, if the other elf did not elegantly spin away from the attack leaving the El'Tael open for a counter of his own... and so it continues with each elf countering and riposting, gracefully avoiding eachothers blows. To anyone that observes it looks more like a dance, the two are near perfectly timed with eachother and it is hard to really say one is more skilled than the other.

A pair of dancers in near perfect harmony despite their differences... of which there are many, both have determined looks of concentration, but the El'Tael is decidedly more grim in aspect. Where the El'Tael is pale and dark haired, easily mistakable for a Moon Elf, the other is bronze of skin and golden of hair. Where the El'Tael is precise and elegant the other is strong and sure. Where the El'Tael uses a rapier the other uses a longsword and yet despite all ofthis, there is a balance, perfect in time between these two and their dance.

"Aye and you're far better than you give yourself credit my friend, you're arguably better with your blade than I am now, and your form and style are among the best I've seen, it's an honour to spar with you... and maybe teach you a little."

The two blades ring together again, each elf dancing back and leaping forward again in unison, again the blades ring, even this almost sounds like music as they do.

"All you need is focus, you must find a sense of balance... not just on a physical level, but on a mental one also. Find harmony with your weapon and you'll come to truely understand the Bladesong"

And so it continues for some time more, with neither elf really appearing to be likely to win as far as observers can tell... but maybe that's the point, a dance for the sake of the dance.

"Aye and you're far better than you give yourself credit my friend, you're arguably better with your blade than I am now, and your form and style are among the best I've seen, it's an honour to spar with you... and maybe teach you a little."

It was not the first time Elenaril had affirmed him certainly; Aglaril would never forget the day in the Underdark when Elenaril told him that he saw qualities in him that he could never have admitted to himself.

"... you have a spark of heroism when you want to. It suits you better than the drinking does."

For an instant the words echoed through his mind, distracting him enough for a fraction of a second, almost enough for the Bladesinger to land another score.

"All you need is focus, you must find a sense of balance... not just on a physical level, but on a mental one also. Find harmony with your weapon and you'll come to truely understand the Bladesong"

Focus... balance of mind and body... he made it sound so simple. And watching the El'Tael, often it did look near effortless, simple. There was an elegance to his every move, every parry, every step, every...

...strike!

The deceptively slow moving rapier came at him suddenly, breathlessly quick, almost like wakening from a dream in an instant and becoming fully alert; it was aimed chest high and this time landed a score, and certainly would've skewered him through his heart if this were actual combat.

Too much thinking now... I need to think... without thinking somehow. Focus... balance.

"Well struck, El'Tael,"

Aglaril shook his head and acknowledged the score with a nod and slight smile, immediately returning to his stance to resume the dance. A flickering thought passed through his mind with a familiar voice, though he managed to dismiss it quickly.

You're no hero...

Breathing in deeply through his nostrils, Aglaril narrowed his eyes slightly as he renewed his focus.