From the Sea Foam

Chapter One - Jharna

The sea barely lapped at the sides of the ship and the sail on the mast remained unfurled. The crew bumbled about, moving at a sluggish pace. Sweat slid down their faces, soaking into their shirts. A few passengers sat in the small patches of shade cast by the upper deck, a few crates, and the long mast, but most remained below, spread out on rough blankets, fanning away the bugs and the humidity.

Beneath the deck, passengers grumbled about wasting time and wished for days on shore. Above deck, the crew considered their fortunes and tested their wisdom against the patterns in the sky. The captain gloomed in his cabin, counting the number of coins wasted on precious resources, praying for a wind or a current.

It was the type of day where everything was too hard, too heave. Too much movement to untie a knot or slop around a mop. Too much energy to even raise a hand. The type of day where even the air pressed down on shoulders, limbs, and the back of the thighs. A day where the sea and the air and the heat hardly moved. One that stretches on, and on, while eyes droop and sweat drips. A day where even the seagulls disappear.

It was the type of day I loved to train in. 

"You are too fierce today, Jharna," my companion whined, backpedalling against one of my fiercest strikes.

"You're wasting energy talking, Meara," I huffed, sweat dripping down my neck and back. I was a small woman, built to swing lightening fast cuts and jabs. Back in school, my counterparts had always teased me for my tiny frame, my skeleton-like skinniness. But beneath my sweat soaked tunic, my dark skin rippled with taunt muscles. Muscles that screamed as they danced around the deck with Meara. At my wrist, a thin sheen of sweat glimmered over a tattoo of a bear claw.

At school, I had graduated as a Bear, part of an elite section of fighters trained in close-range fighting, from hand-to-hand combat to close-range weaponry. (Bears were also trained in strategy, in commanding legions of armies as they set off for battle or preparing iron-clad defenses in times of peace. But I clearly didn't need those skills now) My weapon of choice--a small double-edged, one-handed shortsword--remained in its scabbard at my waist. For now, we worked with weighted practice swords.

"You're talking too." Meara rotated her small, wood sword and used her elbow to knock my grip from my shield. The shield clattered to the deck with a loud thunk. Meara then shifted her wait and thrust at my armpit, but she met only empty space. I had jumped back before her movement, finding myself in a comfortable space of only hot hair. I brushed the sweat off my forehead.

Meara was a Viper, trained in the arts of secrecy and assassination. While strong in the ways of stealth and strategy, she was not overly fond of intense, close combat. But this did not mean she was easy to beat.

Meara grunted as she pushed forward, aiming for my shield-empty hand. But I was ready for her. 

I cut at her knees, whacking her against her calf. Meara used the moment to hit me in my shoulder. I bounced back and pushed against a barrel to give myself momentum into another slice at Meara's torso, but Meara was already avoiding the movement and used my momentum to try to cut at my throat. But I was already rotating in the air, taking on the offensive. I cut and thrust, a thousand quick jabs at Meara's weak points. Her wrists, armpits, thighs, then in a quick twirl of the sword to my other hand, I slapped my dull sword onto Meara's rib.

And while it may be dull, the weight of the sword it with a resounding THWACK!

"I hate that move," Meara spat, jumping back and out of reach of another move I was making. I would normally have taken this moment to follow through, to never let my adversary to escape, but I needed the break as well. I stepped back while keeping my sword up and at an angle, ready to fight.