3rd of Fall, 504 AV The Syliran Wilderness The forest was calm, the sun just barely beginning to illuminate the dark azure of the early morning sky. Small tendrils of light, yellows pinks and blues, began to pierce the top of the nearby treeline, and in the distance the flickering lights of the trade caravan's dwindling fires illuminated the twilight hours of the morning. An uneasy calm cast itself upon Vervain, like cold iron pressed tightly against his young chest on all sides. His hand sat deftly on the hilt of his cutlass, his fingertips numbed by the frigid curves of the iron. Across the clearing, his father stood, slowly drawing his own weapon - an older but pristine iteration of the weapon Vervain grasped. Jacynth tended to the blade with dedication and love, so much so that the caravenners often referred to it as Vervain's little brother. "Draw your weapon, my child." Jacynth's voice was deceptively even and flat, and to the uninitiated onlooker it might appear as if this were a sparring session like any other. Vervain knew better. There was a tightness in Jacynth's jaw, a firmness in the grasp he held on his blade, and a telling shadow that moved across his eyes of his father. There was nothing about this situation which should have been new or surprising to Vervain. Sword practice was part of the many drills that Vervain was subjected to daily, but this was the first time it had been framed by indignant rage on his fathers part. Regardless of how guarded father was with his emotions, Vervain could hear it in the subtle quiver in the depth of his voice - see it in the keen, predatorial focus in his eyes. Oh aye, though his father was smiling, the heat of Jacynth's rage was palatable, and it was all directed straight at him. It was if he had spit in the face of Ivak himself. Yet, his bravado had gotten him this far, and the boy was loathe to abandon it so easily in the face of his fathers intimidation tactics. "Well then? I'm waiting, old man." The words were his, but they felt practiced and fake. He drew his cutlass, as father requested. It felt heavier than usual. Father nodded curtly, raising his blade up in front of him in a formal dueling stance. Vervain would awkwardly imitate the motion, lacking the practiced grace of his fathers hand. Then, with no warning at all, Jacynth was in motion, an arrow poised to pierce his sons very heart. The sudden burst of movement took Vervain a little bit off guard, and before his mind could fully comprehend what was happening father was almost upon him. Many years of constant sword practice with Jacynth had taught him a few things, in particular that father favored ending a battle with the first blow whenever possible. Vervain's body moved on its own, a testament to the discipline Jacynth had been instilling in him all these years, lunging back out of the striking range of the iron cobra as it striked at his face. A flash of light reflected off the sheen surface of his fathers cutlass temporarily blocked all other sights from reaching his left eye. The world danced and trees sashayed in green streaks all around him, but as he hit the ground his training kicked back in and he threw his weight forward into a roll, emerging in a kneeling posture with his blade lifted up to defend his core. He felt himself begin to smirk involuntarily, a well of pride rushing up deep within him. Father underestimated him if he thought he could end their little match so easily. Surely this was his just due after the rigors of his training, that now combined with the strength of his youthful body that he should triumph over his father. As exciting a prospect as this was, however, Vervain felt something else - a voice in the back of his mind, a muffled scream that howled of danger. His eyes caught the gleam of thin red line running Jacynth's blade as he flicked it back into his starting stance. Suddenly Vervain became aware of a strange tickle over and under his eye, as a crimson irritation began to cloud his vision. He reached up reflexively to rub the haze from his sight. His palm sat just in front of his face, his pupils beginning to slowly dilate. Small red droplets coated his palm, and although common sense would dictate that the sanguine carried by his veins would be warm, all he could feel was cold. Thousands of frozen, tiny hands gripped at his body. They pushed on his arms, making his hands tremble with the weight of his cutlass. They pushed on his chest, making each breath more and more a strain to take. They fought against his neck as he slowly lifted his chin to make eye contact with his father, blood trickling down his cheek and jawline. He had felt the blade make contact, but in the heat of the moment hadn't realized just how close he had been to being decapitated. "If I had moved a half second later than I did..." The realization was like ice poured straight into his chest cavity. Father didn't merely wish to teach him a lesson. He wanted him dead. |