Apéritif: Into Darkness

Elaryl M'Kasa, Written by Becky
Posted on Wed, Jun 9, 2010 08:54 am

Elaryl had begun to smile by the time Talaban said “dusk;” her smile grew even wider when he requested live blades rather than practice lathes. As Talaban disappeared down the hallway, Elaryl let herself into her room and couldn’t stop herself from flopping onto her bed, burying her face in her pillow and kicking her legs excitedly. Finally something new! After months of teaching Basic Swords, archery contests with Serai (which Elaryl, without exception, won) and feeling pointless, here was what she had been craving—a new skill, learned from someone who had already mastered it. Just the two of them, no class, no other students to take up his time. She would learn so fast… She almost giggled.

Abruptly she stopped, sat up, and shook her head violently. She was being a woolheaded girl again! She fingered the long strands of brown hair that, once again, fell across her face. She remembered her thought from earlier this morning—yesterday, now, in fact—that she should cut it. It had been long, hanging past her mid-back, for years. Well, if I’m really starting over… She gathered her long, brown locks into a thick handful at the back of her neck, bound it with one of her leather ties, and reached for her knife.

The next morning Elaryl was up before the bell for First Light was rung and dressed in her usual brown leggings and green tunic. Equipped with bow, quiver, Anarië, knife, and throwing knives in boot sheaths, she began her run around the Tower grounds. It was the first time she had been out of her room before First Light in months. Everything she did had an extra energy—she had slept into the afternoon yesterday, after spending the entire night in the city, and she was looking forward to her first lesson with Talaban tonight. And her head felt so light—literally, the foot of hair she had chopped off felt like a manacle that had been taken off. She found herself shaking her head just to feel the newly shortened strands bounce, the freedom of the shorter hair tucked behind her new leather headband. A lucky purchase, that.

Before lunch, she had target practice, both archery and knives, and found an empty yard tucked away behind the barracks in which to run through the forms. As she flowed from Tower of Morning into Courtier Taps His Fan, she was reminded that she only had, in fact, one sword—and for her lesson today, Talaban had instructed her to bring live blades. She frowned. She certainly couldn’t afford two new swords, but she wanted the blades to match rather than trying to find one that matched Anarië’s length and weight as best as it could. She knew where she could find exactly what she needed, and without paying a copper—she just didn’t particularly want to go there. It meant remembering the night her father died.

The wagon lay, splintered and broken, in the middle of the road, its wares laying scattered around it, the moonlight reflecting off the numerous daggers and swords flung on the ground. Elaryl pushed a tree branch aside and looked around carefully. Seeing no one, she stepped out onto the road and around the wagon, swallowing her fears of what she would see. The ground beneath her feet told a tale in its ruts and scuffles, the churned mud and broken footprints—and the four bodies dressed in black.

There—a heap lying by the rear wheel. Light, no! She ran towards what had once been her father. His deep brown hair—the same brown as hers—threaded with grey, was matted, thick with blood. His blue eyes, which had once shone with kindness and merriment, were now lifeless, glazed in death. She stepped away and backed up, shaking.

There was movement to her right, and she ducked behind the bushes lining the road, the leaves whispering eerily as two men came out of the trees on the opposite side. One was tall, and solid; the other was just as tall, but willowy. They had killed her father, and would do that and worse if they found her. She could feel rage and the pain welling up inside her, but she directed it as her father had taught her. Moving silently, she reached out with her arm and grasped the sword laying in the road a few feet away from her. She hefted it silently. It was too heavy for her, but it was something. It would do. She kept control on her anger, not allowing it to consume her and let her make a fatal mistake. She closed off every part of her body to it except for her swordarm, and crept up behind the two men. The sword became an extension of her arm, and the two thieves, arms laden with weapons that were now no use, never expected her.

Her father had died that night, and her life had been torn apart; but that night had also led her to the Tower, eventually. Her father had been a weapons smith, and though her mother and she had sold most of his wares for income after his death, she had kept a few. While her mother had been alive, she looked after them for Elaryl; after her mother’s death, Elaryl did not want to bring them to the Tower for fear they would be confiscated, and anyway, she had nowhere to store them. Her mother’s brother, Jakam, lived not far out of the city, and she had taken her treasures there and asked him to keep them for her.

She had never particularly liked the man; Elaryl never thought he had treated her mother well enough, and had not cared for her well when she had taken ill. She hesitated in bringing the weapons to him, afraid that he wouldn’t care for those either, but she had had no other choice. She knew that there was a set of matching swords in the pieces she had kept, each a pace long, straight-bladed and double-edged, and beautiful, like all of her father’s work. She had not returned to Jakam’s home since asking him to take the weapons, over four years ago, although she would have been able to bring them back into the Tower now. She was too afraid that he no longer had them, had sold them—probably for half of what they were worth. If she didn’t return for them, then there was at least half a chance they were still there. She did not want to give up that half a chance. It would break her heart to find them sold; all she would have left from her father then was the longsword currently at her hip, Anarië, the sword with which she had killed her father’s murderers. It was no longer too heavy for her.

And on the practical side, it would take the better part of a day to reach his home, retrieve the weapons, suffer through the small talk and pretended care, and return to the Tower, and she no longer had the better part of a day. She decided that she would meet Talaban at dusk, as he had requested, with one blade and see what happened. If he was angry, she would apologize and leave at First Light tomorrow for Jakam’s home, praying that he still held the weapons for her.

Dusk approached. Greyish-purple clouds hung over the eastern half of the sky as Elaryl walked to the western stables, her single longsword buckled around her waist, a saddlebag, also single, slung over her shoulder. She made sure she was early, by at least a few minutes; Talaban certainly had no reason to help her, but he had chosen to at least teach her something, and she wanted to stay on his good side for as long as he was to remain at the Tower. Rounding the corner, she could see that he was already in the appointed meeting spot, readying for their lesson as she had done in her room before meeting him here. He was doing something different though, movements and stretches she had not seen before. She assumed it was something he had learned in the Borderlands, and watched with interest from the shadows of the stable. She saw no reason to interrupt him. He was fully trained, and missing only a bondmate to keep him from full rank as a Warder; she had no doubt that he already knew she was there.

Whatever he was doing, it was a lengthy combination, but eventually he finished and turned to where she was waiting without a hint of surprise, just as she had thought. He walked to her and his eyes flickered over her newly shortened hair, pieces falling out from the leather tie that held it back but restrained by the headband. Again, without betraying any emotion, he saddled his horse, a rather large black stallion which seemed unhappy with the proposition at first but eventually settled down. Elaryl retrieved and saddled her own chestnut mare, Nari, her curiosity growing stronger by the minute, and led her out of the stable as Talaban leapt up to his saddle like a cat. Elaryl swung up to the saddle herself and followed him silently into the darkening Grounds.

It was all very mysterious and silent, and she wondered where they could possibly be going on horseback, in the dark. It was enough to give her goosebumps.

OOC: Whee!

In reply to Cocktail Appetizer (Private lesson for Elaryl)[show]/[hide]

A pair of large eyes stared, slowly blinking in unison as they watched their surroundings with indifference. The wind whistled merrily, gusting its way through the streets of Tar Valon. Coats and scarves fluttered in the breeze, swaying gently to the tempo of the great city as it wound down. Overhead, rays of gold interlaced with deep blue, a striking tapestry as the dying rays of the sun yielding dominance to the night.

In its tree, the owl perched silently. Its head swung back and forth. Hunger gnawed in its stomach. Wings flapped hesitantly, beating once, then twice before they folded again. Eyes fixated themselves on the burning ball that inched ever closer to the horizon. He was hungry but age old instinct demanded he wait.

The armoured Warder leapt off his horse, landing in front of the haggard looking animal before striding towards him, the clink of plate adding to the menacing air. “Draw,” was the single utterance from the Gaidin, his blades clearing their scabbards as he charged toward the stunned trainee.

Spinning to the side, Talaban made a mid-air pirouette while simultaneously executing Unfolding the Fan. Parrying the strokes with his own improvised version of the form, the former thief landed perfectly balanced and ready to receive the next attack. The Warder came on, heavy plate seemingly weightless, as he pressed the attack, blades flicking back and forth in a rain of steel. Talaban backed across the training yards, both hands working independently in a vain effort to keep his opponent at bay. They seemed to be mirrors of each other, two black figures flitting across the yards but Talaban knew it was an illusion. His skill was nowhere near the other's. Blades met, filling the yard with a metallic symphony. Lion on the Hill came at him, quickly flowing into Arc of the Moon then the Tower of Morning. The Trainee back pedalled furiously, deflecting as best as he could. A most unceremonious roll just barely avoided Ribbon in the Air. Talaban grunted as he caught yet another blow and turned it. The Gaidin was toying with him, Talaban knew as the fight drew on. Twice, he could have ended it with clean thrusts but instead merely inflicted small cuts. He possessed preternatural speed, even in the cumbersome plate, and his strength was unholy.

Dusk. The man’s eyes snapped open with a start, pale jade orbs trained at the window opposite his bed. Light, just a dream. He could almost feel the ache in his arms, a fine sheen of sweat felt cool on his brow. A single clean motion brought him to his feet as habit took over. Black silks came on in the fading light, hands never missing a beat as they grasped accessories hanging from hooks with the assurance of habit. It was good to be back in his quarters.

The arms-man strode out of the archway, into the yards as night took hold, the last rays of the sun fading from sight. A large shape flew by on near-silent wings. Same old owl, regular as clockwork. Some things never changed. Talaban breathed, taking in the scents of the Tower grounds. He could smell the dinner from the kitchens, the aroma wafting toward him on the same breeze that tugged gently at his hadori-bound hair. The former thief strode away from the buildings, across the western training yards and towards the woods at the edge of the training grounds. It felt good to lapse back into old, familiar routines. The Master of Arms had been unavailable. Not that it was a meeting Tal was looking forward to. Beneath the trees, at the very edge of the woods, Tal stopped. Moving slowly but deliberately, the wiry arms-man stretched, feeling the movement of muscles on his slight frame. He began his routine. Stretches fed life into scar emblazoned tissue, warming and soothing the aches of a hundred lessons. Each scar a reminder of something, a lesson to be learnt, mistakes never to be repeated or foolhardy brashness. Flowing through the stretches, time stood still as he slipped into the callisthenic positions he had learnt as a child, so many years ago. The Ramparts of the Sun, the Shooting Bow, the Swallow, the Swan and the Crow. All one hundred and twenty seven positions flowed in an ordained cycle, a standard prelude to any form of exercise.

Finishing the set, Tal turned and walked to the waiting trainee. He knew Elaryl had arrived minutes earlier but had not felt the need to interrupt his exercises. In the dim, flickering lamplight of the stable, she looked different. Gone were the wavy strands that had flowed freely the previous night, shorn by a whole foot and now leashed by an intricate leather headband. Her entire frame was clothed in a mix of greens and browns, typical training attire at the Tower. A single saddlebag hung from her right shoulder.

Saying nothing, Tal saddled Shadow. The large black stallion moved restlessly, resisting slightly before acquiescing to the leather seat. Vaulting lightly into the saddle, Talaban motioned to Elaryl to follow, as they left the barracks in silence.

OOC: Here we go :)

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Replies to Apéritif: Into Darkness

  • Combination salad: Form, technique and movement — Talaban Morenae, Wed, Jun 9, 2010 09:51 am