'Tis but a scratch!
Who Ibreily, Sygni
What Sygni and Ibreily take a moment to keep their skills sharp.
When Summer, 2711
Where Training Complex, Fort Weyr

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Fort Weyr - Training Complex
The remnants of a historic collapse are apparent here, as the slope face of the bowl has a predominant downward curvature. It's likely long ago, that a cavern larger than any Fort currently has was where the training complex currently is. A probable cave in triggered a fissure on the bowl wall which lead to a great chunk of it dislodging, thus creating the rounded slope.
Yet, many centuries later, all that remains to give evidence is the pocket made into the bowl wall. It seems that the inhabitants of Fort Weyr have made best of the created space. Rock on the ground proper has long since cleared, but pebbles and loose shale are constantly underfoot. Still, the sprig of some green leafed vegetation isn't too out of the ordinary in these parts, as long as it doesn't get trampled by the comings and goings.
It's clear that this area has been designated for the training of young minds, whether human or dragon. Surrounded by rock on all side, it's like a personal weyr bowl for the youngsters to minimize distraction and danger. The candidate barracks have been built across from the Weyrling barracks, so that one group can educate the next. Finally, placed in the centre of the two entrances of the opposing barracks, near the rock face, is a statue with a memorial plaque.


The day is grey and the clouds hang low over the weyr, a thick grey blanket that moves quickly, if unchangingly, with the help of a seasonably cool breeze. It's a welcome thing, for at least one of the figures in the training complex, who backs up several steps, weighing eyes settling on the figure opposite her before seeming to determine that another attack is not immediately incoming. Only then does Sygni swipe at her brow, the tip of her whip-thin, dull practice blade dipping towards the ground. Her bandaged hand presses against a stitch in her side, easing it with a wince as she shoots her opponent with a wry look. "Shells. You were lots shorter last time we did this," Syg accuses, as though it's Ibreily's fault she wound up a handful of inches taller than the blonde. "And a lot worse, too. Been practicing?," she asks with faint approval even as her posture straightens, feet shifting to appropriate positions, right hand flicking out to her side, left wrist tilted to carefully hold the blade. "On your guard."

The cool breeze doesn't seem to sway Ibreily either way — where Sygni's off from burns, Ibby's limping a little still as she takes the tacit break. She keeps her blade held in front of her, but tucks her elbow in a little, conserving energy as she breathes. Not hard, really; looking it or not, turns on the Quinto still lend a little strength. "You were about the same." Ibby shoots back, grin wide as she shrugs a shoulder up to wipe a cheek. "Hal's not easy on anybody." Not even his tinier nieces. "He tried to lob my hand off. I made one of the sailors spar with me." She speaks as she straightens, posture a little looser — not proper by any stretch, leaving plenty of un-guarded spots. She paces in a circle, compensating for the leg without a lot of grace, darting in low in a rude attempt on Syg's injured side.

"Shut up," Sygni drawls with a cackle, temptation to press advantage and attack while Ibby swipes at her cheek coming and going in an impish flicker. "I'm fun-sized, just like my momma. 'Sides, it wouldn't be fair if I was tall on top of all of my other sterling qualities." The horror, says a comical widening of her eyes, hand lifting out of its pose to flick her braided half-shave over her shoulder. "And no. That he is not." She says it with a deep sense of respect she lacks for pretty much everyone else, proud of the tight ship her uncle runs and the part she played in keeping it that way on and off throughout the turns. "You're lucky he went for a hand. My first time, I wound up with his sword tip at my neck," she says, grin too-wide, telling the story even though Ibriely's probably heard it a dozen times over. That's half the fun, though, really. "Said if I wanted to fight, he'd fight me, alright. Aunt Sos about had an apoplexy." A beat. "And then she schooled me for the next fortnight so I could kick his ass." Which perhaps explains the rigor in her form. She eyes Ibreily's more laid-back stance, thoughful, quiet, observant before: "You studied with Veira." It's not a question, circling to match Ibby, distracting thoughts forcing her to throw her blade up fast to deflect the younger woman's darting swipe. "Rude," Syg breathes, sweeping her sword outwards before making to cut back in, a quick, dull jab at newly-exposed ribs.

"You shut up." Toothy grin, eyes too-bright. "You're somethin', you are." Ibreily snarks, quiet for the assertion uncle Hal's impressiveness — he is, and Ibby'll give him that, not even reluctantly. The familiar story draws a smirk, and a good-natured eyeroll, but she doesn't move to stop it, instead of laughing a little breathlessly as she circles. "Aunt Sos is the best." That's her input to it, starry-eyed and delighted. The matched circling and comment get a sharp nod, but then Syg is blocking, and rebounding the shot, and Rei has to move quickly. She stumbles a little, but manages to get the guard up in time to deflect the jab. It's not exactly elegant, but she puts space between them, laughing again. "Veira, yeah. I suppose you know all of them?" Arch, but playful, the candidate swings back around in a feint — a clumsy one, though, if the grimace she makes even as she's going for the follow-up is anything to go on. Damn.

"Something marvelous," Sygni agrees with an arrogant upwards tilt of her chin, though she does relent if only to add, "And I guess you're alright, too." Cheek! Round and round and round they go, Sygni focusing on the parried thrust, likewise dancing backwards to avoid retaliation - which never comes. "Did you know," Syg says between breaths as she maintains the cautious distance, "that she's gonna finally write that book?" A beat. "Well. She said maybe." But that's more than any of them have gotten before. Then: "No, just the ones that beat me. She was always good against lefties." Blue eyes sparkle, the initial clumsy feint side-stepped - the follow-up, less so. Blades screech together, Syg attempting to force it high with a gritted curse as she tries to turn the blade and fails, taking the sharp thwap to her right shoulder with grace — or, you know, laughter and wincing and a shift of her sword to her bad hand to clutch at what will surely be a welt now, bruise later. "Faranth, ow," she complains, arm lolling deadly, dramatically. "I think you broke something."

Ibby is going to do something about that cheek — she might, anyways, if not for the circles and fighting to keep her balance and not get whacked about the any-parts for not paying attention. The harper, at least, can manage to not run her mouth: sort of. Mostly. "Alright??" Played-on affront is a cackle, energetic as she maintains the distance between them. "Seriously?" That almost distracts her out of the entire thing, brings about an end to the whole thing, because what. "…oh. Well. That's a start." And it is! It is further, and Ibby kind of waggles her blade in victory, completely unprofessional. They'll wear her down eventually, and somebody will do the tearful pride-thing. Which the candidate might be doing later, as her terrible feint pays off in the end; Syg takes a sharp whap, and Ibreily kind of winces, swinging her blade out of the way and pausing, face pulled up in a sympathetic grimace. "We're banned from the infirmary, though." So obviously they can't go there. "Is it bad enough to call one of the dads?" She's teasing. Probably. Hopefully she's teasing, grinning wide even with the colorful grimace.

"Alright," Sygni confirms, lips twisted and brows flicking up once, a taunt if there ever was one. "Better than most everyone else, though." So there's that. She, too, breaks form for Ibreily's incredulous question, nodding vigorously. "S'what she told me between bouts of puking at our turnday party. Bet she thought I'd forget that she said 'maybe,' but I didn't." Which explains a lot. "So I'm filtering out slowly so everyone can pepper her with questions about how the manuscript is coming along." Oh, terrible. That gleam in her eyes is truly awful, and it's a good think it's quickly wiped away by Ibreily's grimacing victory. "What? We are? I was perfectly well-behaved at the infirmary." You know. With the Journeyman-yelling and the cursing. Riiight. "It's that dickhead Chandham, isn't it? I'll scoop out his eyes and eat them for breakfast," Sygni grumbles, briefly forgetting to be in pain— and then dads are brought into the picture and stagger! Sway! A grip to Ibreily's shoulder and a choked, "No - it's too late. You must soldier on." And take the return jab of the butt of her pommel to the stomach, hard enough to surprise but not really to injure, even as she dances back with a cackle. "Touch for a touch. We're even." And she cheats, but is anyone even surprised? "And I'm hungry. Food?" She doesn't even wait. "Food. And then I bet we can bully that Healer in the barracks into giving us some numbweed. She seems like an easy mark." And pausing only to offer an arm, Sygni swivels off towards the caverns, merrily bantering ideas about how to best go about wheedling medication from the poor, unsuspecting candidate.

"I'll ask her next time I see her." Because obviously, mischief should be shared for maximum effect. Ibreily doesn't quite cackle, but she does drop her blade, inching forward to eye Syg's shoulder like it might show outside of her clothes. You never know, when things are Definitely Very Broken. Besmirching Chandham's honor, however, is far more fun than almost anything else, and Ibby makes a dramatically crabby face. "He said if we came in without missing limbs he was gonna make our lives terrible." She shares, offhand, knowing full well that that's dangerous waters. What could possibly go wrong with a prank war with a healer? The dramatics are echoed in appropriate despairing noises, and — "OOF." There it goes. Laughing even as she hunches over like her ribs have been caved, Ibby makes an array of noises very much like a dolphin might. "Fine. Even. They'll find our bones here next turn. Leia will find a way to go on without us." GOODBYE, CRUEL WORLD. Only then food is on the table, and Ibreily completely forgets her wounds, straightening quickly. "Oh, she is. She wants to heal people. You need healing."


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