[Mkguild] RE: [Furry Lit] MK- "Dreams" (3/7)

[Hallan Mirayas]

What the?  I sent this what, a week ago?  More?  Sheesh!

Hallan

From: hallanmirayas at hotmail.com
Date: Sun, 16 Sep 2007 20:15:55 -0500
Subject: [Furry Lit] MK- "Dreams" (3/7)








  "Drift, keep moving!  You're too slow!  You've got the longer reach, now use it!"  From the sidelines, George yelled instructions as Drift sparred with the male human.  "Strike out at him!  Make Wolfram work to get into range!"  

  "I'm trying!" Drift yelled back, ears flat.  The samoyed's staff just barely turned away his opponent's sword thrusts, and despite his attempts to strike back, he kept getting pushed back on the defensive.  It didn't help that the man's taunting sneer brought the hackles up all the way down his back.

  "Not hard enough, you mangy mutt!" his opponent said, slapping the flat of his blade across Drift's right-hand knuckles, jarring them loose with the pain.  Drift brought his left hand up just in time to catch the next strike on the staff end near it, but it was an awkward position that left his entire side open.  Only a lucky grab got his right hand back on the staff in time to block the strike whistling in at his ribs, and the young man's sword snapped Drift's staff cleanly in two.  "Ha!" Wolfram yelled.  "What'cha gonna do now, dogboy?"

  Drift's response was a ringing blow to the side of Wolfram's helmet with the half staff clutched in his right hand, hard enough to leave a dent and stagger the man.  "Shut up," he growled, and brought his hand back for another swing.

  Wolfram dropped down, dodging the strike, and swept Drift's feet from under him, dropping the samoyed on his back with a yelp.  "Still too slow, mutt," Wolfram said as he kicked the broken staff from Drift's hand and stepped over him, inverting the sword to hang over Drift's chest.  "Any last words?"

  George slapped his hand to his forehead in disgust when he saw Wolfram pause.  He was opening his mouth to start yelling when Drift shifted.  With a great, tearing SHRRRRIIIIPPP!! Drift's taur body tore out of his leggings, followed by a THWUMP that made every male and at least half the females in the room flinch.  Wolfram landed halfway across the room, curled up in an agonized ball.  "Oh, that's gotta hurt," somebody murmured.  Somebody else agreed.  "Nice kick," George smirked.  "All four paws to the same spot."

  Drift rolled to his feet and picked up Wolfram's dropped sword, advancing on the fallen foe with a snarl.  Wolfram painfully uncurled himself, displaying a surprising resilience, but soon crumpled over again with a groan, holding his groin.   The samoyed taur placed Wolfram's sword at the man's throat and replied, teeth angrily bared, "Yes.  'I hope you like singing soprano.'"

  "Hold!" George yelled, stepping forward.  "That's enough."  He took the sword from Drift and shook his head.  "Calm down.  Now.  Drift, you have -got- to stop forecasting your moves.  It's killing you.  Except for that one hit to the side of the head, I could see where you were aiming at least a second ahead of every swing you took.  That's why you had so much trouble getting past his shield."

  "Yessir," Drift said.

  "Wolfram, be careful with the taunts.  Yes, it can be a good distraction, but not everyone is so easily goaded."  He paused to shoot Drift a significant glance.  "Don't rely on it."

  Wolfram squeaked.

  "And quit it with the gloating before the kill, damn it.  You leave yourself open, as Drift so ably demonstrated.  Rule number...  I don't know what number it is, but 'I will not gloat over my enemy's predicament before killing them' is damn good advice.  This isn't the storybooks, you idiot, so knock it off.  It'll get your cocky ass killed."

  Wolfram squeaked.

  "I don't care where you learned it, -unlearn- it.  The next time I see you do it, I'll kick your nuts in myself.  And I'll make sure they -stay- kicked in.  You got that?"

  Wolfram squeaked.

  The jackal nodded, and then turned his attention back to Drift.  "Drift, I know your right arm is your strong arm, but you need to use your left more, especially if you keep insisting on using a staff."

  "I need the reach, sir."

  "Then -do- it, mister.  A staff has two ends for a reason.  That's why he could move in on you so easily, because you always struck from the right and never from the left.  Now, I want you to take him to Coe's to make sure you haven't done anything permanent, and then I want you running laps around the curtain wall."

  "Yessir!"  Drift's tail started wagging at the prospect of a run.

  "Looking forward to it, are you?" George asked with a smile that instantly stilled the samoyed's wagging.  "Good.  First, I want you to get some pants on, because you'll be running on two feet only.  No taur.  Then I want you to report to DeMule and tell him you need fitted out with fifty pounds of gear and another fifty in a backpack.  I don't care what he fits you out with as long as it adds up to that weight.  You got all that?  Great.  Fifty laps."

  Drift's face fell with each sentence, until it was an open gape.  "You... you can't be serious!"

  "Completely serious.  Fifty laps, or twenty without your ring.  What's it gonna be?"

  "Fifty, sir."

  "No, it's going to be twenty.  Give me that ring.  You'll get it back when you're done."  He held his hand out expectantly, and did not move until the silver ring was in his hand.  "Okay, the rest of you, class dismissed for the day.  Drift, I'll meet you out at the gates.  You'd better be running by the time I get there.  Next time, don't wag when I'm handing out punishment."  He paused, still smiling that sadistic smile.  "What're you waiting for, Snow?  Get your fuzzy ass moving!"

  Out in the corridor, cradled in Drift's arms on the way to Coe's, Wolfram groaned.  "That was... a nice kick," he said, his voice cracking.  "Haven't been... kicked so hard... since I helped Dad break in a new... stallion."

  "Don't ever hold a sword over my chest like that again," Drift growled.

  "Why not?" Wolfram asked, brow furrowing in confusion.

  "Just don't," the samoyed taur snapped.

  "Sure, I guess," Wolfram replied with a hint of a shrug.  "Next time I'll just... take your head off at the shoulders or something, okay?"

  Drift snorted a laugh.  "Supposing I don't get yours first."  Despite how hard they'd fought, the two got along well outside the ring.  Even though Wolfram had only come to Metamor a week and a half before, Drift respected Wolfram's drive to excel, which had him practicing under George's watchful eye almost daily, and Wolfram respected Drift's tenacity and refusal to quit in the face of all the welts and bruises he got past the samoyed's blocks.

  "How's your hand?"

  "It hurts like hell, but it doesn't feel like there's any permanent damage.  Otherwise, I'd be hauling you by your hair."

  "Yeah, yeah, that'll happen."  Wolfram kept his dark hair cut extremely short, just so it couldn't be grabbed in a fight.

  "Well, you keep saying I have enough for four people, so I figured I'd loan you some."

  Wolfram laughed, and then groaned.  "Oh, don't do that.  It hurts when I laugh."

  "As you keep telling me whenever -I- complain about bruises, 'Your fault for leaving the opening, buddy'."

  "Yeah, yeah.  Are you going to talk me to death, or you actually going to deliver me to the infirmary sometime this week?"

  "Here we are."  Drift shifted Wolfram to his shoulder so he'd have a hand free to knock, and smiled when one of Coe's assistant's came to the door.  "Delivery for Healer Coe," he said with a wry grin.  "One package of mixed nuts."

  Wolfram groaned and thumped the snickering samoyed on the top of the head with a closed fist.  "Snow, you evil brat, that was worse than the kick."


Can you find the hidden words?  Take a break and play Seekadoo! Play now!

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