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haebinHey, lovely readers!
Here is my newest chapter and I hope you'll enjoy it :) If you like, please tell me what you thought about it. :3
When the door opened, Tearlách quickly stepped back into the shadows, hid behind the mighty stone pillar and watched as his father strode through the corridor. Without seeing his face, the elf knew that his father's face was contorted with rage, that his light gray eyes had darkened with anger.
He knew his father, his posture and the way he walked well enough to know that his body was filled with rage.
While his father and Trálír had been arguing, Tearlách had been standing next to the door, listening with interest to every word exchanged between them.
For the past Tendays, Tearlách had suspected that Trálír was so busy outside the castle and that his human playmate was the reason. It surprised him to hear that he was trying to make up for his father's injustices.
Trálír and his heart of gold, Tearlách thought, shaking his head almost indulgently.
Of course, it would have been easy to put a few gold coins in his beloved's hand, but to see to it that he helped the girl to a better future with the help of two half-elves did not surprise Tearlách.
He, Tearlách, would have thrown a few coins at his whores feet with the request to be grateful for it and his older brother, with his soft heart, was literally building a new home for his relationship that would never have a future.
An amused smile was on Tearlách's face until he realized that he was suddenly the subject while his father and Trálír were at odds.
Trálír was still in favor of him becoming heir to the throne even though they had barely seen each other for weeks, let alone spoken? Why was he doing this, Tearlách wondered. And what was the reason for it?
Did Trálír despise his heritage, his innate responsibility, so much that he wanted to leave the Blackwater Castle the next moment? Before Tearlách could pay further attention to these questions in his innermost being, the conversation between the two men turned and suddenly his mother's madness was no longer a matter that lay in the dark and was only mentioned in a coy whisper.
Anger filled him, bitterness and a raging hatred spread through him as he listened to his brother's words. Until that moment he had not known or even suspected that his mother had taken her own life. He had grown up believing that he was the reason for his mother's death.
It had been made clear to him every moment of his life that it had been his fault, his birth, that had cost his mother her life.
Tearlách remembered every single day in which he had to face his father's accusations in silence and marked by heavy reproaches. Day in, day out, the beatings he had to endure, the humiliating words that burned into him like acid into the boy's tender skin.
Tearlách had spent his childhood and youth believing that every soldier, every castle dweller, every elf in these lands would blame him for his mother's death. How Tearlách had wished for someone at his side to protect him or to have his back. How he had longed not to wake up every morning knowing that in the evening he would crawl into bed with numerous bruises and cry secretly under the covers while his whole body throbbed with pain.
And how he had wished to be at his older brother's side, to be able to hide behind him, but he had punished him with silent disregard. When he discovered the bloody effusions on his brother's skin, he averted his eyes in shame. Tearlách hated Trálír for his lack of support and protection, unaware that their father had forbidden his older brother to stand by Tearlách. As soon as Trálír tried to turn to his younger brother for help, his father threatened that Tearlách's punishment would be even more severe if he intervened. There was talk of locking him in a dungeon or tying him to a rack in the castle courtyard by the wrists so that the boy would have to stand half-naked on his toes for hours in the cold. It broke Trálír's heart not to be able to help his younger brother, but anything he would have done would have been to Tearlách's detriment.
Only since the younger elf had made room for the darkness within him, given in to anger and bitterness and vented all his pain and hatred on others, did the inhabitants of the castle seem to respect him ... or fear him.
Tearlách was so deeply affected by the truth of his mother's passing that the festering wound of years of humiliation dug deeper into his soul, intensifying his hatred and his desire to take revenge on his father for all the suffering he had endured.
The time for that had not yet come, Tearlách knew. But the future would bring much suffering for his father, he was sure of that. He saw him screaming in burning shackles, naked, his old body with numerous cuts, kneeling on the ground in front of him ... Tearlách, the Dark One.
He saw himself standing ankle-deep in his father's blood with a cold smile on his lips. His father's screams would be sweeter to him than death.
*****
In the silence of the night, Trálír walked across the courtyard to the stable, opened the gate, entered and closed it quietly. Then, breathing heavily, he leaned against the wood of the bulky entrance and closed his eyes. His heart was beating so hard in his chest that the elf had the feeling it would burst in the next moment.
His father's threat cut off his breath, the fear for Anwyn tugged deep in his guts, seeming to grip into his spine and violently rip it from his flesh. He heard the restless neighing of his stallion, pushed himself away from the gate and walked slowly to Arod's stall. When he looked into his horse's gentle eyes, he raised his hand and placed it on its neck. Dejected, Trálír hung his head and closed his eyes again, trying to suppress the cruel threat his father had made.
But his words had burned themselves into his heart and he remembered why he had parted from Anwyn last winter with a heavy heart.
Trálír had cited mistrust of his family as the reason, the looming danger in the dark that he could not name at the time. But tonight he was aware that his father represented a real danger to his relationship with Anwyn. And it was obvious that Trálír, the Elder, would do something to the woman he loved so much if Trálír did something his father didn't like. Whether it was talking back, covertly or overtly refusing an order, not fulfilling his duties as firstborn ... if he decided against anything his father demanded or expected of him, Anwyn would have to bear the consequences for his behavior.
And Trálír remembered only too well his father's reaction in the years that followed, which his younger brother had to endure after their mother took her own life. His father was filled with rage that he no longer had control over his wife, that she had broken free from his poisonous embrace and escaped his humiliations. Since Trálír was his heir as firstborn, the ruler devised his youngest son as a sacrifice for his rage.
How often had Trálír heard Tearlách's sobs, seen the bruises on his arms, shoulders and legs when they sat together at the breakfast table the next morning, his younger brother looking at the table, too frightened to whisper a word. And Trálír sitting beside him, silent, his eyes averted, his throat tight and his heart aching with helplessness.
Trálír shook his head to free himself from these images. He opened his horse's stall, stepped inside and grabbed a currycomb which was attached to a rope hanging from the roof beam.
Lost in thought, Trálír began to groom Arod's neck with circular movements. With his free hand, he slowly stroked the groomed area and made sure that his stallion's lower lip was relaxed, which was a clear sign that Arod was comfortable. Trálír worked his way from the neck over the shoulders to the back and hindquarters of the horse.
When he had finished grooming, Trálír led his stallion into an empty kobe, as the horse's hair had fallen into the bedding and it now needed to be replaced.
It was deep in the night, the inhabitants of the Blackwater Castle were deep and mostly peaceful in their sleep, but the first-born of the ruler was mucking out the stables of Arod and the other horses and was still doing so when Fairre entered the stables in the morning and realized with astonishment that he had no work to do for the day ahead. Unsure, he asked his master what had happened and the high elf just shrugged his shoulders and mumbled: "I couldn't sleep."
Fairre stood uncertainly in the gate of the large stable and watched as Trálír closed a stall behind him. He looked dejected, lost, his gaze blank.
The old stable master cleared his throat quietly and asked in an uncertain voice: "What should I do now, sir?"
Trálír shrugged his shoulders in reply.
"Close the gate so that no one can see you and lie down on some hay bales, perhaps you could do with a little nap?"
"It's early in the morning," Fairre replied slowly, as if to tell him that he was not allowed to rest another minute.
"Maybe you're wrong and it's still the middle of the night? Get some rest, Fairre. You work hard and are no longer the youngest. Consider it a gift that I couldn't sleep tonight." Trálír smiled wryly and saw that Fairre nodded hesitantly.
The high elf turned away, walked through the stable and closed the door behind him. He knew that his day would begin with a lesson in the outer courtyard, so he strode down the path between the smithy and the stable. If you ignored the training ground on the right and continued walking, after a while you would come to the fields that lay to the west of the castle, bordered by the sea to the north and the dark woods to the south. Centuries ago, the former ruler of the Blackwater country had worked hard to clear the forest that stretched as far as the shores in order to grow wheat, barley and rye.
*****
Trálír heard the sounds of wooden weapons hitting each other, the groans and moans of the practicing soldiers, the orders given by the Right Hand . Once upon a time, there was a ruler who had insisted that the training sessions should be carried out with real weapons, as only the strongest should serve his army. But after some time and many serious wounds, severed limbs and several deaths of his soldiers, he switched to having his soldiers fight each other with weapons made of acacia. Perhaps there were some races on Faerun who laughed at this kind of combat, especially races like the Dragonborn or Lolth-sworn Drow, who trained for at least ten years in magic or combat and then performed some raids above ground.
But even a shield made of acacia wood could easily break bones or knock out teeth, as could a hammer, swords or axes carved by Ailill, the woodcarver, and his two apprentices.
As Trálír entered the training area, which was surrounded by a waist-high wooden fence, he glanced over the fighters present. He nodded to his father's Right Hand, spotting some of the faces he had fought with in training sessions since the beginning of his weapons training. At the edge of the square stood three young elves who could not have been more different and whom Trálír was seeing for the first time.
The one closest to him also seemed to be the youngest. He was slightly shorter than Trálír but had a tough physique that contradicted his gentle expression. His shiny red hair fell down the middle of his back and the elf's eyes reminded Trálír of the sparkle of rare emeralds. When his gaze crossed that of the ruler's son, he bowed his head respectfully.
The elf next to him was tall, slim and athletic. Trálír realized at first glance that his advantage in battle would be his agility and adaptability. His opponent would have difficulty knocking him down with a simple blow.
The last newcomer looked up at Trálír, his gaze arrogant, too confident to be sympathetic.
Trálír raised an eyebrow and unconsciously gritted his teeth.
He should be taught as quickly as possible where his boundaries lie and who he has to respect on this place, Trálír thought angrily as he walked into the fenced fighting arena and a young elf handed him a practice sword.
Concentrating, Trálír felt the sword in his hand, its weight, its shape. He let it circle in his hand, took a few steps backwards, to the side, forwards again.
The most important in a fight was the positioning of the fighter, because the legs should always be shoulder-width apart, spread out to provide more balance. The more the soles of the feet were on the ground, the more secure the stance and the more power you would have for an attack.
The fight between two swordsmen was not a hectic scramble, but a glide with the feet on the ground, because everything revolved around a secure stance and not losing your balance. The sword always had to be close to the body so that you didn't have to reach out towards your opponent. Prudence was the quality that could save your life in battle, control and focus to avoid your opponent and then deliver the decisive blow.
Trálír heard the Right Hand call his name and raised his eyes. With one hand the elf handed him a round shield and with the other he pointed at the newcomer, the hulking soldier who had given Trálír an arrogant look. The ruler's son accepted the shield, nodded and the next moment he stumbled back in surprise as his opponent attacked him out of nowhere, the shield in front of him and thrust powerfully against Trálír's ribcage.
"Hells," Trálír gritted through clenched teeth.
The ruler's son positioned himself, literally speared his opponent with his eyes and skillfully dodged to the side as he attacked him, countering his blow with the sword with a composed step to the side. The elf huffed in frustration, postured and stared angrily at Trálír. Both waited for the command of the Right Hand and Trálír parried another powerful blow with his sword with his shield, which he skillfully held in front of him and pushed in the direction of his opponent so that his sword bounced off. He took a step back to reposition himself when he was suddenly hit on the upper arm by a powerful blow with the acacia sword. He glanced angrily at his opponent, an obvious warning in his blue-green eyes that the elf should remain fair.
He faced Trálír, but before the Right Hand could give another command, he charged at Trálír, thrusting the shield against his chest and the pommel of the sword into his face. Trálír dodged it at the last moment and his opponent missed him by a hair's breadth.
"Haven't you learned the rules of combat, yet?" Trálír snapped at the tall elf, who replied with a disparaging laugh: "There are no rules in a serious battle, either."
"Dolguruk! Pull yourselves together and fight fair," Neererin, the Right Hand, warned the elf.
For the next few rounds, the hulking elf heeded the warning and the practice fight was characterized by basic attacks and counters, footwork and controlling the opponent without much thought or deliberation.
The soldiers of the castle practiced fighting in pairs, quick steps and skillful dodging on the sandy ground could be heard as well as panting and many a powerful and frightening cry to scare the opponent.
The exercise was slowly coming to an end when Trálír's opponent, Dolguruk, after a successful counterattack by the ruler's son, stood up in front of him, leaned towards him and contemptuously murmured: "And I thought the ruler's son had a little more talent in the art of weaponry."
"Watch your tongue, soldier," growled Trálír angrily.
The elf laughed snidely.
"Or else?"
"Otherwise you will not only lose your tongue to my sword."
Dolguruk snorted maliciously, leaned forward once more and growled in a dark voice: "Isn't that rather a task for one of your servants? Yourselves, the nobles and blue-blooded ones, you don't know how to fight at all. Here you are, practicing day after day what it would be like to sit on a throne with your highborn arses while the others are in battle."
"Careful," Trálír warned his counterpart quietly, his blue-green eyes darkening ominously.
"Are you trying to warn me? Am I supposed to take the talk of a child like you seriously?" The elf particularly emphasized the word child to obviously humiliate Trálír, for an elf had only reached full adulthood at one hundred years of age. Trálír's beryn fin* ended when he reached the age of twenty-five and yet there were always other elves who were too happy to remind him that he was still considered a child in their eyes. Dolgukur seemed to be one of those elves who cared more about his age than the fact that Trálír was the son of the ruler.
A cold smile was on the soldier's voluminous lips when Trálír suddenly yanked his shield upwards and it smashed against Dolgulkur's nose, breaking it instantly. As Trálír heard the breaking of the bone, his vision blurred and everything around him was drenched in dark red. He heard the voice of the First Hand calling his name and the voices of the other elves, but could not make out their words as a loud noise rushed through his head. He saw the hulking elf in front of him, saw the blood spurting from his nose and mouth, the panic in his eyes, heard his screams ... and yet Trálír could not stop beating him. The blood rushed hot in his veins, anger burned painfully into his heart.
He felt the bones in his fingers crunch with every blow and saw his opponent's flesh swell from his punches. It was only when he was pulled back from Dolgulkur and three elves laboriously pushed him back a few steps that Trálír's vision cleared and he heard himself gasping for breath. His gaze fell on his opponent in front of him who had placed his hands protectively on his face while the First Hand knelt beside him and spoke to him.
Blood splashed through Dolgulkur's hands and soaked his clothes. Trálír's gaze slid to his own hands, bloodied, swollen, the knuckles cracked from the force with which he had struck.
Breathing heavily, he realized that his hands were trembling. He tore himself away from the elves holding him, gave them a warning look not to hold him back and then walked past them without a word.
Besides the anger and the loss of control over himself, Trálír had only one thought. He had to get out of here.
He had to get to Anwyn...
* Puberty
Here is my newest chapter and I hope you'll enjoy it :) If you like, please tell me what you thought about it. :3
When the door opened, Tearlách quickly stepped back into the shadows, hid behind the mighty stone pillar and watched as his father strode through the corridor. Without seeing his face, the elf knew that his father's face was contorted with rage, that his light gray eyes had darkened with anger.
He knew his father, his posture and the way he walked well enough to know that his body was filled with rage.
While his father and Trálír had been arguing, Tearlách had been standing next to the door, listening with interest to every word exchanged between them.
For the past Tendays, Tearlách had suspected that Trálír was so busy outside the castle and that his human playmate was the reason. It surprised him to hear that he was trying to make up for his father's injustices.
Trálír and his heart of gold, Tearlách thought, shaking his head almost indulgently.
Of course, it would have been easy to put a few gold coins in his beloved's hand, but to see to it that he helped the girl to a better future with the help of two half-elves did not surprise Tearlách.
He, Tearlách, would have thrown a few coins at his whores feet with the request to be grateful for it and his older brother, with his soft heart, was literally building a new home for his relationship that would never have a future.
An amused smile was on Tearlách's face until he realized that he was suddenly the subject while his father and Trálír were at odds.
Trálír was still in favor of him becoming heir to the throne even though they had barely seen each other for weeks, let alone spoken? Why was he doing this, Tearlách wondered. And what was the reason for it?
Did Trálír despise his heritage, his innate responsibility, so much that he wanted to leave the Blackwater Castle the next moment? Before Tearlách could pay further attention to these questions in his innermost being, the conversation between the two men turned and suddenly his mother's madness was no longer a matter that lay in the dark and was only mentioned in a coy whisper.
Anger filled him, bitterness and a raging hatred spread through him as he listened to his brother's words. Until that moment he had not known or even suspected that his mother had taken her own life. He had grown up believing that he was the reason for his mother's death.
It had been made clear to him every moment of his life that it had been his fault, his birth, that had cost his mother her life.
Tearlách remembered every single day in which he had to face his father's accusations in silence and marked by heavy reproaches. Day in, day out, the beatings he had to endure, the humiliating words that burned into him like acid into the boy's tender skin.
Tearlách had spent his childhood and youth believing that every soldier, every castle dweller, every elf in these lands would blame him for his mother's death. How Tearlách had wished for someone at his side to protect him or to have his back. How he had longed not to wake up every morning knowing that in the evening he would crawl into bed with numerous bruises and cry secretly under the covers while his whole body throbbed with pain.
And how he had wished to be at his older brother's side, to be able to hide behind him, but he had punished him with silent disregard. When he discovered the bloody effusions on his brother's skin, he averted his eyes in shame. Tearlách hated Trálír for his lack of support and protection, unaware that their father had forbidden his older brother to stand by Tearlách. As soon as Trálír tried to turn to his younger brother for help, his father threatened that Tearlách's punishment would be even more severe if he intervened. There was talk of locking him in a dungeon or tying him to a rack in the castle courtyard by the wrists so that the boy would have to stand half-naked on his toes for hours in the cold. It broke Trálír's heart not to be able to help his younger brother, but anything he would have done would have been to Tearlách's detriment.
Only since the younger elf had made room for the darkness within him, given in to anger and bitterness and vented all his pain and hatred on others, did the inhabitants of the castle seem to respect him ... or fear him.
Tearlách was so deeply affected by the truth of his mother's passing that the festering wound of years of humiliation dug deeper into his soul, intensifying his hatred and his desire to take revenge on his father for all the suffering he had endured.
The time for that had not yet come, Tearlách knew. But the future would bring much suffering for his father, he was sure of that. He saw him screaming in burning shackles, naked, his old body with numerous cuts, kneeling on the ground in front of him ... Tearlách, the Dark One.
He saw himself standing ankle-deep in his father's blood with a cold smile on his lips. His father's screams would be sweeter to him than death.
In the silence of the night, Trálír walked across the courtyard to the stable, opened the gate, entered and closed it quietly. Then, breathing heavily, he leaned against the wood of the bulky entrance and closed his eyes. His heart was beating so hard in his chest that the elf had the feeling it would burst in the next moment.
His father's threat cut off his breath, the fear for Anwyn tugged deep in his guts, seeming to grip into his spine and violently rip it from his flesh. He heard the restless neighing of his stallion, pushed himself away from the gate and walked slowly to Arod's stall. When he looked into his horse's gentle eyes, he raised his hand and placed it on its neck. Dejected, Trálír hung his head and closed his eyes again, trying to suppress the cruel threat his father had made.
But his words had burned themselves into his heart and he remembered why he had parted from Anwyn last winter with a heavy heart.
Trálír had cited mistrust of his family as the reason, the looming danger in the dark that he could not name at the time. But tonight he was aware that his father represented a real danger to his relationship with Anwyn. And it was obvious that Trálír, the Elder, would do something to the woman he loved so much if Trálír did something his father didn't like. Whether it was talking back, covertly or overtly refusing an order, not fulfilling his duties as firstborn ... if he decided against anything his father demanded or expected of him, Anwyn would have to bear the consequences for his behavior.
And Trálír remembered only too well his father's reaction in the years that followed, which his younger brother had to endure after their mother took her own life. His father was filled with rage that he no longer had control over his wife, that she had broken free from his poisonous embrace and escaped his humiliations. Since Trálír was his heir as firstborn, the ruler devised his youngest son as a sacrifice for his rage.
How often had Trálír heard Tearlách's sobs, seen the bruises on his arms, shoulders and legs when they sat together at the breakfast table the next morning, his younger brother looking at the table, too frightened to whisper a word. And Trálír sitting beside him, silent, his eyes averted, his throat tight and his heart aching with helplessness.
Trálír shook his head to free himself from these images. He opened his horse's stall, stepped inside and grabbed a currycomb which was attached to a rope hanging from the roof beam.
Lost in thought, Trálír began to groom Arod's neck with circular movements. With his free hand, he slowly stroked the groomed area and made sure that his stallion's lower lip was relaxed, which was a clear sign that Arod was comfortable. Trálír worked his way from the neck over the shoulders to the back and hindquarters of the horse.
When he had finished grooming, Trálír led his stallion into an empty kobe, as the horse's hair had fallen into the bedding and it now needed to be replaced.
It was deep in the night, the inhabitants of the Blackwater Castle were deep and mostly peaceful in their sleep, but the first-born of the ruler was mucking out the stables of Arod and the other horses and was still doing so when Fairre entered the stables in the morning and realized with astonishment that he had no work to do for the day ahead. Unsure, he asked his master what had happened and the high elf just shrugged his shoulders and mumbled: "I couldn't sleep."
Fairre stood uncertainly in the gate of the large stable and watched as Trálír closed a stall behind him. He looked dejected, lost, his gaze blank.
The old stable master cleared his throat quietly and asked in an uncertain voice: "What should I do now, sir?"
Trálír shrugged his shoulders in reply.
"Close the gate so that no one can see you and lie down on some hay bales, perhaps you could do with a little nap?"
"It's early in the morning," Fairre replied slowly, as if to tell him that he was not allowed to rest another minute.
"Maybe you're wrong and it's still the middle of the night? Get some rest, Fairre. You work hard and are no longer the youngest. Consider it a gift that I couldn't sleep tonight." Trálír smiled wryly and saw that Fairre nodded hesitantly.
The high elf turned away, walked through the stable and closed the door behind him. He knew that his day would begin with a lesson in the outer courtyard, so he strode down the path between the smithy and the stable. If you ignored the training ground on the right and continued walking, after a while you would come to the fields that lay to the west of the castle, bordered by the sea to the north and the dark woods to the south. Centuries ago, the former ruler of the Blackwater country had worked hard to clear the forest that stretched as far as the shores in order to grow wheat, barley and rye.
Trálír heard the sounds of wooden weapons hitting each other, the groans and moans of the practicing soldiers, the orders given by the Right Hand . Once upon a time, there was a ruler who had insisted that the training sessions should be carried out with real weapons, as only the strongest should serve his army. But after some time and many serious wounds, severed limbs and several deaths of his soldiers, he switched to having his soldiers fight each other with weapons made of acacia. Perhaps there were some races on Faerun who laughed at this kind of combat, especially races like the Dragonborn or Lolth-sworn Drow, who trained for at least ten years in magic or combat and then performed some raids above ground.
But even a shield made of acacia wood could easily break bones or knock out teeth, as could a hammer, swords or axes carved by Ailill, the woodcarver, and his two apprentices.
As Trálír entered the training area, which was surrounded by a waist-high wooden fence, he glanced over the fighters present. He nodded to his father's Right Hand, spotting some of the faces he had fought with in training sessions since the beginning of his weapons training. At the edge of the square stood three young elves who could not have been more different and whom Trálír was seeing for the first time.
The one closest to him also seemed to be the youngest. He was slightly shorter than Trálír but had a tough physique that contradicted his gentle expression. His shiny red hair fell down the middle of his back and the elf's eyes reminded Trálír of the sparkle of rare emeralds. When his gaze crossed that of the ruler's son, he bowed his head respectfully.
The elf next to him was tall, slim and athletic. Trálír realized at first glance that his advantage in battle would be his agility and adaptability. His opponent would have difficulty knocking him down with a simple blow.
The last newcomer looked up at Trálír, his gaze arrogant, too confident to be sympathetic.
Trálír raised an eyebrow and unconsciously gritted his teeth.
He should be taught as quickly as possible where his boundaries lie and who he has to respect on this place, Trálír thought angrily as he walked into the fenced fighting arena and a young elf handed him a practice sword.
Concentrating, Trálír felt the sword in his hand, its weight, its shape. He let it circle in his hand, took a few steps backwards, to the side, forwards again.
The most important in a fight was the positioning of the fighter, because the legs should always be shoulder-width apart, spread out to provide more balance. The more the soles of the feet were on the ground, the more secure the stance and the more power you would have for an attack.
The fight between two swordsmen was not a hectic scramble, but a glide with the feet on the ground, because everything revolved around a secure stance and not losing your balance. The sword always had to be close to the body so that you didn't have to reach out towards your opponent. Prudence was the quality that could save your life in battle, control and focus to avoid your opponent and then deliver the decisive blow.
Trálír heard the Right Hand call his name and raised his eyes. With one hand the elf handed him a round shield and with the other he pointed at the newcomer, the hulking soldier who had given Trálír an arrogant look. The ruler's son accepted the shield, nodded and the next moment he stumbled back in surprise as his opponent attacked him out of nowhere, the shield in front of him and thrust powerfully against Trálír's ribcage.
"Hells," Trálír gritted through clenched teeth.
The ruler's son positioned himself, literally speared his opponent with his eyes and skillfully dodged to the side as he attacked him, countering his blow with the sword with a composed step to the side. The elf huffed in frustration, postured and stared angrily at Trálír. Both waited for the command of the Right Hand and Trálír parried another powerful blow with his sword with his shield, which he skillfully held in front of him and pushed in the direction of his opponent so that his sword bounced off. He took a step back to reposition himself when he was suddenly hit on the upper arm by a powerful blow with the acacia sword. He glanced angrily at his opponent, an obvious warning in his blue-green eyes that the elf should remain fair.
He faced Trálír, but before the Right Hand could give another command, he charged at Trálír, thrusting the shield against his chest and the pommel of the sword into his face. Trálír dodged it at the last moment and his opponent missed him by a hair's breadth.
"Haven't you learned the rules of combat, yet?" Trálír snapped at the tall elf, who replied with a disparaging laugh: "There are no rules in a serious battle, either."
"Dolguruk! Pull yourselves together and fight fair," Neererin, the Right Hand, warned the elf.
For the next few rounds, the hulking elf heeded the warning and the practice fight was characterized by basic attacks and counters, footwork and controlling the opponent without much thought or deliberation.
The soldiers of the castle practiced fighting in pairs, quick steps and skillful dodging on the sandy ground could be heard as well as panting and many a powerful and frightening cry to scare the opponent.
The exercise was slowly coming to an end when Trálír's opponent, Dolguruk, after a successful counterattack by the ruler's son, stood up in front of him, leaned towards him and contemptuously murmured: "And I thought the ruler's son had a little more talent in the art of weaponry."
"Watch your tongue, soldier," growled Trálír angrily.
The elf laughed snidely.
"Or else?"
"Otherwise you will not only lose your tongue to my sword."
Dolguruk snorted maliciously, leaned forward once more and growled in a dark voice: "Isn't that rather a task for one of your servants? Yourselves, the nobles and blue-blooded ones, you don't know how to fight at all. Here you are, practicing day after day what it would be like to sit on a throne with your highborn arses while the others are in battle."
"Careful," Trálír warned his counterpart quietly, his blue-green eyes darkening ominously.
"Are you trying to warn me? Am I supposed to take the talk of a child like you seriously?" The elf particularly emphasized the word child to obviously humiliate Trálír, for an elf had only reached full adulthood at one hundred years of age. Trálír's beryn fin* ended when he reached the age of twenty-five and yet there were always other elves who were too happy to remind him that he was still considered a child in their eyes. Dolgukur seemed to be one of those elves who cared more about his age than the fact that Trálír was the son of the ruler.
A cold smile was on the soldier's voluminous lips when Trálír suddenly yanked his shield upwards and it smashed against Dolgulkur's nose, breaking it instantly. As Trálír heard the breaking of the bone, his vision blurred and everything around him was drenched in dark red. He heard the voice of the First Hand calling his name and the voices of the other elves, but could not make out their words as a loud noise rushed through his head. He saw the hulking elf in front of him, saw the blood spurting from his nose and mouth, the panic in his eyes, heard his screams ... and yet Trálír could not stop beating him. The blood rushed hot in his veins, anger burned painfully into his heart.
He felt the bones in his fingers crunch with every blow and saw his opponent's flesh swell from his punches. It was only when he was pulled back from Dolgulkur and three elves laboriously pushed him back a few steps that Trálír's vision cleared and he heard himself gasping for breath. His gaze fell on his opponent in front of him who had placed his hands protectively on his face while the First Hand knelt beside him and spoke to him.
Blood splashed through Dolgulkur's hands and soaked his clothes. Trálír's gaze slid to his own hands, bloodied, swollen, the knuckles cracked from the force with which he had struck.
Breathing heavily, he realized that his hands were trembling. He tore himself away from the elves holding him, gave them a warning look not to hold him back and then walked past them without a word.
Besides the anger and the loss of control over himself, Trálír had only one thought. He had to get out of here.
He had to get to Anwyn...
* Puberty
(no subject)
Date: 2024-08-12 07:57 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2024-08-12 01:24 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2024-08-12 11:45 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2024-08-12 01:28 pm (UTC)Guys :rolleyes: ^^
(no subject)
Date: 2024-08-12 06:43 pm (UTC)Well done!
(no subject)
Date: 2024-08-18 09:12 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2024-08-17 03:47 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2024-08-23 12:47 pm (UTC)Ich glaube dass für ihn einfach alles zu viel war, wie der letzte Wassertropfen der das Glas halt zum überschwappen gebracht hat. :|
(no subject)
Date: 2024-08-24 03:53 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2024-08-27 04:50 am (UTC)Ich bin auch nicht körperlich geworden in meiner Vergangenheit, aber es gibt ja andere Wege Menschen zu verletzen. :(