One. Two. "Three." Elliot Brown grunted the last number. This was attempt twenty-seven, and damn it if he wasn't going to succeed eventually. He was a little battered, a little bruised. Once he'd even dented the floor of the Dagger. He'd blame N'Vek on that later. Or Treadwell. Or Both. One chasing the other. It was... no, focus. Another try. One. Two. "Three!"
The increasingly agile rogueling was positioned precariously upside-down upon two barstools, one palm upon each. Muscles had been trained in new and painful ways over the last few months. At one point he could swing a sword about the size of his entire body. Now, though, now he wanted to be able to perform this feat of skill and daring, to lift his left arm off of its stool so that he was supporting himself, balanced perfectly, upon one hand and one stool alone.
The world around him seemed to go still and silent as he removed the arm. Every time before now this led to falling and fumbling. On this twenty-seventh attempt, however, his body stopped shaking and trembling under the strain. It was solid and steady, his legs propelled upwards straight and true. Through strength and practice alone, he held himself aloft for long seconds. Three. Five. Ten. Before, the arm gave way and he toppled to the ground with a loud thud once again.