[Cyrus Marius]

TS: Third cycle of Cryaxtium, in the season of Summer, Era XIV PF

The suns were just reaching their zenith overhead, casting their warm rays down upon Telath's inhabitants below. Cyrus, with the blood of the ice-dwelling Rhagrhnd in his veins, never much abided the heat of the southern province, but neither was he the type to complain much about it. Instead, he was garbed in a loose-fitting, flowing sleeveless long-tunic of light, white linen that reached to just below his knees, and open-toed, leather sandles that laced up the bottom half of his muscular calves. His mane of golden locks was loosely bound back behind his head in a leather thong, but several stray ringlets had fallen loose, framing the legionnaire's angular face. Cyrus also wore matching brown leather bracelets, smaller and thinner than true bracers, on his wrists. A thin black sash was wrapped around the legionnaire's waist, not a true sword belt, and amazingly, no weapons were to be found anywhere on his person.

This would be soon remedied however, as Cyrus entered onto the training fields within Darkblade Fortress and headed straight for the fighting circles. All around him, members of the elite Black Shields were hard at work with the instructors brought from Prime's Jade Legion, training and drilling the core of the Provincial Army. Over to one side of the field, a centuri formation could be seen practicing with their pikes, thrusting in unison and then recovering in unison with their large, protective shields. Their skill was growing rapidly, Cyrus observed with some pride, however the instructors knew their time was precious and would be satisfied with nothing but the pinnacle of Imperial discipline. Their voices could be heard at every corner of the training field, harshly turning the collection of farmers and field-hands into a true Legion capable of meeting the ferocious Horde on the battlefield. It was an emboldening sight, to see these men becomming soldiers, and it lifted the young legionnaire's spirits as he strode through their ranks and into the sandy floor of the fighting circle.

Several attendants were already waiting nearby with towels, skins of water, and various pairs of training armaments neatly arranged on the grass outside the circle of sand. These were not the basic, wooden replicas used to train beginners, but true steel training arms, blunted in the way of tourney weapons so as to reduce their lethality. There were the customary longswords of the Legion's infantry, as well as training versions of daggers, spears, poleaxes and hammers, mauls, handaxes, as well as many a type of shield, ranging from bucklers to mock tower shields. Cyrus smirked upon sight of the array of weaponary, his sapphire gaze roaming over the familiar forms as though they were intimate friends, but his true love caught his lone eye. The young soldier strode forward and picked up one of the training longswords by it's worn leather hilt, giving the weapon a critical appraisal and testing it's balance and weight with an expert hand. His small smile grew slightly, and he nodded in satisfaction with his choice.

Striding back in to the ring again, Cyrus accepted a padded breastplate from one of the attendents; cloth, stuffed with down, to cushion against blows but to ensure that they are felt and sufficiently appreciated in mock combat. One must learn the cost of one's mistakes if one does not seek to repeat them in the future. The breastplate slipped easily over the soldier's light tunic, and he silently allowed the attendents to secure the leather thongs at the armor's side. One of the men offered Cyrus a helmet, and another offered him a wooden round shield, and he accepted both of these with a nod of thanks before securing them on himself. Thus armed and protected, the young legionnaire stood and waited, his cobalt eye open for the man that would be meeting him the sands of the fighting ring.