Thread: The Day the Lights Went Out [Langschwert x Cal]

He missed his rifles. He could still feel, at the start of some battles, the feel of the stock pressed firmly against his shoulder, the concussion of the sonic boom. Sometimes, in his dreams, he could see the grass pressed into a V by the sonic boom and watch as the distortion of the air presaged the passage of the supersonic projectile. He could remember shooting at steel plates before the change, the BANG...beat...beat...TING! pause between the shot and the hit as the bullet flew through the air at four hundred yards or more. Now, now the furthest they could get a bow to shoot was just over a hundred and fifty yards with white woods, and that was fired upward at a forty five degree angle...useful by massed archers against massed opponents, but for small scale fighting like they've been having, the maximum range shrank further, down to fifty yards. But, he would not dwell upon the past. Now a gun was just an awkwardly shaped club, unless it had a bayonet attached, in which case it was just a heavy, light spear. He watched her examine the blade, saying nothing. When she thanked him the first time, he would nod, and give a slight, distracted smile as he looked at her holding the weapon. We have more than enough for everyone, now. That one is an older model, shorter than most that are carried these days, and should fit you well. The newer models that they had made were six inches longer in the blade, but following the same basic design. It made the weapon more effective at one on one fighting while not sacrificing much in terms of close in fighting, though fighting in formation would be killer. His breathing caught as she leaned close, thinking she was leaning in for a kiss and nearly meeting her halfway. He was glad that he restrained himself, though, when she went in for a hug instead. He'd nod to her request, tucking the sword back into the cubby from whence it had come, and shooting her a smile as she sauntered away. Well well...this was going to be interesting. He got relatively little sleep that night, engrossed in his thoughts, and rose early. Indeed, the morning arose gray and cold, with the sun not yet peeking over the horizon. Mist lay thick on the ground to a depth of nearly four feet, adding a clammy sensation to the skin that was not entirely unpleasant in the heat that regularly bathed the land in the late Georgia summer. As was his custom, he dressed himself in black basket ball shorts, chosen as they were chosen in the third world largely because of the durability of the all nylon weave, and plucked his sword from beside his cot, trotting out into the morning. He nodded to the sentry as he passed, making his way some distance away, yet still within sight of the camp, to a mist shrouded hillock. Here he would pause, sitting in the dew dampened grass to stretch his muscles. When he rose again, he drew the sword, resting the dull spine against his right shoulder as he hung the scabbard and sword belt in a tree not far away. From a pocket of the shorts, he withdrew a wooden ball about the size of a billiards ball, with a hole drilled through the middle, into which was threaded a length of fine chain, which is then tied to a stout cord. This was tossed over a branch, the cord tied off till the ball was held at about head height. He started off his exercise here, striking the ball smartly with the side of his blade and stepping into the space which it had once entered. He struck and dodged, striking the small target and then dodging out of the way as it came back down. For perhaps half an hour he worked at this, adding more nicks and cuts to the wood of his target, before turning to his main exercise. The sun was just starting to crest the horizon as he turned away from his target, the first rays of light piercing the clouds as he clutched the sword in his hands. He started out in Vom Tag , the sword raised high over his head, before cutting down into Alber and back up into Ochs , his body flowing in constant motion as he practiced with the sword as was his usual occupation every morning before they left. With the sword, at least, he had found something that he truly excelled in. He was far from the best with a bow, though he was a passable shot. He was not strong enough to wield the ax or the hammer quickly. His work with the spear left something to be desired, though he was better when mounted, but with a sword he truly shone. He would not return to camp for another hour. Heat had started to seize the North Georgia landscape, and the clouds and the mist were rapidly burning off, leaving that magical time behind. Indeed, by the time he returned there most of the camp was awake, sausage and biscuits were cooking in several dutch ovens, and the few precious eggs that they had from their even more precious chickens, held in wicker cages, had been sacrificed to make a couple of spoon fulls of scrambled eggs for everyone. Her family would come to find out that they had a limited amount of livestock with them, hopefully the basis for a farming community, including a half dozen rabbits, a dozen chickens and even three dairy goats and a buck that followed along behind the carts. They had seeds, too, but they never stopped long enough in one place to plant them. He did not bother to put a shirt back on as he took one of the wooden plates and settled again on the back of the wagon, speaking a few words to people in passing as he passed, though deferring most until he had a chance to wash the sweat from his body. He had not seen her yet, but his mind had been wandering so unless she called his name or walked up on him and clapped her hands he likely wouldn't have, anyway. What weighed heavily on his mind was the thought of where they were going, and how they were to get there...two things that haunted him.