Soldier POV
...
I'm forced to watch. Mere moments after... after I was disarmed. I feel a pull in my direction. And on comes the clash. A battle of strength. He's amateurish, flinging the spear around in inefficient patterns. More clumsy than deadly.
But as with all things, with time, with practice, they would become more elegant, more refined, more practiced. Yet that's only for hours... for months and years of practice. Not hours, not minutes, and most certainly not moments.
But that's what I was see. He, a mere boy, who had obviously never even held a spear before... His movements come with refinements. Each stab takes on an essence of my own spearman ship.
His strikes come low, twisting against the enemies and trying to read anything that he can. So that he could predict where practice fails him.
