Cataclysm: Dragonborn

Chapter 3: Memories

Jarvan hadn't slept much that night.

The prince found himself staring at the stars for most of the evening, gazing into the darkened sky, his mind on his people and those he had left behind when he had journeyed out through Valoran. His mother and father had been his only real family, his grandfather having died and passed the throne to Jarvan Lightshield III, Prince Jarvan's father. Such a position hardly left much in the way of time to care for children and such petty things as the youth of kin. With unsettled issues hanging heavy on his heart, Jarvan had been thrust into the world of gladiator style combat training where he learned the art of war or die by his trainer's hand.

His first real trainer had been one of his grandfather's wards, a warrior from the Far East by the name of Xin Zhao. Jarvan would never be able to forget his first meeting with the dark haired Demacian warrior.

It had been a brisk morning, fog still rolling about the lower gardens of the Demacian Palace. A young Jarvan, barely into his teens, had been rousted from is bed by his caretaker, hurried into some training clothes, and then shoved out the door towards one of the many courtyards of the palace.

"Good morning, young master."

The man bowed in his direction, only the creases at the corners of his eyes showing the truth of how old he was and how much he had seen. Jarvan had eyed him carefully. He had seen the man before, escorting his grandfather to and from the many meetings he attended throughout the days. He had never been introduced to the man, but if he was trusted by his grandfather and his father, then Jarvan had to assume that he as well could trust him.

"'Ello..." Jarvan said, raising an eyebrow high as he eyed the man curiously. "Who are you?"

"My name is Xin Zhao. At the request of your father, today we will begin your martial training." He spoke with an odd accent. It was not one Jarvan recognized from the many different diplomats he had observed in the king's court. "Here."

Jarvan was barely able to catch the cloth armor jacket before it hit him upside the head. He looked at it briefly before sliding it over his head and shrugging the loose garment over his chest. He looked about for the spear that the man carried about with him. "Are we using lances?"

"A lance is a weapon for knights and those who wish to use the weapon for a range advantage. It is good for open combat on the fields of battle, allowing massive strikes and a deep defensive gap between you and your opponents." The warrior said blatantly. "For a duel, you will be forced to rely on your cunning, your speed and your reactions to negotiate the battle before you. A long sword such as this one-" He tapped the training weapon at his hip, "gives you all that you will need for now."

Jarvan nodded silently and took one of the matching weapon from a small rack that had been set up on one side of the courtyard. Xin Zhao nodded as the prince strapped the belt around his waist and returned to face the man directly.

"Draw your weapon."

Jarvan nodded at the command and pulled the sword from the sheath and looked to Xin. Jarvan fell back into what you could call a cat-stance, assuming what he thought was a good fighting stance. His sword was held vaguely in front of him, between himself and Xin. The Seneschal sighed as he drew his sword, the metal humming along the mouth of the sheath. He raised the gleaming blade high and bowed in salute.

"Let us begin."

...

"Again! Get on your feet!" Xin Zhao bellowed as the prince sat on the ground, his knuckles white around the hilt of his sword. He was bloody from small cuts and bruises and sweat was pouring down his face. They had been at it for hours. The Seneschal had taught Jarvan the basic steps of a fight... initial thrust, parry, counterthrust... lunging, foot work... he was covering all the bases. Yet Jarvan just wasn't fast enough.