Ready, Set, Go

((Everyone is welcome))

Pendra looked at the massive creature before her and snorted. The horse snorted back so she kissed it on the soft skin between the nostrils making the animal seem to chuckle. She laughed as she rubbed his face, "What do you call this beast again?"

"A Percheron ser. He is known as a charger which means he ..."

"I believe I got the idea." She waved a hand at him, "It seems to be slow moving this morning."

"It is not even sunrise, ser."

"Best time to get going. It is cool yet and is not stifling hot to bother us too much. Afternoon is a bad time to start." She was patting the horse's cheek, holding her face against part of the animal's face. It towered over her but had it's head down, enjoying the attention. Pendra would not admit that she was itching to get going. This was a great advance to train fighters for the Grey Wardens. It was easy for her to not be all giddy as that was not how the trainer was. But she was excited inside.

Fremelda grunted. She was going to training today. She would admit she was not one for straight up fights but sometimes they were necessary. Still, her pride burned hot inside of her that she was to be cowed into this like she was cowed into being conscripted into the Wardens by the Cousland girl. Her temper flared, but she kept it repressed. There was no going back now. She was a Warden, whether she wanted it or not. Seeing a dwarf tending to a horse made the red headed assassin snicker. It was almost unthinkable seeing a Dwarf knowing how to talk and touch a horse as an Elf becoming a noble. Almost.

Fremelda's distrust of Elves and nobles was still smoldering inside of her.

Still, she thought she recognized the Dwarf woman. But it was hard to tell. The tattoos under her eyes certainly were very distinct. Perhaps it will come back to me. she mused to herself and then nodded a greeting to the female dwarf. "Afternoon, sweet thing." she said to the dwarf

Someone spoke making Pendra roll her eyes, "I suppose it could be afternoon if there were a lot of clouds in the sky. Did you not notice few people milling about at such an early time of the day?"

She turned and looked over Fremelda, noticing the features and attempting to work out where she had seen the woman before. This went through her head as she considered the woman and chuckled, "Plus there is not much sweet about me, dear. Are you here to see the wardens off or are you a warden, red?"

That would give her some idea of who this person was as she had been given notes upon whom she would be training in time.

Fremelda shrugged her shoulders. "Afraid I haven't been out much since my Joining. I'm one of the new Wardens." she said and strode up to the Dwarf. "You're coming with us?" She asked, tilting her head to the side ever so slightly. Steel blue eyes watched the Dwarf, and she offered a small smile.

"You must be Fremelda then as you certainly are not Guremi as I have met her."

She put out a hand, "The name is Pendra, the weaponsmaster and trainer for the Grey Wardens. I believe we were supposed to have an assessment appointment this morning but it seems that has been changed due to the current situation. You have no idea what I'm talking about do you?" It seemed to her that Fremelda did not know they were all leaving.

Training. Had he an ounce of arrogance, of pride, he would have snorted derisively. As if he needed training from these slovenly bastards.

The cool morning breeze ran its course across the landscape... and came to a dead stop against the foreboding figure that stood unmoving, a black splotch against the bleak sky. Griffinhart snorted derisively. As if he hadn't been training every waking moment he had. But solitary practice could only provide for so much, and he had no arguments against training against a live opponent.

If anything, it would teach him more about the individuals he fought with... and if the Maker's will cursed them someday, against.

Griffinhart stood silent, clad in his weathered armor, enclosing helmet obfuscating his expression, cloak drawn about his figure, without a shred of arrogance or pride.

Fremelda nodded her head. "Fremelda, the Queen of Thorns. Yes. That's me, sweet thing." She said to Pendra. She folded her arms under her breasts, taking an appraisal of the Dwarf. She shrugged her shoulders. "I need context for me to understand any of this. Just point my sword where you want me to kill someone and they'll die." She said dryly, then noticed the armored man nearby, and she felt the faintest chill up her spine but showed nothing on her face. Something seemed so dead about the man.

"The warden commander has sent a move out order." She explained to the other woman, "Otherwise I'd be ready to do some fighting here and now to assess your skills. It seems I am a bit early though."

Pendra glanced at Griffinhart as she felt the coldness from him, "I take it that snort was directed at something, ser? Are you interested in being tested to see how your skills add up?" She said in a calm tone. She turned towards him, interested in what he would say, "Griffinhart if I am not mistaken."

"You are not," he said, his voice level. "I do not see the need to waste time traveling to train." Griffinhart had not shifted one iota - he stared past Pendra, past the landscape, stared into the distance without any sort of looking, as he replied to the appointed weapons master and trainer of Ferelden's Grey Wardens.

If she wanted to test him, then so be it - his pride as a weapon compelled him to rise to the occasion. His steel and temper would not give way. "Test if you will, Weapons Master. The only thing that matters is the capacity and aptitude for killing."

One more glance at Griffinhart. Fremelda shuddered. The man was right, of course, but he was just so... cold. So dead. It was unsettling. How could anyone be so detached from everything around them? Fremelda forced her steel blue eyes to look to Pendra. Definitely a better sight to look upon. "So we're headed to Amaranthine after all..." she muttered. She didn't know what to do, if she was to leave Denerim (which she would be forced to in her mind), she would be walking into the unknown. She hadn't seen the outside world in many years. It was a chilling concept.

She turned her attention back to the dwarf. "Anything you need... I am the Wardens' servant." she said with so much bitterness it was impossible to conceal.

"We are not traveling to train. We are traveling to where the Warden Commander is and then to Vigil's Keep. I was not informed as to why but with all of the wardens and non-wardens being summoned to go I do not believe that it is just to train." She pointed out, curious as to how Griffinhart and Fremelda had not been notified of these changes when she had as she got to the palace. Ok so she hadn't known the night before because she had been preoccupied with other events which she was not about to discuss with these two, "How did you not receive this message last night or even this morning?"

Pendra smirked at Fremelda, "It sounds like slavery rather than servant by the way you say it. I am sure you have your reasons."

She looked to Griffinhart, "It seems that we have time in waiting for others. A short work out may be good to warm us up for the long ride ahead. Is this acceptable?"

"I do not settle easily," replied Griffinhart to Pendra's incredulity. "Presumably no messenger found me in the night." It wasn't the exact truth, but it wasn't a lie, either. His mind did not settle easily despite his being a weapon - and so, neither did his body. He had taken to wandering the halls of the Denerim headquarters in the dead of night, when it would have been impolite to train, walking random patrols where ever his feet willed him to go. The warrior made up for lost rest in his meditations.

He accepted the invitation to "a short work out" with a nod, the sole movement he had made since appearing. "What are the conditions?"

"The rules of the battle are simple." She said as she started digging a line in the dirt with a heel. She continued on creating a large square, "You fight in this section, are allowed to use the fade to evade and are not allowed to draw blood."

Pendra looked to Fremelda, "Would you like to take on Griffinhart so I can see your techniques?"

Fremelda folded her arms again, sneering. The Wardens have done nothing for her as of yet. But this training could be a good learning experience, so she decided to go along with it. The line was drawn in the ground and Fremelda stood opposite of Griffinhart, Her hand resting on the pommel of Thorn at her side. "Alright. A friendly sparring match then." She said curtly to the cold hearted Warden.

The swordsman nodded once, once again, assenting to the conditions. It would be hard for him to fight properly and not draw blood at the same time without any sort of training weapons, but that was not a matter worth voicing. He already had an advantage, of sorts, as the woman he would be sparring wore her weapon openly - whereas whatever implements of violence he wielded were obfuscated by his cloak. Granted, she could have other tricks - and he fully expected her to. He expected much more of everyone around him than they typically presented; it was an outlook that had saved his life once or twice.

Griffinhart stood, one hand on the pommel of a blade and the other on his shoulder-sheathed knife, and made no movements. "Start us, Weapons Master."

[OOC: Feel free to open, Dragonis.]

Pendra smiled, satisfied that both had consented to this match. She knew it would be difficult for them not to draw blood as both were fighters used to doing so but this was something that she was looking for to see what kind of control the people of this group had. Sometimes one must do what they could without killing or taking blood so she had to see if they could manage or if she was going to have training to do in this area.

Most fighters tended not to think of blows which incapacitated rather than killed. Pendra was sure that it would be a difficult measure to work with in the attempt to get them to think of such things and know when.

She waited for both to be ready then made a motion with her hand, "Spar."

The stage was set, the game ready to play. Fremelda's pulse quickened as she went into her fighting stance, drawing Thorn and casually holding it at her side, almost as if she was not paying attention. It was an arrogant stance, but it had served her well to get her opponents to make mistakes in the past. She used everything to her advantage, even her appearance. Though she knew that would not work on this man, so she went for another route.

She lunged forward, and swung Thorn upward in an arc, but as she was half way through the swing, she deked to the side and completed the swing in an odd, wave motion, heading towards Griffinhart's armored head (assuming he's wearing his helmet. If not, its to his exposed head).

It was an awkward thing, changing the arc of an attack mid-swing; and Griffinhart had already moved with the attack, for he had stilled himself for her moment of approach, and knew her strike at the same moment she did. The swordsman had rolled, low and to his opponent's left, dodging both the rising slash and the trick cut. He was at her side, in a low squat, arms out, cloak splayed against the day-lit sky like a blotting shadow.

It was his move.

Had he drawn his swords, a storm of steel would have been brought to bear on her; but no, instead, Griffinhart shifted his weight minutely and pushed off with the balls of his feet, throwing himself both into the air and partway into the Fade; it was a close-range tackle that Fremelda would be hard-pressed to dodge.

So Griffinhart had dodged her cunning blow, and she had to admit, it was quite impressive. But she did not relent for an instant. When he attempted his Fade-Tackle her eyes widened as she had never seen such a thing before. Everyone she had fought or killed stayed within this plane. Instead of dodging the tackle, she ducked low, and then pushed herself up with her hands to attempt to knock the charging Warden off balance, and then follow it up with a spiraling swing of Thorn towards his middle. She grit her teeth as the anger started to flow through her. She didn't like losing and she refused to lose to him.

"Good," he thought. She had not let herself get taken down. Griffinhart knew he could have come in much lower and gone for her legs. He felt her hands push - and push into - him, and adjusted for it, pitching his weight forward and flipping over onto his back as he landed-

The sword came down, down, down, its edge flashing-

The sparking sound of metal on metal-

A dullness resounded on his abdomen-

But there was no pain, and no defeat - not yet. The killing knife was in his right hand, drawn mid-tackle, and had caught Fremelda's blade, the hilt pressed against the sternum of his armor - an impossible thing that Griffinhart did regardless of its impossibility.

The deep, dark holes in his helmet stared back into the Denerim assassin's eyes as he forced her blade back. She was strong, but drew her strength from rage and from desperation - but his was a cold thing, a calculated thing, measured and unrelenting. He pushed her blade back with his killing knife, and rose.

Fremelda grit her teeth as Griffinhart parried her blow and bladelocked her. She felt his knife edging ever closer to her sternum and only then did her hand retreat down to her boot and pulled out her dirk, which she thrust towards his middle, Thorn retracting from his armor with her main hand, She decided to try and ring his bell, slamming the pommel of the sabre towards his helmet, hoping it would disorient him enough for her to strike with a series of thrusts and slashes.

The dirk was easily avoided, clumsy and desperate as the thrust wa- bkam!

His helmet, well-fitted for him, did not so much ring as it did transfer the force of the blow. "Fine," he thought through the pain. Griffinhart dropped with the blow - but not all the way to the ground. He slipped himself forward - as if he had much further forward to go - and crashed into Fremelda with his full weight, to deny her the use of her sword at such a close range, to take advantage of his armor in a grappling knife-fight.

Fremelda cried out in surprise when Griffinhart decided to use his weight afforded by his armor to keep her from using Thorn. Her right arm was pinned, leaving her left arm the only one able to fight. His sitting atop her made it painful to draw breath. Her chest heaved in both rage and effort. Her steel blue eyes glared up at the Warden through his helm and she started to deflect his knife with her dirk, and tried to roll him off by using a technique she had learned in her whoring days, by rolling side to side beneath him, attempting to set him off balance. She wasn't sure if it would work with his armor, but she was desperate to get out of this disadvantageous situation.

It was not a technique Griffinhart was entirely familiar with. In his experience, if you were pinned by your foe, you were as good as dead - but then, this was not a fight to the death. In fact, this entire situation was one he was unfamiliar with; normally, here, he would relinquish his knife, trust in his armor, and proceed to pummel the struggling Fremelda with his armored fists until her face was so much ground meat.

But again - this was not a fight to the death. His knife-hand worked independent of any cognitive processes, pressing her dirk's blade away from his person before relinquishing the blade and attempting to grasp at her arm to pin it; simultaneously, he cocked back his free hand as the woman rolled, readying a punch that he had no intent of truly delivering for, after all, they were only playing at fighting.

As she rolled under him, she finally managed to wriggle her way free, despite her dagger arm being pinned. Sweet air filled her lungs now as the brawl continued. She was tired, but she made an effort not to let it show on her. She attempted another bell ring on his helmet so he would be stunned enough to release her dagger arm, failing that, she would simply grab a handful of sand and throw it into his face, hoping it would make it inside his helm to his eyes.