Enough is Enough (1)

Writers: Kane
Date Posted: 4th March 2026

Characters: S'neik, N'amsa, Warang
Description: Sanneik’s sparring is, predictably, interrupted by Naskamek
Location: Dragonsfall Weyr
Date: month 1, day 16 of Turn 13

S'neik

N'amsa

The yard beyond the Weyr’s stables rang with the sharp crack of wood on wood and the excited roar of men who liked nothing more than to pit themselves against each other. Dust rose from the packed earth as Sanneik pivoted on the balls of his feet, a hardwood practice sword snapping up just in time to catch the downward strike aimed for his shoulder. The impact wasn’t light. Warang was in fine form and a firm believer in training being as close to real as possible. Sanneik grunted, shifting his stance and circling the older guard with the easy confidence of a man who knew his own strength and prowling footwork.

“Too slow,” called one of the guards watching from the yard's rail.

“Too pretty!” another someone else with a laugh.

Warang grinned through his short beard. He was older, heavier, and very experienced at knocking younger men into the dirt. “You’re dancing again,” he said, pressing forward.

Sanneik flashed a grin back. “Working so far.”

Warang pressed in immediately, his strikes harder, sharper, wooden blade flashing as he tried to drive Sanneik back across the yard. The younger man gave ground easily, light on his feet despite the breadth of his shoulders, letting Warang commit to the attack.

Wood cracked twice, three times, in quick succession, sharp as snapping branches.

The next exchange came faster again and Warang’s skill let itself be known, with a twist of his wrist he hooked Sanneik’s blade aside. The wooden sword spun from Sanneik's hand and landed in the dirt.

A cheer went up from the spectators.

“Done!”

“Down he goes!”

But Sanneik wasn't done, he was already moving.

He stepped inside the older guard’s reach before the man could capitalise, catching his opponent’s sword arm at the wrist. A sharp twist of his own coupled to a shoulder slam, and suddenly both wooden swords were down and the two of them were grappling in a tangle of arms and boots.

The older guard tried to throw him.

Sanneik didn’t budge.

He was quick on his feet and built like a draft beast, strength flowing easily through his frame. With a grunt he shifted his weight, hooked a leg behind his opponent’s knee, and wrenched sideways.

Warang hit the dirt.

Sanneik pinned him with a knee across the chest.

For half a heartbeat the yard went quiet.

Then the guards and spectators erupted in cheers and jeers.

“Ha!”

“Did you see that?”

“Again!”

The older guard laughed and slapped at Sanneik’s boot. “All right, all right. I yield before you break my ribs.”

Sanneik offered him a hand up, breath coming easy, grin wide. “You’re getting slow.”

“You’re getting cocky.”

“Well... both can be true.”

Another guard took Warang's place amidst the good-natured jeering. Wooden blades rose again.

That was when the heckling started.

“Oh come on, Sanneik,” a high voice piped from the edge of the yard. “You call that a guard stance?”

Sanneik gave a long-suffering exhale.

He didn’t even have to turn his head. That voice had been a persistent feature of his life for the better part of twelve Turns. Usually attached to trouble, bruises, or some inventive new way of annoying him. The timing was impressive, he had to admit. Naskamek had an uncanny instinct for appearing at precisely the moment Sanneik had gathered a respectable audience.

Sanneik had just flattened a man nearly twice his experience, the guards were still laughing about it, and for a brief, shining moment he had been the center of attention. Naturally his youngest brother would arrive to correct that.

He rolled his shoulders and shifted his stance, trying to pretend the interruption didn’t bother him. If he looked, Naskamek would take it as encouragement. If he acknowledged him, the brat would escalate. Experience had taught him the only winning move was indifference.

Unfortunately, Naskamek had also learned this.

Faranth help him.

He’d fought Threadfall drills, bandits, and drunken guard wrestling matches with less persistence than it took to deal with that boy. His _brother_.

Naskamek stood just outside the circle, curly black hair in a wild halo and a slingshot dangling from his fingers. His broad grin was already feral with opportunity, highlighting one still missing tooth. “You’re leaning too far.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

One of the watching guards reached over and cuffed the weyrbrat upside the ear. “Off with you.”

Naskamek ducked away, rubbing his head with exaggerated outrage. “Violence against children! Innocent children!”

“Innocent my ass. _Shoo_.”

He did not, in fact, shoo.

Last updated on the April 5th 2026

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Enough is Enough (1)