Board Thread:Roleplaying/@comment-3293219-20160718203543/@comment-5543592-20160720231346

"I don't think that passes at guard school.  Ya get beaten up." He said, stepping out onto the street. He glanced back at the tower, looking up it and frowning, taking in it's start whiteness, grand scheme, and stunning architecture. "Guard school..." He repeated to himself, as if he was having a thought.

The Tower and Hall of Virtues of War, Taneth Chapter

Eleven years ago

Two Redguards circled each other on the mat. Both appeared equal in age, but in actuality one was older than the other by three years. The older one had a rough, grizzled appearance. Despite the robe he currently wore, if one looked at his hands, they could see the ends of tattoos just past the wrist. He was more muscular than his opponent and taller. Despite his young age, his forehead was already lined from scowling.

The other Redguard was younger. He had a slim build, and was average of height. He was handsome, in a dashing sort of way, especially when he smiled—but his expression was all intent right now, eyes narrowed and focused on the older man.

Each held a scimitar, and by their stances and grips, both were very skilled. The robes they wore were plain and loose, to allow freedom of movement, and were belted at the waist by a cord of rope. Their feet and hands were bare, save for their swords. The room that contained the mat was flimsy, the walls made of yellowish-white straw. It was open to the air on one-side, that lead out onto a large balcony, a balcony which went all the way around the tower in which this room was held. Other students of the tower sat off to one side of the mat that dominated the room, and a lone old Redguard—likely sixty or so years old--to the other. His robes were more enveloping than those of the students, and it took little imagining to understand that he was the teacher.

There was silence except for their footsteps on that mat, until the older Redguard cried out, and lunged. He swung down at his younger adversary, the air blurring around his sword. The young Redguard braced himself, turned his blade horizontal to parry. The attack slid off the curved edge of his sword and he retaliated immediately, driving his sword downwards towards the older Redguard’s stomach. However, the man easily side-stepped it, and brought his own sword around, swinging downward in a diagonal slice for the young man’s shoulder.

The young man had to duck and move backwards to avoid being struck, and lost his balance while doing it. His feet slipped on the mat, and the older Redguard pressed his advantage, lifting his foot and kicking the young man straight in the chest. The handsome Redguard immediately went the rest of the way down, landing on his back with a jarring impact, his head hitting the mat, and the scimitar clattered from his hand.

The older Redguard stood above him, sword held in a perfect Bellguard grip, a victorious smile on his face. He raised the scimitar over his opponent, and the younger Redguard gaped up in a mixture of fear and surprise.

The old man, the teacher, held up his hand suddenly, and spoke in a stern voice. “The match is over. Daireg is the victor.”

Daireg lowered his sword, smiling smugly, and the young Redguard sat up, rubbing his aching head.

“Don’t be depressed, princeling.” Daireg said as he walked past, coming to stand in front of the ‘princeling,’ or rather, prince. “You’re not bad, for a rich man’s pampered son.”

In a sudden flurry of motion, the teacher shot across the room, furious, headed straight for Daireg. In his surprise, Daireg lifted his sword, but the teacher slapped it straight open of Daireg’s hand. The teacher grabbed Daireg’s wrist, braced a second palm at his stomach, and the flipped the man over his head like he was a sack of vegetables, sending Daireg into a rough landing on his back.

“There is always someone better, Daireg.” The teacher told Daireg sharply, before using the grip he had on his student’s wrist to yank him to his feet. “Now apologize for your remark.”

Daireg yanked his arm back and stood up straight, looking at the young Prince now. His emotions were masked, but one could feel the cold rage radiating off of him. It dissipated after a moment, and he turned to bow politely to the Redguard he had called ‘princeling.’ The Prince rose to his feet, and bowed back, his own face giving nothing away. It wasn’t hard to sense that these two boys hated each other.

The Prince sat in a separate room of the tower, crossed legged, at its center. He was alone, the door to the balcony that circled the entire floor left open so he could feel the cool dusk air upon him. The light was dim, as the sun was setting behind the horizon.

Three jars of paint sat around him; one for white, one for black, and one for amber. He sat shirtless, dressed only in a pair of loose cotton shorts, and almost every visible inch of him was painted. Little images of eyes covered his skin, each a representation of his own. It was done with your real eyes closed, and took true mastery to complete. Originally such a thing was used by the Sword-Singers of legend, who painted eyes on themselves to confuse their opponents, but now it was an exercise in patience, technique, concentration, and determination.

Painting the face was the hardest part. The Redguard liked to think it was because your face already knew it had a perfectly good pair of eyes and didn’t need anymore.

“You practice as a man obsessed.”

The Redguard’s eyes darted open, and he drew a line of black down his arm by accident. He looked to the balcony entryway, where the teacher stood.

“Master Ishien.” The Prince said, setting his brush aside and rising to his feet to bow.

Ishien observed him for a moment, before bowing back.

The Prince turned away, his concentration broken by his Master’s arrival, and his face was a mask of anguish, showing how he truly felt after his defeat today.

“I’m not good enough, Master Ishien.” He turned back to the old man. “I lost.” “Everyone losses, now and again.” Ishien said indifferently, stepping into the room. The Redguard shook his head, and turned away fully, arms held before him with his fists clenched, as if he was trying to grab hold of something. “I have to be the best there is—no matter what it takes!”

“’Shouting to halt the sands’ shifting only leaves you hoarse.’” The Master quoted, and the Prince recognized the words of Frandar Hunding. “Defeat can be more instructive than victory.” He said sagely.

The Redguard looked back over his shoulder at the old man, wondering what he meant by that. Ishien only nodded, and then left his pupil to his practice his technique.

The tower was dark now, as night had fully set upon it.

The sword room, as it was called, where only a single set of swords sat—the master’s own, a set of expertly forged Orichalcum blades. The room was also used for private sessions, where Master Ishien and a student would have one-on-one duels.

A shadow was cast over the swords as a man reached for the shamshir, the largest scimitar and primary weapon of the set.

The thief stretched his hand out and grasped the weapon, dexterously lifting it from its stand.

The room was suddenly awash with light, and Daireg spun around with a gasp, tightening his grip on the sword, surprised to have been caught.

“Good thing I decided to practice tonight.” The young Redguard said, painted from head to toe with duplicates of his own eyes. Even his nipples had their own eyes: one could only guess if that was some kind of joke. He had managed to paint a few on his face, and they covered his cheeks and jaw. The contrast of all those pupils and irises indeed made it difficult to focus on the Redguard’s real eyes.

“Master Ishien would hate to lose that blade.” The Redguard said as he set down his lamp, deadpan. In his other hand he held his training scimitar, its dull, unpolished steel reflecting some of the light. “It’s two thousand years old.”

“True.” Daireg agreed. “And worth a fortune.” He drew his own scimitar from a sheath at his side as he tossed the shamshir to the ground. “But I don’t need it to take care of you.” The two took stances and circled one another, just as they had earlier that day.

“Yah!” Daireg cried, advancing a step with his scimitar extended as the Prince took a step back and braced himself to defend.

“Stop!” A voice commanded, causing both of them to freeze in place and look in its direction.

Master Ishien stood once again in the balcony entryway, framed by the lamplight against the night sky. He was not a tall or powerfully built man, but he painted a striking figure when he needed to.

“You have dishonored the Hall of Virtues, Daireg. You no longer have any place here!” He swung his arm, pointing towards the doorway. “Go!” He commanded.

Daireg lowered his sword, glaring daggers at the young Prince. The boy did not flinch under Daireg’s fury.

“You will pay for this, princeling.” Daireg growled. “I will take all that you hold dear—and then I will destroy you!”

With that, he dramatically dashed away, out into the night.

The Prince took a half-step after him, but Master Ishien called him back.

“Let him go. He has nothing left and nothing could be gained by stopping him.” Ishien then murmured something under his breath that the Prince obviously wasn’t supposed to hear: “And there is nothing more dangerous than a man with nothing to lose.”

“Return to your room. We’ll discuss what happened on the morrow.”

The young Redguard turned to walk out of the room, leaving the shamshir where it lay. Training continued the next day, and everyone acted like Daireg had never existed, likely because the Master did not mention the man, but rumors traveled fast. But the Prince, who would come to be called the Crimson Archer, did not forgot Daireg so easily.

The rogue swordsman did attempt to make true on his promise several times, and had almost succeeded twice. The first had caused Crimson to go into exile from Taneth and the second had nearly cost him his life. He doubted the third time would lack any less in foresight.

Crimson shook his head.

"Yeah, honestly, we can't all be sissies like you ladies." He said, turning forward and walking again.