Thread 6315850

Our bittersweet farewell to youth.

The Queer Sort I

It has been a little while since I heard those drums. Nor much else. The last of the children returned to their monasteries and gymnasia some hours before. I do not envy their circumstances; bright and warm enough is the sun through the teahouse’s walls.

Bits of toasted bread and green and brown custard uneaten. Half of a sip’s worth of black tea clings to the cup’s bottom. And still in his slumber is Ging. He’ll whine about the soreness of neck and headache when he wakes. He’ll whine about what was consequent to his doing, but for now, it is not so intolerable to have his head on my lap.

A lection without audient is a bore, so the broadsheets seize my eyes and hands - my daily prescription of suffering.

On the first page are: poor handling of fireworks and blown off and re-stitched fingers; quarrelsome men sobering through jail and pillories; and the monthly obligations of every publishing house — announcing the lottery numbers and reminding the folk of civic duty.

On the other and third page are news less grave; news from the province; news from elsewhere provinces; news from the monarch. Nothing that interferes with the Fechtschule from the looks of it. A portion carved out for law folk. Taxes. Civic duty. Marriage. Inheritance. Trade cards for folk intending to keep away from suits, or intending to win them. If I had any intention of giving birth thrice, this would be of help.

Beyond those are page-long apologia and addresses of the inkhorns. I have my doubts the youth (well, low company) would cease killing each other were the iron on their hilts a little less weighty, or carried not on their bum.

Mastupration with a scalloped knife would do me more good than continuing this reading.

In any case, what is of importance here is Vunpen. She will be out of town for three weeks and so will her store. I’ll need to get more tabaco soon.

“Heya, punk.”

“Hei.”

“Um. Hei. Yok.” A half-awake Ging looks up to Baiyok.

“Ow.” She did not take too kindly of the circumstances of his headache. Another is judiciously given through a pair of wax tablets.

“Five Udd grubs, by the way. That’s what you risked getting brained for.” Her fingers seize the blonde tufts. “No punk will let you fuck her cunt for that much. You can’t buy one-fifteenth of a horse with that much. Can’t even pay frontage taxes with that much. So why the fuck are you risking your life. Your limb. For some chickenfeed.” They squeeze and tug and pull. And relent.

“Miserly little faggot you are.” Baiyok droops her head and sighs. “Promise me -swear on it now- you will not do this shit again. Don’t throw your life away for this- this chickenfeed. This cunthair’s worth of grub or whatever the fuck the case may be. I- I. I...” Her thumb slides down, catching his lips.

“I know. I know it’s- I— you needn’t worry of it, yea? This. This. this appointment of ours. This does not ruin my poke. Not mine. Not hers. Not in the remotest. If something’s out of reach. If money truly is a difficulty, I shall tell you.” She idly rests the thumb on his teeth.

“So.”
“With that being not the case. Promise me, yea?” Before finally withdrawing.

“Ye- yea. I do.”
“I do promise. I shalln’t risk my life and limb for some chickenfeed- some cunthair’s worth of grubs.”

“Then again.”
“Yours is pretty long so the—”

The fullest breadth and length of brain damage, judiciously put into words.

“Ughhhhh. Look at this shit, Unshun. look at the way he talks to his seniors. Next time he falls, stomp his head in. Turn that shit into syruped bananas. With a mouth like that, how Unshun didn’t rape you yet is something I’ll never comprehend.”

My skin is not that brown and my clothes are not impregnated with tumeric. So probably not. “I’m not a Guest.” Additionally, stepping on him would not have the result she wants.

“You -ought- to eat more curry, then.” Walking on her knees, she plops onto our side of the table.

“Sharing an eating place with such filth is not what I consider a worthwhile use of my time. And the stench that follows their ilk would—” Whilst I busy myself making the table less cluttered for this forthcoming lection, Baiyok is content with using his head as a handrest. And watching.

“Mind getting the attendant? black tea. toast with green custard.”

“That sounds like an excuse to stuff your tongue in his mouth whilst I’m gone.”

“it is.”

With the matter resolved, our lection may properly begin. It shall be ___

>Tales from the Waking Path - Saint Ongkulimarn
We, the Freefolk, have a saying: should you chance upon a snake and a guest, strike the guest.

But there was an aera when such a race was not so low (or low enough it was tolerable, I suppose). When the guests were Our Honored Guests of the Jambu Continent. Our religion, our folkway, our food, and our crafts are the afterbears of their instructions.

With great reluctance can I say it is all vestigial.

“He was born under the great bandit star…” But cruelty was never inborn to him.

[+Guestlore: religion and history]

>Frankfolk stories - The Freeshootist
Nearly fifty years have passed since we have declared and won our independence, in no small part due to the outlandish arquebuses, guns, and volunteer corps.

It’s been some time since the junks entered our port (these days, they much prefer the capital and her three rivers) nevertheless, much of our modern conveniences come from them; the coffeehouses, the broadsheets of the printing presses, even the kiseru Baiyok and I carry. And seldom smoke.

“So be it. By the gates of hell tomorrow: he or you!” Samiel awakens the Free bullets, for a price.

[+Franklore: outlandish folkway and instruments]

>>6315855
>>Tales from the Waking Path - Saint Ongkulimarn

>>6315855
>Tales from the Waking Path - Saint Ongkulimarn
welcome back, OP

>>6315855
>>Frankfolk stories - The Freeshootist

>>6315855
>Frankfolk stories - The Freeshootist
Hon hon hon, time for le baugette!

A tie. Huh. I’ll be checking again tomorrow.

>>6315855
>Frankfolk stories - The Freeshootist
Our friends don't seem too fond of the "guests," so let's go along to get along. Also: guns are fun!

Welcome back, QM.

Frankfolk it is. I’ll try to get this out in a couple hours.

>>6315855
>Tales from the Waking Path - Saint Ongkulimarn
Why does OP like the word cunt so much

>>6316225
sorry if I did not make this clear, but voting’s closed, afraid.

about halfway done. See you tomorrow.

>>6316225
It's a pretty good word.

>>6316250
See you soon!

Hello hello. While writing, I realized this update is a bit bigger than others. Can’t finish it tonight, so I’ll be releasing two-thirds of it now then finish up tomorrow morning, ideally.

The Queer Sort II

>Frankfolk stories - The Freeshootist

Some ideas are universal.

Garum.
Ketchup.
Fish sauce.

Little wonder, then, civilizations so different in coalescence would cherish similar qualities.

“The removal of foreskin without the consent of the person?”

… let us shun the mosalman for now, Yok.

“I thought we already do that?”

Might being chief among them. The skill to put forth your will and force the world to yield to it. Whilst not the entirety of it, violence -is- the chief way of doing so. The ancients knew it as much as their descendants. And from this, folkway. The celebration of arms. The Art of Defence.

Our tale begins in a time where not the bow, rather, arequebus accompanies the hunter in the forest and the festival. Standing before Wilhelm's marriage to Kathe, sole daughter from a family of hunters, and his station as the new forester is a trial. A man of good character, but a good shootist he is not.

A Kasper approacheth.
A Free bullet is produced.

“He’s a fraudsman!”

He once sought the very same station as Wilhelm, but was turned away by Kathe.

The shot is pushed down with a scouring stick. Powder fills the pan and a gentle blowing shoves away the excess. The pan is closed for now. A slow-burning cord is fixed to a serpentine. The pan is opened. The eagle becomes little more than a smudged droplet of ink. His hands unevenly jitter and cook under the afternoon sun.

The serpentine lunges at his fingers’ command. A flash. A bigger flash, scantly visible from the eyes of someone behind the barrel. And smoke. Two-thirds of a second passes before it drops the eagle.

As so often is the case, that was the last one he had. He needs Wilhelm’s help in forging a new batch, midnight at the Wolf’s Glen — but he mustn’t tell a soul.

In the meanwhile as the shot, a picture of Kathe’s forebears falls. A splinter pricks her as she tries to hang it again. More unnerving is Wilhelm saying he needs to venture into the Wolf’s Glen later in the night to fetch a bird he shot. Frightened, she goes to the local hermit for advice.

The moon, milk-like in brilliance. A cool air and a cooler-blooded man arrives before midnight. “Samiel, Samiel!” With his hand on a skull of a late Player of the Free Arts, he calls forth the black huntsman.

Your time is almost up.

To delay his immediate obliteration, he offers his friend’s soul and the family — with the seven Free bullets he intends to forge; one will be under the devil’s lordship; a shot to slay and murder Kathe would sunder the family and Wilhelm.

“So be it. By the gates of hell tomorrow: he or you!”

The day arrives. And with it, a bridal wreath for Kathe. What ought to be that, but its visage bears too closely a semblance to one from a funeral. Their bullets go through small and large beasts alike. One remains.

Shoot this dove, the prince commands. The folk watch and murmur. Powder. Shot. Pan. Cord. The serpentine springs forth. Dust and smoke, and a collapsed Kathe. AND a collapsed Kasper.

The wayward shot was deflected by the hermit and struck him in her stead.

“Who would lay so strict a sentence upon him? Who shall cast the first stone?” As the truth came out, the prince intended for the marriage to be rendered null, and Wilhelm banished under threat of death. “Only the love and the fear of losing her force such a man to stray from a life without fault.” The hermit pleads his case. It pans out - the sentence is reduced to a year of faultless behavior.

End.

But a lection is more than reading printed text, of course.

“The bollocks-shaped hilted daggers you see on Kasper and Wilhelm are… bollock daggers. Before the close-hilted ones of today, or these were frequent companions to men of all stations.”

“We actually do have written reports of how these Free bullets are supposedly made in [law]suits; among the ways of making them are shooting at a crucifix, a picture of Cristo, or at crossroads.”

“Much like the Fechtschule, the Schutzenfest can vary greatly in length and breadth; some are a gathering of a few close friends and relatives, whilst others are city-wide and attended by the local lord. The one we’ll be having soon is probably the largest we’ve had...”

Huh, so the religion of this world is very, very similar to the real one, just with several demihuman races. We know that magic works, and that there is a Vedic-style tiered afterlife, though... Garuda-like birdmen and nagas are canon, too. But so are Jesus, and the devil? Interesting.

Sneak-peek of the next post.

good news. Update’s in six ish hours. This is probably the longest it’ll get for a while. Thanks for sticking round.

>>6317131
Waiting warmly!

>>6316710
>>6316711

The Queer Sort 2.5

The ringing of the clocktower’s drums reminds us all of the passing afternoon.

At the heart of Pig’s Blood street, squeezed between the bodies of cookshops and eating places lies a house as brown as the tabaco she sells. Hanging above the door is a pair of penis fetishes, carved from wood and bone. Her children used to carry them, but that was a long time ago.

Rows and rows of the hand-sized tabaco boxes make a stronghold of the table. To its left is an even shorter one with mugs showing the different types; from finely cut, nosehair like to haylike to ones you could mistake for shredded pork.

“You’re smoking again, child? What ails you so?” Vupen sighs as she writes down the sale on a wax tablet so aged and large, a quick glance may mislead some to think it is a wedge of cheese.

“In-laws.” Or folks I -intend- to make my in-laws, in spite of their best efforts to the contrary.

“You’ll wear your lungs out long before you make ‘em all happy. Needn’t you worry about it much, child. I stopped giving a damn a year in. Served me well so far.” Sage advice from the seventy (or so) year old goblin. Probably.

Whilst Ging and I have gotten what we wanted, Baiyok is still mesmerized by the mounds of chocolate and cocoa; squatting down, eyeing the bricks and feeling each and every pouch’s weightyness.

“Come on. You’re the miserly one. I’ll be taking this.” With a gingerly shove, I send him on his way. And. Oh? What’s this? More inksticks and bricks of tea he could lend me whenever I linger at his house? Lovely.

Yellow and orange encroaches upon the roofs. It won’t be long before the road becomes tighter packed than potted meat.

Boiled cockles? They’re a little small right now, though. Later, mayhaps. I’m not having duck noodles for supper again. And I’ve eaten far too much chicken and pig’s blood jelly for the week. Hm. Yes. Soba does sound nice. I—

… someone returns my gaze.

A man at the road’s middle. The black spot on his upper right arm and the tufts of hair that sprouts from it. The unevenly shaved hair around his mouth. And the penis fetish hanging from his neck.

“tch. Do you intend on not greeting your senior, Unshun?” He must be twenty-three by now.

“Ah.” Clasping my hands together, I briefly bow; my thumb resting at my nose. “My mistake. It -has- been some time.”

“I think that much is self-evident.” Xong returns a nod. The Night Watch officer shifts his eyes away from my face. A long sigh is let out as he notices a kiseru around my waist.

“You know, I don’t approve of this. Nevermind what I did- what I do. Is being a barber so stressful, it pushes you to smoke, junior?” It’s nice to know listening to him is as grating as ever.

“Lice is one -hell- of a thing, senior.”

“Whoa. What’s with the hostility?” The senior puts his hands up and steps a bit further back.

“I do not… understand?” A puzzled expression strikes my face. My brows are starting to hurt from all the tension and twisting it does.

“That sounds a little too coarse.”

“I- that— that wasn’t my intention, senior.” I am certain my tone was not so different than before. Whatever. “fault mine. again.”

“Hm?” He appears vexed, as if my previous words disappeared into the air before it reached his ears. “fuckin’ dog’s cunt.”

“The fuck did you say, junior.” His hands drop to his hips. The fingers curl, in imitation of a claw. It does not make him any less a coward.

“How sharp your ears become. So suddenly.” Interesting, is it not, how my —quieter— murmurs reach his ears fine.

“That’s out of line, junior. You will be taking that back.”

“I’ve shown enough respect. You heard damn well my words the first time a I needn’t make a repeat of it. Five years my senior but you act as if your brain was retarded for the last ten. You’re a fucking dog’s cunt.” Instinctively, my left fingers wrap around the kiseru on my belt.

“You will -not- call me that again.” Xong widens the measure between us, keeping his left side foward.

“Then acknowledge it.” Last chance, Xong.

“Acknowledge what? I will not acknowledge something that was not real to begin with.” He pulls his own kiseru from his waist, cradling the metal pipe between his thumb and forefinger. As do I.

“A dog’s cunt till the end.” His is only an elbow in length [50 cm]. Mine’s a couple inches longer, and that means the world.

“Stand.” He flips it around. As do I.

With a passing step, he lunges forward, throwing a cut to the left of my head. Instead of a full cut that traverses from my upper left to my lower right quadrant, though, he keeps it tight; his point forward and hand at breast height - as soon as I void the cut by stepping back, he reels the pipe back up again for a cut to my right; I have to pull my hand back to keep it safe.

But since it -is- tucked back, my kiseru is ‘loaded’. I send my point forward - shooting a straight, vertical cut aimed at the crown.

Xong turns his wrist and raises his hand, keeping the ‘hilt’ and the strong of his ‘blade’ above his head, the tip pointing downwards. As I suspect, the moment my cut connects, he wheels the tip back up, throwing a cut to my left again.

This time, though, the motion is bigger. His elbow is further out.

Hm.

Stepping a couple inches back, keeping my hand tucked against my breast and point high, the cut passes before my face.

What would have been a perfect thrust to the pit of his stomach gets battered away by the immediate cut that followed the missed. He can’t get back in measure fast enough before I recover my guard, though.

“I think- I think that is enough.”

Our breaths are heavy and our hands are starting to sore from all the parries and cuts. The kiseru return to our waists.

“So. Will you take back the things you said?”

“You’re enough of a headache. I already have enough on my plate today. I need- I need. Coffee.” He means it literally; he digs his fingers into his scalp as he leans on the wall of the store. Xong still hasn’t acknowledged what I said.

“You guys good?” Creaking the door open is Yok. A bauernwehr is already in her hands. Not a moment too soon.

>Get him coffee [+combat tutorial]

“I never hated you, senior. Even before I began my apprenticeship. But. I can’t let doubts to my honor - and my words - go unanswered, either.” And even now, he has not recanted. There will be a next bout.

But for now…

“Let’s get us some coffee.”

“Tch. That ought to be my words, you know.”
“Very well.”

one step closer to “Cavaliers” route

>Bow out

The bout is over. The dog’s cunt has shown some heart, I’ll give him that but he’s still low company.

“I’m good, Yok. We ought to leave.”

one step closer to “Monarch” route

>>6317461
>Get him coffee [+combat tutorial]

>>6317461
>Get him coffee [+combat tutorial]

I’ll be checking the votes again in the afternoon, then writing.

>>6317461
>Bow out

coffee it is.

>>6316748
Historical backdrop; fantasy story. Much like Sekiro.

Updating tomorrow

>>6318797
Looking forward to it!

Feels a bit sick. Can’t make it tonight. Here’s a sneak-peak, though. and the end of the prologue.

>>6319124
Feel better soon, QM!

>>6319291
Thanks. Feeling a lot better now. Update should be out by evening of today.

The Queer Sort III

>Get him coffee

Like a wart on a finger, a less-than-thorough digging and plucking will not cure the difficulty.

A whole lot of hurt for a chickenfeed’s worth of frith.

Our next bout -will- be a proper one, a thorough cutting; the matter will be settled, witnessed by our seconds. The possibility of him taking the dog’s cunt way of settling things - backing up on us with ten, fifteen of his cutters and beating us bloody - is remote, but not out of the question. Having Baiyok and her folk near the place ought to keep him in check.

“First time seeing you in ages and you’d take me to a coffeehouse and pay for my drink. Tch. You know, if I hadn’t known better I thought you might have feelings for me, junior.” An attempt at laughtercraft was made. It’s pathetic. I am fond of pathetical men.

“Such a doing would indeed be hard to grasp the intention-”

But I do have my limits.

“-but since senior is above the age of eighteen, I wouldn’t worry about it.” His expression is worth the afternoon’s quarrel; a perfect reproduction of a catfish drinking vinegar, if only for a moment.

“What a dreadful way of saying you wish only men your age.” Naturally, the nearing twenty-years-old Baiyok says this. If only Ging would let me stand on his shoulders so I could pull her ear.

“I always thought he was a catamite you two keep—” Xong immediately takes the comment back. I expect nothing less.

We walked. Our sandals brushing against the ways, the pebbles, dust and sand. And soil. And shade. And shade. More shade than light. In a day so scant in grace, the leaves of mango and plantain trees give so generously; only the tiniest sliver of light touches my skin as we visit the coffeehouse that has become Baiyok’s intimate as of late: Sheraim’s.

The great hall-sized coffeehouse’s walls are a blemished white, much like an old elephant's tusks, and scantly holding it together are seams as black and wrinkle-filled as vanilla. There is better, and cheaper elsewhere, but the coffeehouse is there. Always there.

A third of the benches are taken by flocks of older folk, men and goblins who have sold all their wares for the day. The other third are mothers, fathers, relatives of children soon to leave school. And promiscuously scattered across the empty bits that are left are small gatherings, fellows much like ourselves.

Coffee. A couple particulars we could agree on. A second he already has in mind. And a few choice words. And the steady, fast click of his shoes against old wood follows him out the door.

“So. That’s that, then?” Baiyok turns to watch Xong as he leaves, her forefinger lesiurely tapping the wax tablets.

“For now.” Having satisfied myself with one last look, I return to the cup of chaculato. With how many egg yolks are this thing, it’s practically supper.

“Good.”

Ow. I don’t recall her being this hard on Ging.

“You’re insufferable, you know that. THIS afternoon what did I say. I said Ging should not risk his life and limb for no reason and here you are, gambling - doing the same fuckin’ thing.” She seethes and droops her head. The only thing stopping her lips from kissing the table is the hand on the side of her throat.

“He pushed his luck. I had no quarrel with him until he started abusing his seniority. That is not how the older ought to behave. I have to stand against that.” My thumb brushes against the spot where she struck my scalp. It still stings.

“No. That’s not. It’s— it’s not that. Not really. It’s him. Him being Night Watch. I couldn’t care less if it was anyone else. Hell, even a peace officer.” Unspoken but loudly enough said is her meaning. I’m sure her, through her father, knows the fullest breadth and length of their crookedness. “It’s going to be a huge pain in the cunt when it's dark. They’ll back up on us and beat us bloody because the fuckin’ cunt won’t be able to take a loss- hell. He. He and his folk don't even -NEED- to do that.”

They need only to be elsewhere when we need them the most being the other unspoken words.

“I know his character. He’s not doing that. And if he does, well…” Baiyok returns my gaze. I can almost see the fangs from down here.

“Ugh. Fine.”
“But this is the last time. Swear on it. Don’t get into affrays with folks like him. And when I mean affray, I mean quarrels and brawls and whatever the fuck it gets called in court and whatever the fuck the broadsheets puke out. I won’t always be there. Got it?” A light nod dispels the growing tenseness on her brows.

“You have.”
“My word.”

Then again, is it really her place to say such things? For someone so critical of Ging being so miserly, she sure took her time in that store. Were she present with—

A slap to my waist briefly dispels that thought. He’s lucky I like him.

As the fechtschule looms over Silverport, more and more folks linger at monasteries; children brandishing the spare sticks of rattan as if they were actual sabers and they themselves were filibusters; the older folk praying for fortune and buying lottery tickets, their logic I know not and dare not to ask; and fellows who wish to advance their grasp of the Art of Defence gathering at the handful of rooms the monks have to spare. It’s better than being outside and having my skin cooked brown in a matter of minutes.

>[Combat tutorial]

The measure and time are the chiefest parts of the art of fence. Everything we do is ruled by these two. Footwork. Handwork. Edge alignment. Grip. The devices we execute.

To hit without being hit back. That is the heart of the Art.

“You can shoot your thrust in a couple ways. The first is a covered thrust. You’ll need to gather their weak, first.” Ging dips the point of his singlestick from one side of my ‘blade’ to the other.

We can divide a blade into two parts; the ‘weak’, the upper third of the blade, and the ‘strong’, the lower third. The weak can move and BE moved easily, whilst the strong is earthfast in the parry.

As soon as the weak touches, he shoots his point forward - pushing my point and edge onto the leather guard while his point is at my upper arm. “Even if you go for a cut, I’m still covered.” There’s no chance to double, essentially are his words.

“But gathering their weak takes time. If they see it coming, they can turn their edge towards your attempt - catching it lower instead.” Ging repeats the motion, and this time, its his blade that gets brushed offline instead; my point is aimed at his head as I catch his attempt near the middle. It takes less than a blink of an eye to snap my point forward and shoot it into his elbow.

“The other way is to throw it uncontested.” With a lunge, Ging dips his point under my blade and shoots it to my left breast. “You want as much distance as possible between your and your antagonist’s blade - his parry will take longer to execute and he’ll most likely miss it.”

“However, this will NOT stop a double if he goes for a blow.” His left fore and middle finger points at my unsubjugated blade - free to cut at his head.

“Right. I think I’m ready now.” Ging nods. We both bring the hilt to our nose and swing that edge back down, our hilts resting a little above the hips.

I pull the edge back, turn my wrist and lunge; throwing a horizontal cut aimed at the outside of his upper arm. He catches the attempt and returns with a cut to my head, but it doesn’t take much time to bring the blade up and cover my scalp.

As soon as his hit is caught, it begins.

I wheel the blade back up and immediately throw a cut like the one he gave. Traversing to my right, he slaps away that blow by cutting horizontally at what would have been the flat of my blade. Hopping back, I bring my blade toward before he could get into measure again.

A moment passes without the edge blow or thrust being thrown out; only us inching closer and closer.

Ging tries to shoot his point uncontested to my left breast again, but I slap it down. Before he could wheel that edge back up, I flick a cut towards his hand, forcing him to pull it back to void it - and abort his own attack.

Entering the measure again, I try to dip my edge under his hilt, but he sinks the hilt down before I could rip it back up. My weak is inches away from his strong and his point is still forward.

This is bad. It’s now or never.

>Covered thrust
Brush aside his weak and snap my point forward to his waist.

>Uncontested thrust
Traverse to the left and get as much distance from his blade as possible as I shoot my point to his ribs.

[Choosing the correct choice: +Art of Defence]
[Either way, progress to “The Queer Folk IV”]

>>6320398
>Covered thrust
I think this is right, to defeat his stronger leverage?

>>6320398
>Covered thrust

>>6320398
>Uncontested thrust

covered thrust it is.
good choice.

>>6320747
>My weak is inches away from his strong
>The other way is to throw it uncontested.” With a lunge, Ging dips his point under my blade and shoots it to my left breast. “You want as much distance as possible between your and your antagonist’s blade

>>6321064
I see it now

About halfway done with the update. Should be out by tonight.

A work in progress.

Still working on it, don’t worry.

>>6324043
a time spent in waiting
a sense of being owed creeps in, unbidden

>>6324185
I know. So here’s something a little extra.

The Queer Sort IV

>Covered thrust

Through an outward turn of my wrist -and nothing more- his weak is brushed aside by my strong. Without needing to think, my hand pushes my hilt up, snapping my point down and sends that to his waist. Instead of backing away, I press this vantage; running in with a passing step and seizing his elbow for long enough to put my edge near his neck.

Yes, I think I grasp the spirit of it now.

Originally, he subjugated my blade using his weak against my weak because those two were the furthest extended - thus, closest to one another. Here, since my point was at his hilt, and the same is true for his point, I can straightway subjugate his weak with my strong because of how close they are. Additionally, the strong’s stronger leverage helps me do even that faster.

Gathering and subjugating the weak; pushing it away for long enough to make my strike. That’s the heart of it.

“Ah, man. You got me good. You must’ve had a fine instructor.” A slap to his waist keeps Ging from being a little too proud.

With the point practiced, we move onto the edge.

A man can be divided into four quadrants; the upper left, upper right, lower left, and lower right quadrant. Through this, we can separate cuts into three sorts; a cut thrown from the upper quadrants [oberhau], a cut thrown from the lower quadrants [unterhau], and a cut that moves horizontally [mittelhau].

“Imagine throwing two cuts. You can throw the first from one quadrant, and the other from the opposite, but you’ll need to completely stop the cut and turn the edge before you could cut again. Has its uses, but not the fastest. Throwing the cuts from the same quadrant or the neighboring quadrant preserves your speed, but you’ll still need to wheel that edge back up or down again.” Ging blades his hand and moves it around as if it was a sword.

“Throwing an oberhau or unterhau and following with a mittelhau preserves your speed AND cuts the distance you need to wheel that edge in half.” Now that he mentions it, that’s probably why Xong threw those so often; either the first cut lands or the miss provokes me into attacking — right as the second cut comes out. A ‘fail-cut’. Venomous little trick.

Between the bouts, practice with the pell, study of his notes, and all the breaks and wandering about the monastery, the evening arrives in a blink of an eye. A bittersweet taste lingers on my tongue as I watch him leave; days as carefree as these will be as summer enters its full blood. All the incoming and outgoing slaves will need tending to.

“So. What do ya say? Mhm?” In high spirits, Waroon gulps down the mug of lime tea; her lips so richly red as if blood. And what a bloodsucker she was - the entire afternoon, Baiyok has been stitching dusacks back together and sanding nicks off the wholly wooden ones, at such a modest fee her first and other poke were kin to gunstone in sense of breadth and weight.

I really do need a commercial head like hers.

“If I get to pick our supper. I got a place in mind. ” A smirk appears on her face. It swiftly shrinks as she chews on and digests the notion. “Ugh. You don’t ever get tired of cock, do you.” For someone so interested in cockfights, she shuns its meat as if poison.

“Well, I never could—-” chatter from a large gathering at a hall, evident by the stairs coated in sandals, jerks my head and arrest my lips.

“I don’t recall a sermon at this hour.” Equally vexed as me, Baiyok turns around to get a better look at the frontage. “Wanna check it out?”

“In a bit. Let me finish this.” I pallasch what’s left of the syruped bananas and empty the cup of black tea.

A singular, loud voice grows louder and louder still as we climb the steps so promiscuously covered in wood and straw. The air is thick with burnt incense.

“Can be DIVIDED into THREE-” How could I forget that violent voice, miss Lumduan.

Seated on the stage where the monks would sit as they led us in prayer and ceremonies are instead a couple interesting characters; sharing the center is the elder barber-surgeon, and another woman, a giant who is even taller than Baiyok. She must be eight, no, eleven shaku* 11 shaku: 3.3 meters in height If I judge correctly from this distance. A steel-ribbed fan rests on her hand and to her right sits an almsbowl.

Looking to the left of the stage reveals the source of all the smoke: tending to a pot of ashes and incense sticks is evidently a young man, in spite of the black cosmetics on his lips and eyes. He’s only a couple years older than me I suspect.

Miss Lumduan addresses the folk regarding a matter Baiyok and I already know, that of worms - the sort which commonly infest food and soil, their visage from young to old, signs to look for if infestation is suspected and what you ought to do or shun to protect your life and limb.

“The eggs of flat-bodied worms are the size of sago seeds; a watery, PALE yellow sac.” The giant dressed wholly in white reaches into the almsbowl and scoops out a mound of -what I presume to be- the sacs. The folk, chiefly children at the front, crawl on their knees to get a closer look. She withdraws it after a moment.

“Once grown, they cling to the small intestines. They can grow for a while, actually. Ones found in cow can be TWENTY to FORTY elbows long*10-20 meters.” The giant reaches into the almsbowl with chopsticks and stands up. Pulled along is a flat-body worm, as pale as chicken skin and indubitably as long as mentioned.

As miss Lumduan mentions the different sorts; flat-bodied, round, leaf-shaped, the giant continues to brandish the corresponding forms from the selfsame almsbowl. Frankly, it makes little sense given the size of that bowl and how she can -without effort- retrieve what she precisely wants in a single motion if all of—-

Unless.

Unless there never were multiple sets of eggs and worms inside. Or more precisely, none. She’s a Player of the Free Arts.

The young man fanning the burnt incense sticks (no doubt planted by her) and her gaze. Two out of the five senses. In all probability, enough to oblige us into seeing this illusion. It didn’t take too long for me to grasp what was inside: a handful of sticky rice and egg noodles. Well played. A fun little show.

As the address was on its wane, questions were asked. Some were, of course, an ask to repeat what the asker had missed or had forgotten, others, were further elaborations for the examples and circumstances given by miss Lumduan. And where would we be without a couple attempts at laughtercraft.

“Is it really true you scalped The Tiger?”

A child asks, and immediately is pinched in by upper arm by his mother.

“That is NOT the purview-” A grave expression appears on Lumduan as she growls at the boy, before turning to face the giant. She already has her hand out. It’s fine, she says to the goblin through the gesture.

“In making this ask, you are imposing on us - whether considered or not - a notion: that my past has a greater importance than the spirit of our gathering, to such a degree it ought to be made public.” A far less coarse, yet firm voice of the woman lingers in the air.

“Are you… cross at me?” Another squeeze of the arm. For talking back, I presume.

“In all probability, I doubt I am one-tenth as crossed as your mother. A little redder and you may need to cut that arm off soon.” Even through the veiled hat and a slight droop of her head, the laugh is inalienable. The young man brushes a thumb across his neck. Come the fuck on, that’s a little coarse, he all but speaks.

“This ‘Tiger’ I may reasonably assume refers to Vipud?” A nod from the child returns words to the social intercourse.

“Firstly it must be said he is neither a true ‘Tiger’ nor part of a ‘rape-gang’. He does not lead a bandit clan nor are he and his associates filibusters that wantonly slew and murdered and violated the folk. He --was-- an associate of robbers and ‘cutters’ as they are often called. And secondly I cut his head off. The province of Hundredfields does not accept the scalp of an outlaw as reasonable proof of death.” Only now do I recognize the woman as Waroon Tongbai.

“He and his folk made a play for relatives of Vunnapar and mine and we did not wish to tarry long in such circumstances. I am quite sure you still have your questions, child, but safe to say for all intents and purposes: I slew my demons years ago.” With a nod to the barber-surgeon, she concludes the gathering.

“It’s in their nature to be such. I would not fault him so deeply; my own had a similar character in his youth.” Only a handful still linger in the hall. Naturally, among them is the child and his mother.

“You’re too kind, senior Waroon.” The mother seizes the child’s ear in order to encourage him to bow. It’s easier to slap a hand on the back of his head and push down instead, but that also works. “Your son is so quiet and—” Her giggle gives the mother pause. “Oh- oh. Your husband?”

“Husband, son, slave, what’s the difference? Huhuhu.” Even with the fan covering her visage, the silk partlet around her neck and the veiled hat, there’s no hiding her character, or his: they’ve always been The Queer Sort.

“His dress was like mine even before we adopted him.” For a moment, even the somber Jiragarn sounds a little happy.

Eventually, there’s only us.

“You were close. Not bad, child.” With the folk gone, she pulls back the curtain on the contents in the almsbowl; a handful of rice with their husk still intact, a fist-sized portion of egg noodles and glass noodles and folded paper to cleanly segregate them. “The breadth of egg noodles exceeds that of hookworms. It’s easier to oblige with glass noodles.”

Baiyok has her own questions as well.

“Keeping my breasts bare would be pushing it at this age.” Waroon dryly comments on the visage commonly associated with her youthful self and the world of difference to her present.

“Perhaps it is fate which sets our courses and makes paths cross.” Waroon remarks on the probability of a Child of Messengers being this far south of the country. “Or taxes.” Jiragarn would rather make mention of our lord’s means of encouraging economic growth. The talk of which inevitably lead to the fechtschule. Apparently, he’s one of the invited fencers. Oh dear. Ging is going to have his work cut out for him.

“It has been fun talking with you, child, but I am afraid I must bow out for the day.” Her hand squeezes the steel-ribbed fan shut. Darker spots and nicks around the knuckles and back of the hand makes self-evident the length of time she has been an alewife. “Although I’d like you to humor me: I have a feeling I have seen you elsewhere before.”

>At Green Lamps district, Half Moon alehouse.
Their cock ale and chicken make for decent supper. Or breakfast. It’s better than the porridgehouses (and the whorehouses) near it. And not that far from the barbershop.

“Ah. Her alehouse. How fascinating you mention that…”

>At Cutler’s Lane, Youngtree & Saffron’s workshop.
What -was- left of that lane since the Child of Messengers obliterated the guild, in any case. Baiyok and I bought our byknives and pokers there and it served us well so far.

[Either way, progress to “His Fechtscule I”]

>>6325254
>At Cutler’s Lane, Youngtree & Saffron’s workshop.

— Tidbits of History —

The names of characters and their meanings. Some live up to it. Some don’t.

--Waroon Tongbai--
Waroon (วารุณ): Nectar. Alternatively, ambrosia.
Tongbai (ทองใบ): Gold leaf.

--“Nin” Jiragarn--
“Nin” (“นิล”): “Black” [gemstone, such as onyx or black spinel].
Jiragarn(จิรกานต์): Forever beloved.

Ging (กิ่ง): [tree] Branch.
Unshun (อัญชัน): Butterfly pea.
Baiyok “Yok” (ใบหยก “หยก”): Jade leaf “Jade”.

Vunnapar (วรรณภา): Unblemished, beautiful skin.

>>6325254
>At Cutler’s Lane, Youngtree & Saffron’s workshop.

Cutler’s it is.

a WIP of Unshun.

>>6326478
Cute!