All for a Bag of Coin (Omgitsviva and Jorian)

The noontime sun shines over the thin forests and plains of the region of Pangaea. The regular bustle of the town can be heard in the distance, and a small stone castle looms over a small clearing in the forest. Within the clearing, the clashes of blades can be heard. Two young men are sparring with old blades and light armor.

"You're getting better," the one said. His name was Claymore, and he was a tall, thin and lean young man with long slick brown hair and piercing green eyes. He swung his long claymore sword at the other.

Silas was not, and had never been, a swordsman. He had always preferred the delicate art that was the longbow, a weapon of pure grace and refinement, not at all like the bullish and candid sword that one could swing about like psychopath. The delightful young man with Aryan blonde curls and boyish features was renowned for his agile skills with a bow, but when it came to the matter of the sword, he moved like a clumsy oxen. It was only under hours of training and a rather brute instructor that had given Silas any chance at handling a sword semi decently. Nevertheless, he leapt back neatly; his slim and athletic figure beginning to show signs of fatigue as he lifted his Arming Sword up to meet the oncoming Claymore.

“You better believe I’m getting better,” he teased in a light-hearted manner, “You’re going to start having competition soon when it comes to this whole sword matter,” Silas shifted his weight underneath the swords to keep his balance, stumbling ever-so slightly as his metal spurs caught in the grass and threw him off balance for a moment. He wore a pleasant smile, enjoying the workout and the rigorous training Claymore had been putting him through—intentional or not.

Claymore knew Silas well from the long time they'd spent training together, and they both knew that Silas was much more adept with a bow than a sword. Claymore personally saw those ranged weapons as a more cowardly way to go about battle, but he did see and acknowledge their value in a battle strategy. He knew that Silas saw swordplay as a more brutish method to go about things, and he often laughed at the thought. Swordplay is a more violent method, but Claymore knew all the workings around the art of swordplay in a way Silas, or any cowardly archer, never could.
Even though, Claymore was impressed with Silas' gradually growing skills with a blade. He was becoming ever so slightly more graceful with a sword, but he still had a long way to go if he was to ever compete with the likes of Claymore.
Claymore felt Silas' exhaustion begin to catch up with him as their blades clashed, and immediately took advantage of the oppurtunity when Silas momentarily lost his balance. He lifted the blade of his trusted claymore sword, for which he was nicknamed, and quickly swung the pommel of it back around to Silas' forehead, still keeping his blade poised for another parry if need be.

Silas had grown up as an apprentice to a bow maker and horse breeder and had learned the art of the bow from a young age. As an equestrian, he was competent and comfortable with the animals and made shooting arrows from the back of a horse look as though he could do it in his sleep. Although he could, and frequently had to, enter close-range combat, he preferred to find large ridges or hills on the outskirts of battle in which he could sit on his horse and snipe unsuspecting enemies with an arrow. Nevertheless, the young man’s dedication to improving his prowess on the battlefield was admirable.

“Bloody!” Silas squealed as he tried to avoid the pommel of the sword to no avail. The hard metal cracked him on the crown of his forehead and opened up a small cut, which bled in to his blonde hair and gave him a small dabble of red. The force of the whole encounter nearly knocked Silas off his feet and it made him throw the Arming Sword several feet off by accident. In one swift movement, he reached back and pulled the two short swords from his quiver to defend himself—an act that, had he been in real battle, may have just saved his life.

He laughed a little, stepping back and using his sleeve to wipe away some of the blood from his forehead. The wound wasn’t bad, just enough to make him notice it was there, “God, you are quite the bastard.”

"Haha, sorry 'bout that, mate," Claymore said, laughing as he propped his sword on the ground and leaned on it. He pulled a small kerchief out of his shirt and wiped his brow, then offered it to Silas. "You know I get a bit carried away, though. Here, wipe that cut. It doesn't look too bad."

He paused a moment, steadying his breath, then pulled his sword up and sheathed it on his back. "You're getting better though," he said. "Notice that root behind you, though? Should you have avoided that blow, I still could have tripped you up there. Gotta keep an eye on your surroundings, mate."

Claymore was a squire for a well known knight in his youth, in which time he learned to excel in using blades and developing his strategic skills and tact. Soon, his skills were found by the Veteran, as they all called the head of their little band of mercenaries, and he was taken away as an apprentice for some time. In his training, his skills with his claymore sword and his tactfullness both developed to a genius level, receiving much appraisal from the Veteran and many of their partners.

Silas took the handkerchief and dabbed away some of the blood and sweat, holding it to his forehead to allow the wound to clot. “Nah, it isn’t too bad,” he agreed. The wound was just enough to teach him a lesson, a lesson that wouldn’t need repeating in the future. When the cut stopped bleeding, he removed the handkerchief and offered it back to Claymore, “Here you are, because I know you’ve always wanted cloth saturated in my blood,” teasing lightly as he put the short swords back in to his quiver, before going to fetch the tossed Arming sword returning it to its sheath at his hip.

“Alright,” he sighed, glancing over to the root and taking note. It made sense, but it was difficult for him to keep his senses as cognizant when engaged in combat. “Don’t worry Claymore, I just let you win so your self-confidence didn’t get shaken,” laughing a little and trying to catch his breath, flashing Claymore a witty grin. If not a bowman, the young lad would have made a charming entertainer or playwright, no doubt.

He picked up his bow from the ground, running a finger along the string like the weapon was a long-lost lover. “Ah, I feel like so much better now that my clearly superior weapon had been returned to me.”