25th of Frost, year 111 of the Age of Steel.
"Again."
A single word from Karsten Stark. Many people would guess it was an order; Riven had heard it enough times to know it was a threat, and also some ability akin to foresight: Riven would carefully push the steel sword threatening his throat away, dust himself off and get back up, ignoring the bleeding cut on his arm. It would heal anyway, and he was getting worse things if he didn't keep fighting. His opponent, a tall Avialae, four years older than him and with a cruel and disdainful smirk on his face, stepped back. The meaning was clear; he prided himself in being a part of the Knighthood, a newly initiated Errant, while Riven was nothing but a weak and beaten fourteen years old boy. He was a good two feet over him, stronger, and way more ruthless, and he had already defeated Riven twice. Karsten looked impatient; if he lost again, Riven knew he would be facing him... And Karsten was the one deciding when the blows stopped. He grunted as he got back on his feet, stepping back and assuming his fighting position.
He couldn't allow himself to lose again. If he did, he would have to battle his instructor... And after that, he wouldn't be able to get back up on his own for a few hours. Desperate to avoid another beating, he moved his right foot back, lowered his waist and rose his twin blades in the shape of a cross. He waited for the first blow, as he always did. It didn't take too long; the Errant delivered a downward slash with his heavy Zweihander, a blow that Riven barely managed to parry, having to jump backwards before his defense was crushed. Their weapons were rien steel, very real; blunt, so not many died training, but enough to make surface cuts and heavy bruises. Broken bones, if one wasn't careful; Riven rushed to his opponent's right side to attempt a scissor cut, but his heavy weapon blocked the attack. He stepped back; the fight was going exactly as the previous two. He couldn't win that battle with strenght, that was obvious; speed was a better option, but the Errant knew well how to use his weapon for defense, and he was bigger and covered more space than him in short bursts. His magic was the only thing that gave him a clear advantage; but he found it hard to focus in the middle of a fight, because he was always frightened of what would happen if he lost. The Errant was making a mistake though; he was underestimating him... And he was relaxed. If he managed to trick him, Riven would have a chance. It was a battle of wit, but he needed to change his previous strategies.
As dangerous as it could be, he switched his style; he closed his wings, sticking them to his back fully, and he lunged, blades in hand; his right sword struck first, and was blocked by his opponent's greatsword; his left sword avoided the blade and the Errant was forced to step back. Riven curself himself for not noticing something that obvious before; he had two weapons, while the man he had to defeat had a single one, heavy enough to move much slower than Riven's twin blades. The key was mobility; how many blows could he land while the Argent blocked a single hit. Determined to prove his theory, he lunged again, this time thrusting both swords; blocked by a horizontal sword move he kept pressing as he opened his wings, boosting himself up in the air to jump over his foe and surprise him, ending with a rotation slash on his unprotected back, blocked by his leather armor but knocking the wind out of his lungs and throwing him out of balance. His first clean strike; he was proud of himself. His foe coughed, wobbly raising his Zweihander with both hands while he tried to breathe normally again; Riven assumed a more aggresive stance. He could tell the Errant was pissed.
