"Again."
The tall, grim-faced Highlander glared down at the boy training in front of him as the room's torchlight cast eerie dancing shadows on the walls.
"We will do this until your form is perfect. Only then can we move beyond the basics." He said, crossing his massive arms over his bare chest, the large brass cuffs on his wrists glinting in the wavering light. "You will earn your name, Wulfgar."
The young pupil looked up at his father through a sweaty mop of blonde hair that had become matted to his forehead through exertion. There was nothing to say, so he simply nodded, and began to repeat the first drill in the training sequence that he had been working on for the past year.
"It is not enough to just bear the name..." Beorn Fangfist said sternly as his eyes followed his son's movements. "...you must deserve it. You must earn the right to be a Fangfist."
Wulfgar finished the first drill, seamlessly pushing himself into the second one in the sequence, his small fists hammering the heavy air inside their tiny home. The heat was unbearable, but his father insisted that it was part of the training, and he was not one to complain.
"Yes father." The boy replied, his eyes focused on a point on the room's far wall as he snapped out three more punches followed by a series of lightning fast kicks.
A slight curl at the corner of Beorn's mouth broke the illusion and betrayed his approval as he watched his son hone the basics of an art that he had learned from his father years ago in Ala Mhigo, before the Garlean Empire had forced them to leave with their invasion. His forefathers had long ago laid down the tenets, forms, and drills of their family style, and in watching his son practice as he once did, the gruff Highlander forgot for a moment the bloodstained events that had caused them to leave their home. It was a brief respite, but a respite nonetheless.
"Stop. Do it again. From the beginning." He said, nodding to his son.
Wulfgar abruptly stopped mid-technique, looked up at his father, nodded back, and restarted the sequence. The training and his father were all he had left. There was nothing more to it than that.
The tall, grim-faced Highlander glared down at the boy training in front of him as the room's torchlight cast eerie dancing shadows on the walls.
"We will do this until your form is perfect. Only then can we move beyond the basics." He said, crossing his massive arms over his bare chest, the large brass cuffs on his wrists glinting in the wavering light. "You will earn your name, Wulfgar."
The young pupil looked up at his father through a sweaty mop of blonde hair that had become matted to his forehead through exertion. There was nothing to say, so he simply nodded, and began to repeat the first drill in the training sequence that he had been working on for the past year.
"It is not enough to just bear the name..." Beorn Fangfist said sternly as his eyes followed his son's movements. "...you must deserve it. You must earn the right to be a Fangfist."
Wulfgar finished the first drill, seamlessly pushing himself into the second one in the sequence, his small fists hammering the heavy air inside their tiny home. The heat was unbearable, but his father insisted that it was part of the training, and he was not one to complain.
"Yes father." The boy replied, his eyes focused on a point on the room's far wall as he snapped out three more punches followed by a series of lightning fast kicks.
A slight curl at the corner of Beorn's mouth broke the illusion and betrayed his approval as he watched his son hone the basics of an art that he had learned from his father years ago in Ala Mhigo, before the Garlean Empire had forced them to leave with their invasion. His forefathers had long ago laid down the tenets, forms, and drills of their family style, and in watching his son practice as he once did, the gruff Highlander forgot for a moment the bloodstained events that had caused them to leave their home. It was a brief respite, but a respite nonetheless.
"Stop. Do it again. From the beginning." He said, nodding to his son.
Wulfgar abruptly stopped mid-technique, looked up at his father, nodded back, and restarted the sequence. The training and his father were all he had left. There was nothing more to it than that.
