It was a beautiful autumn afternoon. The leaves were just beginning to turn colors, and a brisk breeze blew, carrying the briny scent of the sea. In the cleared area north of the stables that was the training field, a massive white figure held what looked, in his hands, almost like a children's bow. He was practicing his aim by shooting at the wooden practice dummies, missing more than he hit, as evidenced by the arrows which sprouted up like feathered weeds everywhere except for the dummies. He drew his last arrow and fired, finally hitting one of the dummies; unfortunately, it wasn't the dummy at which he had aimed. The dog let out a snarl of frustration and threw his bow to the ground before going to retrieve his arrows.
Jimson returned to where he'd been standing for his target practice and flopped down onto the beaten dirt next to his bow, removing his quiver and replacing the arrows inside before tossing it to the ground, as well. He let out a defeated sigh as he began absentmindedly tracing figures in the earth with one claw. He needed a bigger bow, but didn't know how to make one, or even what kind of wood to use. He knew that you had to use a special kind of wood, just any wood wouldn't do, but he couldn't remember what it was. The bow he used now was one of the few that hadn't been broken during the tornadoes, and it had not been made for him; he was big even by his breed standards. The Pyrenees had some idea that he might have a little bit better aim if he had a suitable bow, but he didn't fool himself into thinking that the size of his bow was the only problem. He just wasn't very good. He'd been at this all damn morning and half the afternoon, and had actually hit the dummy he was aiming for maybe three times. He'd gotten lucky enough in his travels northward to have managed to kill enough food that he didn't starve to death. Of course, he was a pretty decent fisher, too, and that helped.
Well, he was done fooling with this stupid thing for today. Might as well do something he was actually good at; maybe his mood would improve. He pushed himself up and retrieved his staff from where he'd rested it against a nearby tree, and began practicing his form on one of the dummies.
When the cobra runs for her life, she goes like a whip-lash flicked across a horse's neck.
Word Count - 320 :: Sorry for the wait! D: Hope this is okay!
It was common for Skoll to visit the training area, at least if he wasn’t patrolling frantically or lurking worriedly in his injured mother’s room. He wanted to be physically powerful, as if that could make up for the emotional wreck he was turning into, as if it would make him strong enough to fight off all the darkness that could possibly threaten Cour des Miracles. He fought often against the wooden dummies, sometimes leaping in and gnawing at the bases in his four-legged forms, other times pummeling them with fist and foot, giving them such abuse that he was surprised they didn’t break; though these times he usually broke first, going home with bloody knuckles or a torn claw.
At any rate, it wasn’t surprising that even today the young wolfdog would head toward the little clearing, his green eyes burning with an unfocused resolve and his nails digging into his palm pads. He paused as he reached the edge of the training area, a shaft sticking out of the bushes catching his eye. He pulled the arrow free from the foliage and gripped it thoughtfully before the sound of wood striking wood made his ears prick and his feet propel him onward.
Despite his recently dark mood, Skoll had to grin as he saw the large Pyrenees handle the thick fighting staff, wielding it with surprising grace against the dummy target. It really did look like a tree trunk for its size and evident power, and he almost lost himself to just watching. Once he saw a brief lull in the training, however, he took advantage to walk forward and hold up the arrow.
“I believe this is yours, sir,” the sun-colored prince told the older dog, smiling. He shook his head as he stared at the staff, one that dwarfed the size of the one his reddish half-sister fought with. “That thing really is handy, isn’t it?”
Rikki-tikki knew that he must catch her, or all the trouble would begin again.
Word count: 318 // No big! Sorry on my end, too, lol.
It was a very calming rhythm, the thumping of Jimson's staff against the practice dummy. The methodical contact helped calm his frayed nerves, and soothed his earlier frustrations. This, at least, was something which he did well; it was hard to miss when you aimed with a weapon as big as Jimson's staff. It was what he liked about staff fighting as opposed to the bow and arrow. With the staff, you just had to swing in the general direction, and you'd make contact somewhere painful, whereas with that stupid bow you had to be meticulous about how you aimed, how hard you pulled on the string, in what direction and how hard the wind was blowing and whether you happened to be gassy that day. Blunt abuse was much more the big dog's style.
So focused was Jimson upon doling out blows that he never noticed the creamy male's observance until Skoll approached him, offering an arrow the big dog had apparently overlooked as Jimson took a bit of a breather. The white giant's broad face broke out into an honest smile as he saw the familiar face. "Ha, yeah, damn fool thing. Thanks," he said as he took the slim implement from Skoll. He crossed the short distance to his quiver and replaced the errant arrow where it belonged before returning his attention to the other male. He grinned at Skoll's comment, giving his staff an appreciative look himself. "Ah, yeah," he replied. "Cain't go far wrong with a big stick, I allus say. Damn bow 'n arras gimme fits, so it helps to unwind wi' mah staff a bit after spendin' all day missin' mah targets." Jimson offered the staff to the younger male, motioning with his head toward the much-abused dummy. "Y'wanna give it a go?" The staff may have been a little unwieldy for the wolfdog, but Jimson thought he could handle it.
When the cobra runs for her life, she goes like a whip-lash flicked across a horse's neck.
Word Count - 423
The big white dog took the arrow, and Skoll nodded quickly to acknowledge his thanks before standing back and watching the man curiously. He was always very curious about newcomers, but the childish interest of his younger days had given way to a more critical scrutiny recently. After all, each new member was supposed to contribute to the wellbeing of the Court through whatever ways their skills permitted—and most of the reason Skoll had been so eager to invite Jimson was for the skill with the staff he’d been wielding. The courtiers were important in times of peace, but the cavalry was arguably more important in these dark days.
The other explained his preference of the “big stick” over the bow, and Skoll had to smile in agreement. “Projectile weapons are too complicated,” he remarked with a disdainful glance toward the quiver. He enjoyed seeing them taking down birds on the ring or going through rabbits, but he wasn’t so sure they’d even do much to a full-grown Luperci—or, at least, not the Great Pyrenees with his huge build and thick fur. He doubted they’d do more than irritate him. Shaking his head, he went on, “I like fighting just with teeth and claws, myself. Easier than handling a weapon, even if you have to really throw yourself into the thick of it.” He didn’t seem all too regretful about this last fact; the touch of eagerness gave away that he wasn’t necessarily a veteran of many battles.
That said, there was a shine in the youth’s eyes as the newcomer’s weapon was offered to him. He grabbed the staff, feeling the weight of it and wondering how he’d be able to even lift it; he’d inherited a fairly large build from his parents, but he wasn’t the mass of muscle he could have been, tuned more toward endurance and a balance of speed and strength. He was still even a foot shorter than the massive dog, anyway, who could fling this thing around like a pretend sword if he wanted to.
“I can try,” Skoll replied, and grinned sheepishly. “You might want to stand back, though,” he warned, before hoisting the staff and lunging for the dummy. The huge thing whammed down against its head, but the follow-through had the boy losing balance and crashing into his intended target as the staff fell from his grasp. A yelp left him before he grabbed for it again, though this time the loss of balance prevented him from even taking another swing.
Rikki-tikki knew that he must catch her, or all the trouble would begin again.
