[Flashback] No rest for the wicked (Solo)

[Murmur]

Timestamp: 20th, Winter, 504AV “Petching winter,” breathed the young man who stood outside the barracks lining the tall, fortified walls of the Vitrax. He rubbed his hands together, hoping the friction would at least reduce the numbing sensations that was beginning to creep into his fingers despite the perceived lack of ice due to Rhysol’s influence. And Deven was grateful, damned grateful, else he was sure he’d be a walking icicle by now. It was morning, and the usual sounds of clashing swords and barked orders emanated from the buildings in his direct vicinity, and hung in the still air before being swept away by strong currents that seemed to take pleasure in rocking him on his feet. He was to meet his overseeing soldier today; a usual morning. Heavy footfalls took him to a building across from the barracks he was housed in. The incessant clangs and shouts gradually increased, until Deven opened the door and stepped inside, relishing in the stark contrast between warm and cold. Immediate silence. All eyes trained on him, Of course, I’m the petching pageant queen. He smirked at the resounding stillness, then with a light shrug, he walked over to the rows of weapons that lined the walls, “You can keep on staring, but I’m not turning into you’re wildest desires.” “Deven.” Came a stern bark from across the room. He winced, “Sir Fren,” Deven stood to attention as the rest of the apprentices continued their assaults on dummies or each other. The man that approached him now was tall, nearly 6’3”, with dark, wavy hair held back in a tight pony tail and scars that marred one half of his face. He looked grizzly. “At least you’re punctual,” he growled, “Have you your weapon on you, boy?” “Yes, sir.” Deven held up the curved dagger for his commanding officer. “Good, you’ll be practicing until evening with that today. No breaks, no chit chat, I want your ass planted at a dummy with complete focus on it at all times. Do I make myself clear?” “Yes, sir.” “I don’t care if your fingers start to petching bleed, I want to see every inch of that dummy torn apart. Know that I’ll be watching every style, every technique you use, I want to see diversity, understood?” “Yes, sir.” Deven already knew not to stand before Fren for too long. He had a tendency to smack the living shyke out of any apprentice that stood before him for an extended amount of time. He usually called them “half brained, lazy bastards,” and the young seventeen year old had no desire to be labeled as such, despite the amount of beating his face has taken over the years. He was already eyed with enough suspicion as it is, and the desire to overcome the prejudice by his peers had been instrumental in his determination. Taking up his mantle at one of the worn dummies on the far corner of the room, Deven fingered the hilt of his dagger. Rather… Jartu’s dagger. Even for being such a bastard, the man had taught him a lot, even magic, and to him, a teenager who knew not why everyone regarded him with such suspicion, he was grateful for it. He damned well knew the consequences of not following orders amongst the Ebonstryfe, having witnessed two of his peers suffer dire consequences for their misgivings. Enough. Discipline. Concentration. What can I see here but my greatest enemy? A Syliran Knight! Instinctively, the apprentice’s arm shot out, catching the arm of the dummy in a sidestepped sweep of his blade, knocking it on it’s rickety hinges and forcing the arm to launch in a full circle, catching him off guard. Deven was smacked in the back with a good measure of force, sending him nearly tumbling to the floor. ”Shyke,” he hissed under his breath. His composure was stable, however. He simply got his ass up once more and tried again. One arm raised, right leg placed farther up than his left, Deven administered an upsweep with the dagger, aiming for the chest cavity. Hearing a satisfied crack as a splinter flew off and collided with the wall, the young Ebonstryfe apprentice smiled. He flexed the muscles in his hand, then tried once more, this time, once again, aiming at the arm. He knew what to anticipate now, so when the blade sunk into the wooden arm of the dummy and sent it circling around, Deven ducked, missing the arm by a hair’s breadth but conjuring enough tactic to stand straight once more, lock his arm out to block the incoming blow. He couldn’t help but grin.

[Murmur]

The majority of the day was spent thus. Practicing over and over with Jartu's blade in hand, his bare fist in another, until the skin on his knuckles became taught and raw, and even so much as tearing under the strain he put on them throughout the training bout. Upper cuts, downward sweeps, maneuvers he came up on the spot with some semblance of grace he previously thought incapable of, if only to please Sir Fren and show his devotion to the betterment of his abilities for the order and Rhysol himself. He was damn well exhausted when evening settled over the Vitrax, bringing in the cool breezes through the opened doorway. Deven wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, only to realize he’d rubbed his forehead with the blood caked on his knuckles. The other apprentices were already setting aside their training weapons to depart, and the young man soon followed. Securing his dagger in the crook of his belt, Deven’s tired footsteps led him toward the barracks, where the familiar faces of his peers greeted him with enthusiastic looks of revulsion and threatening glares. Peachy. All the more to accept that which was chaos and destruction. It thrived wherever he treaded, always in the shadow of his footsteps, so when he stood before Sir Fren and bowed his head in the customary recitation of Rhysol’s prayer, Deven could not help but find himself beseeching the god to show him some sign that he truly belonged. I’m here for you, Lord Rhysol. I’m here to learn, to spread the chaos and betrayal that is your realm. I’m here to be your pawn in whatever task you wish of me. Let the world fall under your dominion. It was a heartfelt gesture, albeit a silent one. His eyes were shut, his head bowed toward the ground, and he repeated these words until it was ingrained in his head. Until, of course, Sir Fren smacked the side of the wall with his sheathed blade. Almost every head jerked up from their reveries. “You’re dismissed. For Rhysol.” Came Fren’s familiar growl. “For Rhysol.” Repeated the dozen apprentices that now scattered toward the cafeteria beside the barracks, including the young Deven, himself. Piling a moderate amount of food on his plate, Deven sat himself on a far corner of the rather long and stuffy room. The scent of different arrays of meat and vegetables had been mouth-watering, and after the back to back days of training with no ample rest, he was often left with a stomach that groaned and complained quite frequently. Needless to say, he was happy to at least get some nutrition for the evening before settling down for his nightly sessions. He sat for several chimes, devouring half his plate in the meantime and gulping down the remainder of his lukewarm water. The sounds of his peers drifted closer, and he found it odd, considering there was a conglomeration of voices that drowned out most individual’s. It wasn’t until he saw a hand slam onto the end of his table that Deven noticed the three young men that confronted him, smirks plastered to their lips. “Sorry, I feel like being a fatass today, no food for you.” Deven mumbled with a mouthful of meat. They seemed to ignore him. The one Deven dubbed “Mole” spoke. “So, Deven, heard you got a Syliran dad. Is that right?” He swallowed the remainder of the food in his mouth, “Why the shyke would I admit to that?” “Oh so it’s true. Amazing you got into the Ebonstryfe. Your petching kind don’t belong here.” “I’m not a petching Syliran.” His words nearly escaped as a hiss. “You probably came from one of their whores. It’d be typical. They like to petch whores a lot I hear.” Laughter. “You’re an idiot. You think they’d let a Syliran in the order?” Deven snapped, slamming his fork into the crevice of the wooden table in front of him. “My parents are dead. You see this?” He whipped out his dagger, displaying it for Mole and the two lackeys. “This is my guardian’s dagger. He’s Ebonstryfe, not a petching Syliran Knight.” “Prove it.” “Prove what.” “That you’re not a filthy Syliran.” “Why the shyke would I want to prove anything to you?” “Because being an actual Ravokian, I’ll be your commanding officer one day. And when that day comes, I’ll be sure to stamp your forehead with the mark of a traitor.” The rage could be contained no longer. Deven stood so fast, he knocked the bench over as he grasped Mole’s collar in a viselike grip. “You want your proof? Duel me. If you win, you’ll be right, and I’ll be dead. Two birds with one stone, eh?” The gleam in Deven’s eyes was akin to a serial killer in a frenzy. There was a grin on his lips, and for a fraction of a second, even Mole seemed unsure. But then he laughed, a disgusting laugh as he wrenched Deven’s finger’s from his tunic. “Fine, Syliran. Outside. By Rhysol, we duel.” “Yes, let Rhysol guide the winner.” He murmured.

[Murmur]

The air was unnaturally frigid, stabbing at his skin like the ends of sharpened knives. His hands were gradually beginning to numb, and for a moment, he hoped his entire skin was coated in an outer shell of frost just to deter the inevitable blows. But such thoughts would warrant him punishment from the man he was trying to impress, and indeed, the shadow of Sir Fren stood nearby, dark eyes trained on Deven’s back. He could feel it. That gaze was all too familiar for him. Perhaps in the midst of a circle of apprentices, their eyes locked onto the pair: the boy rumored to be from Syliras, and that who had several years of training ahead of him, Deven began to see the utter rashness of his decision. He could not go back on his word. He had challenged Mole under the name of Rhysol, he would either have to kill or be killed. Something lodged itself in his throat. He wouldn’t be surprised if it was his heart making a run for it. Despite it all; the constant discipline, the training, the incessant reminders of one’s dedication to the order and how important it was… Deven was still just a child. His soul was, some might argue, still pure. Devoid of bloodshed and retched hatred. But this boy that stood before him, he had ridiculed him, accused him of being such filth that even as he stood out in the courtyards of the Vitrax, with unusually frigid air pummeling his dry cheeks and cracked lips, his blood boiled. “What’ll it be, Syliran, a nice, clean death, or should I prolong it?” Sneers and laughter erupted. “Funny, you can’t even put a dent in a fish fillet.” “Haha, you’re petching hilarious. At least I’ll be honoring the Ebonstryfe with this duel.” “I’m sure Lord Rhysol would be most proud of you disposing of me.” “Shut the petch up.” “Then why do you keep talking, chubby?” His goading had worked. At the same time, Deven didn’t know why he decided to taunt in the first place. The raging behemoth that was once Mole stampeded towards him, arms raised and fingers splayed in some foreign attempt at an attack. Deven ducked as quickly as he could, feeling the whoosh of air pass just above his head from Mole’s sweeping fist. At the same time, however, Deven was struck in the gut from an unexpected knee. A sharp gasp escaped him, and he inhaled cold air. The audience of apprentices howled and called obscenities in their wake, but what little Deven could see was soon blocked as the body of Mole collided with his. Both boys fell to the floor, spraying dirt into the air as the assaulter’s fists collided with Deven’s face, neck and shoulders. The boy attempted to raise his arms, and felt his knuckles connect with bone, hearing a satisfied crack and a yelp from his opponent. The numbness was drained from the adrenaline that now pumped into his system. Exhilarated! Was this the word? He was feeling alive. Even when his lips and nose dripped blood, as the two tumbled on the floor, Deven somehow pictured himself in a dance. Albeit a bloody and soon a fatal one, but a dance nonetheless. Ah, but what do I owe this pleasure to. Lord Rhysol would know. For a moment, all he could see was black. Blotches in his vision, fading faces of peers who gawked and cheered and laughed. He wondered what he looked like to them. A bloodied, frantic boy fighting against a heavier, less appealing apprentice. He wished for a moment, this would simply end. His mind wandered… Fists.. Why were they fighting with fists? So primitive. They could have done better. Dying from these meaty sausages seemed a lot less honorable than dying to a sword… And damn, how he wished he had a petching sword. That was it. His blade! Trembling hands grasped the hilt of his tucked dagger, fueled by the adrenaline coursing through his veins, the heat that was the kill he could taste on his lips, past the iron scent of blood. Mole’s meaty hands wrapped around his neck, cutting off the circulation. He gasped under the strain, but even as his life ticked before his eyes, Deven lifted the glinting blade and plunged it forcibly into the side of his opponent’s neck.

[Murmur]

Thick stubby fingers dug into his throat, and he choked. He was frantic, his heart was pounding against his chest, thrumming in his ears. It was all he could hear, his heart fighting for every last motion that pumped the adrenaline and fueled his dagger into Mole’s neck. Deven had twisted it with a flick of his wrist, and the scream that had been drowning out the voices of his peers intensified. He had missed the kill shot, and now he was fighting with a raging, blood-spurting fat boy who was content to slam his head into the ground. With each blow, Deven’s vision exploded in a display of blinding flashes and colors. Something hot and sticky trickled into the roots of his hair on the back of his head and he could feel a dull throb. But he could breathe. And that was all he needed. Mole was pounding into his chest and cheek, spluttering blood with a dagger protruding from the base of his neck, and with each passing moment his movements slowed. It seemed like desperation as Deven attempted to concentrate through the assault to surge his djed into his fingers, shifting the skin and bones and morphing them into the only animal he could get his hands on for nearly two weeks. Nails lengthened, hardened and became nearly translucent, they were curled, but they were also dangerously sharp. Deven was on the verge of complete conscious collapse, and yet as Mole was about to send another bloody punch at his cheek, Deven lashed out his hand and raked the hardened cat’s claws across Mole’s eyes. “ARGH!” Blood erupted from the chubby boy’s eyes, and his scream was heart wrenchingly deafening. He flailed, collapsing sideways beside the stupefied Deven, whose trembling hand dripped with the crimson liquid just inches from his own face. It burns… It burns, it burns… But despite the rapid heat spreading through his nerves, it was the final shred of innocence that melted from his mind. This was no animal, no insect suffering under his hand; it was a boy, a fellow apprentice. A despicable piece of shyke. Deven’s heart jumped to his throat, the pounding was in his ears, in his head and the thundering conglomeration of voices returned. They cheered and screamed and laughed, and Deven, being the kind, obliging young man gripped the knife stuck in the choking boy’s throat and jerked it out. Another scream, more blood. It pooled around them, covered his uniform, his hands, his face and neck. But he stabbed. Over and over and over, with a frenzy in his eyes and a grin on his lips stained with more blood. And as the temporary burst of excitement trickled away in increments, Deven’s hand began to slow, having half the strength to plunge it back into the maimed corpse of Mole. Breaths came short and labored but the boy’s body slumped over the dead Mole’s and he began to laugh. His laughter silenced the crowd, hysterical, proud, relieved. A mixture of all such emotions. Relieved… Why do I feel so relieved. “Well done, Deven.” It was Sir Fren’s voice that penetrated the trance that wrapped itself around Deven’s mind. He blinked up through a crust of drying blood, seeing the large, imposing figure of his officer. He hadn’t expected the hard back-hand that followed his approval. Deven had barely enough strength let alone stupidity to bother asking why Sir Fren had just struck him. On the contrary, he was grateful that the older man grabbed him roughly by the collar, hauled him up and dragged him into one of the vacant buildings and away from the prying eyes of his peers. He was then shoved roughly against the hard walls, ones which held only an array of whips.

[Murmur]

“Thinking you can show off like that, eh, pup?” Deven could taste the warm blood in his mouth, and he spat it out. Wrong move. Sparks flew across his vision as another fist collided with his head, and his face met the hard floorboards. What he would give to just lay there for an eternity, without the fear of the man who now stood looming over his fallen form. Hard hands toughened over a life of smacking apprentices senseless hauled him up by his collar, and Deven nearly choked. “You’ve got balls, kid, but they don’t hang that low. We lost an apprentice because of you,” Sir Fren slammed the boy against the wall moving along the rows of whips that lined them. He took a moment inspecting them either for their sturdiness or for the extra spikes that some occasionally held, then when he was satisfied he returned, “Take off your tunic.” Deven did not need to be told twice. Trembling fingers undid the buttons on his tunic, and he slid it off, finally feeling the impact of the bruises and scratches that marred the skin on his chest, shoulders and back. He braced himself on the wall ahead of him as Sir Fren spoke once more, “Lucky for you that apprentice didn’t belong to anyone important, but you need to get it in that thick petching skull of yours that you can’t,” the whip cracked against the skin of Deven’s back, and a yelp had barely escaped his lips before he bit down enough to draw blood, “kill” another strike, “apprentices. At least, not until they’re older. At this young stage, boy, they are molded, and we don’t know what they’ll turn in too. So it's best, you see, to let them be.” More strikes, more blood, and internally, Deven was screaming in every corner of his mind. It was the onset of tears he held back as Fren continued the barrage of whips until after what seemed like hours had passed and the boy found himself collapsed on the ground, bleeding and exhausted. Sir Fren tossed what appeared to be an old rag at him and turned as if to leave. “Clean yourself up, and get to your barracks, training continues at the break of dawn.” END.

[Seth]

Murmur: +2 Dagger XP +1 Morphing XP +1 Brawling XP +1 Intimidation XP Lores: , The Feel of True Rage, The Satisfaction of the Kill, The Satisfaction of the Stab, The Satisfaction of Blood, How to Stick Up for Yourself, That Sir Fren is Rarely Pleased. Additional: Ever since this event, Murmur has had a scar on his back from where one lashing split the skin open. That scar remains to always remind him of what happened on this day. The Method behind my Madness : Nice little thread here! I liked the desperation that Murmur had during his fight. It was realistic, and I applaud that! I would like to see a little more of his fighting style shine through, although I don't know how well trained in his daggers he was at this point of the timeline... But all in all, considered the fear, and what seemed to be his first real kill... You wrote it really well. I enjoyed it. You got the two Dagger points for using your dagger, obviously. Brawling XP was awarded for the short little scuffle. You also managed to net some Intimidation, for being so angry and scary! And Morphing, obviously awarded for... well... Morphing! Like a Power Ranger! <333 Good thread! I look forward to seeing more of Murmur during our adventure! <333!