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May. 7th, 2007
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bringeroflight.livejournal.comSitting quietly, staring at the table, hands running over the once living wood carefully, ignoring the thuggish fool behind me. The lesson went too far, and now I might die for it. I shiver a little, waiting for the deliberations to finish and the Silver Fangs to return. As the thought comes to my head, they return, walking in, and a voice in my head none others can hear calmly says "Plan 3."
We’re on.
The summary, which I already know from those two words. The lawyers have been unable to conclusively prove one way or another. There is such a thing sometimes about being too good a trickster. The matter must be judged by the High King, who sits as judge and accuser at once. I am asked if I wish to speak, and I stand.
"High King Lucas Drake, you have accused me of being a Bete, and of the Wyrm. I deny these allegations, and in view of Gaia, as an Adren of the Nation, challenge you to refute these allegations. Here and now."
There are a number of sharp intakes of breath. A hubbub breaks out in a few corners of the room. I don't pay attention. The die is cast. The next few minutes are a blur. I am taken outside. I can tell the prosecutor still suspects a trick somehow, as I am stripped and changed into a new set of clothes. I refuse another top – I don't want restrictions on my upper arm movement. The guard isn't too bright, so the charm I shouldn't be wearing is easily palmed into the rolled up jacket. It's kept me together these past few hours, but I can't be seen to be wearing it now – it won't be allowed in the challenge.
Downstairs again, I hear the bad news. Klaiviskar. I've never wielded a Klaive in my life, but I trust that Jamie wouldn't have pushed for it if the alternative wasn't worse. I'm happier with a large ax, but such a blade will have to do. As always, the duel is to the death, so at least I won't have to worry about a slow death to execution. The call is given for someone to lend me a Klaive. Katrina steps forward. Stalwart Guardian. Jamie likes his messages, doesn’t he?
I test his weight. He'll do. Bryn Dragonsbane checks the blades over carefully. Voice of Luna is sure of some sort of trick. I can see the suspicion in his eyes. He called my lack of battle scars into question earlier, and through all of that never thought that the most obvious answer would be the case. The question is, I know I'm that good, but am I this good?
I say goodbye to each of my pack. It may be the last time I speak with them. One is new, formerly of another pack. But he should do OK. I hug Petra. I do wonder, sometimes, how things might have gone if she'd remained kin, but I leave the thought be. She's pack now, and the one who has stood by me through everything. I owe her more than I can give her right now.
I've dreamed of fighting recently. In the pit, with no real food. A flowing speed and grace I've not had the opportunity to before. My muscles are lean and wiry, and I wonder if anyone is actually paying attention to the fact that while my stomach is thin, I'm no longer staggering, no longer woozy, and my poise is as near to perfect as it can be. I may have learnt my brawling techniques from WWE, but I learnt my blade-work from masters, and honed it on the streets and alleys of the cities of Britain. And never marked once. Lucas Drake, used to being kept safe by his tribe and given easy victories, is about to fight a cornered rat.
I do not think it will go well for him.
The blade is in my hand. We are asked to prepare. I stretch, blade not into a ready defensive position, but positioned for an instant swing. To keep a distraction, and to give any edge I can, I give up a little spiritual essence and a trick learnt from a rubbish heap in a nastier part of Southwark leaves the entire rooms eyes watering. I can hear some swearing in the background, but I phase it out.
A prayer to rat, and I can feel my muscles knotting and bunching. Corner a rat, would he? I am Lex, the Lextalionis, Adren of the Swarm, and I will make him bleed before I die.
I give of myself to Stalwart Guardian, and I feel him wake in my hand. I greet him politely, and ask him to strike true. I am not of the Silver Fangs, but leant as a gift in a matter of honour and justice. I feel a slight reticence, but a trust in his owner who gifted him with truth in her heart.
I am ready. He is ready, an ancient great blade of the Silver Fangs in his hand, three spirits to my one. "The world will see Silver Fang justice", I said earlier this evening. Many already do, and word will spread.
Tense. Ready. I'm faster than he thinks. I've dreamt it.
The signal is given. I wait as long as I dare, so there is no accusation of moving before the signal – I don't know of any who may be able to see how fast I . . . move.
The blade is swinging before my feet move, and then I am behind him, blade still swinging at his neck. He is fast, and to what any warrior would have been a surprise, an ambush, has him turning, blade in hand. My heart lurches, as the angle is wrong, but a slight twist and it comes in clean at two o clock. Given the size of his blade, and the speed he's moving, he can block it if he chooses, a standard ten, four, riposte. I wasn't expecting him to be so fast. For a moment I believe I am dead but the blade does not move to interpose. He is turning, and he is breathing in to speak or howl, as his eyes quest to meet mine.
A mistake. He's relying on his toughness and armour to soak the first blow, and use some sort of gift to leave me helpless, or give him the edge he wants. As the blade whistles for his neck I focus my will, push myself beyond drive the strength of my blow beyond my normal capabilities. I feel a sharp twinge inside, as my body pays the price for going beyond the limits of any mortal. The shining glow surrounding him parts before the blade, broken apart by the strength of a cornered rat.
Told you.
I feel the jarring as Stalwart Guardian meets the spinal column, and the pain runs up my arm but the blow keeps coming and continuing the swing. I can feel as his anger gathers to pull him back together but despite a phenomenal will, I can see it will do no good. Blood sprays, and I am drenched.
The head rolls away, eyes still open, and the body collapses in front of me, a tangled heap. The silence of the moment vanishes in an uproar – a scuffle breaks out with a number of the High King's old pack. I pay it no heed unless they approach me. I bring Stalwart Guardian up to a salute to my opponent.
Some things must be said, but I cannot speak it out loud here if I wish to live. So silently, in my head, away even from those I am linked to, I speak the words that must be spoken. Only I and Lucas Drake hear them.
"The King is dead. Long live the King."
We’re on.
The summary, which I already know from those two words. The lawyers have been unable to conclusively prove one way or another. There is such a thing sometimes about being too good a trickster. The matter must be judged by the High King, who sits as judge and accuser at once. I am asked if I wish to speak, and I stand.
"High King Lucas Drake, you have accused me of being a Bete, and of the Wyrm. I deny these allegations, and in view of Gaia, as an Adren of the Nation, challenge you to refute these allegations. Here and now."
There are a number of sharp intakes of breath. A hubbub breaks out in a few corners of the room. I don't pay attention. The die is cast. The next few minutes are a blur. I am taken outside. I can tell the prosecutor still suspects a trick somehow, as I am stripped and changed into a new set of clothes. I refuse another top – I don't want restrictions on my upper arm movement. The guard isn't too bright, so the charm I shouldn't be wearing is easily palmed into the rolled up jacket. It's kept me together these past few hours, but I can't be seen to be wearing it now – it won't be allowed in the challenge.
Downstairs again, I hear the bad news. Klaiviskar. I've never wielded a Klaive in my life, but I trust that Jamie wouldn't have pushed for it if the alternative wasn't worse. I'm happier with a large ax, but such a blade will have to do. As always, the duel is to the death, so at least I won't have to worry about a slow death to execution. The call is given for someone to lend me a Klaive. Katrina steps forward. Stalwart Guardian. Jamie likes his messages, doesn’t he?
I test his weight. He'll do. Bryn Dragonsbane checks the blades over carefully. Voice of Luna is sure of some sort of trick. I can see the suspicion in his eyes. He called my lack of battle scars into question earlier, and through all of that never thought that the most obvious answer would be the case. The question is, I know I'm that good, but am I this good?
I say goodbye to each of my pack. It may be the last time I speak with them. One is new, formerly of another pack. But he should do OK. I hug Petra. I do wonder, sometimes, how things might have gone if she'd remained kin, but I leave the thought be. She's pack now, and the one who has stood by me through everything. I owe her more than I can give her right now.
I've dreamed of fighting recently. In the pit, with no real food. A flowing speed and grace I've not had the opportunity to before. My muscles are lean and wiry, and I wonder if anyone is actually paying attention to the fact that while my stomach is thin, I'm no longer staggering, no longer woozy, and my poise is as near to perfect as it can be. I may have learnt my brawling techniques from WWE, but I learnt my blade-work from masters, and honed it on the streets and alleys of the cities of Britain. And never marked once. Lucas Drake, used to being kept safe by his tribe and given easy victories, is about to fight a cornered rat.
I do not think it will go well for him.
The blade is in my hand. We are asked to prepare. I stretch, blade not into a ready defensive position, but positioned for an instant swing. To keep a distraction, and to give any edge I can, I give up a little spiritual essence and a trick learnt from a rubbish heap in a nastier part of Southwark leaves the entire rooms eyes watering. I can hear some swearing in the background, but I phase it out.
A prayer to rat, and I can feel my muscles knotting and bunching. Corner a rat, would he? I am Lex, the Lextalionis, Adren of the Swarm, and I will make him bleed before I die.
I give of myself to Stalwart Guardian, and I feel him wake in my hand. I greet him politely, and ask him to strike true. I am not of the Silver Fangs, but leant as a gift in a matter of honour and justice. I feel a slight reticence, but a trust in his owner who gifted him with truth in her heart.
I am ready. He is ready, an ancient great blade of the Silver Fangs in his hand, three spirits to my one. "The world will see Silver Fang justice", I said earlier this evening. Many already do, and word will spread.
Tense. Ready. I'm faster than he thinks. I've dreamt it.
The signal is given. I wait as long as I dare, so there is no accusation of moving before the signal – I don't know of any who may be able to see how fast I . . . move.
The blade is swinging before my feet move, and then I am behind him, blade still swinging at his neck. He is fast, and to what any warrior would have been a surprise, an ambush, has him turning, blade in hand. My heart lurches, as the angle is wrong, but a slight twist and it comes in clean at two o clock. Given the size of his blade, and the speed he's moving, he can block it if he chooses, a standard ten, four, riposte. I wasn't expecting him to be so fast. For a moment I believe I am dead but the blade does not move to interpose. He is turning, and he is breathing in to speak or howl, as his eyes quest to meet mine.
A mistake. He's relying on his toughness and armour to soak the first blow, and use some sort of gift to leave me helpless, or give him the edge he wants. As the blade whistles for his neck I focus my will, push myself beyond drive the strength of my blow beyond my normal capabilities. I feel a sharp twinge inside, as my body pays the price for going beyond the limits of any mortal. The shining glow surrounding him parts before the blade, broken apart by the strength of a cornered rat.
Told you.
I feel the jarring as Stalwart Guardian meets the spinal column, and the pain runs up my arm but the blow keeps coming and continuing the swing. I can feel as his anger gathers to pull him back together but despite a phenomenal will, I can see it will do no good. Blood sprays, and I am drenched.
The head rolls away, eyes still open, and the body collapses in front of me, a tangled heap. The silence of the moment vanishes in an uproar – a scuffle breaks out with a number of the High King's old pack. I pay it no heed unless they approach me. I bring Stalwart Guardian up to a salute to my opponent.
Some things must be said, but I cannot speak it out loud here if I wish to live. So silently, in my head, away even from those I am linked to, I speak the words that must be spoken. Only I and Lucas Drake hear them.
"The King is dead. Long live the King."
with a cast of the dice
May. 7th, 2007 04:03 pm2light4dark.livejournal.comshe had to be creative that was quite clear and she was also going to be the last in the ordeal that her lady had indured. so with words to the new bishop, paval wasent it, yes. ivy had stopped thinking of him as a child, more a adult on the short side one that never quite got his full groth. ivy would be the last, which would leave a rather tattered husk to work with. oh she also did not think of it quite as mab eather.
many paths cross her mind, mental torcher, the quiet whipering in her makers ear? no unless he was there it would be for nothing and could strezz out her maker in a unwanted mannor.
pohapps melting of the flesh like others would have? no on spark, just the same old same old.
humm she thinks, a show of horror a act that would disturb mab? yes this is getting some ware, but what? pondering that thought as others yelled for her attention.
there was the path of not hurting mab at all, just standing there yelling insolting things? but ivy knew she would soon run out of things to say and it would borr her to soon.
was harming her self alowed? the breaft flutter pushed away befor it was fully fledged.
no a action to distress mab, somthing she would have no controle over. it would be hard to beat some ot the more expronced people, after all ivy was just a young one and mab was old so more moddon things was usless to her. A slight smile lit up her face that she could see reflected in the monntor skreen.
mind wondering she thinks, not keeping your mind on the real job now are you my dear, the voice was ivys inner one, the one that was alittle quicker a little smarter, the one no one but mab would understand. it was not madness, just the true ivy the one that could kill, and plan torching her maker.
the next esbbat was in for a treet you could say. Jack wanted her to grow up, others wanted her to stop reminding them of there lost humanity, valadmer would no longer get a head ake from her srill pitched voice. no all would change. let others play the clown.
calling the local cat to her she reviewed how the house looked outside to mortal eyes. yes very normal, this was good. she could feel it that tell tail feeling of change, like water splitting to find the path of least resitonce. tummbling, dice rolling around on bair floor flashing up the resolt. she smiles and moves off into the night. there was work to be done, placers to go, people to advoide and most of all, her home to be wooed like a lover.
many paths cross her mind, mental torcher, the quiet whipering in her makers ear? no unless he was there it would be for nothing and could strezz out her maker in a unwanted mannor.
pohapps melting of the flesh like others would have? no on spark, just the same old same old.
humm she thinks, a show of horror a act that would disturb mab? yes this is getting some ware, but what? pondering that thought as others yelled for her attention.
there was the path of not hurting mab at all, just standing there yelling insolting things? but ivy knew she would soon run out of things to say and it would borr her to soon.
was harming her self alowed? the breaft flutter pushed away befor it was fully fledged.
no a action to distress mab, somthing she would have no controle over. it would be hard to beat some ot the more expronced people, after all ivy was just a young one and mab was old so more moddon things was usless to her. A slight smile lit up her face that she could see reflected in the monntor skreen.
mind wondering she thinks, not keeping your mind on the real job now are you my dear, the voice was ivys inner one, the one that was alittle quicker a little smarter, the one no one but mab would understand. it was not madness, just the true ivy the one that could kill, and plan torching her maker.
the next esbbat was in for a treet you could say. Jack wanted her to grow up, others wanted her to stop reminding them of there lost humanity, valadmer would no longer get a head ake from her srill pitched voice. no all would change. let others play the clown.
calling the local cat to her she reviewed how the house looked outside to mortal eyes. yes very normal, this was good. she could feel it that tell tail feeling of change, like water splitting to find the path of least resitonce. tummbling, dice rolling around on bair floor flashing up the resolt. she smiles and moves off into the night. there was work to be done, placers to go, people to advoide and most of all, her home to be wooed like a lover.
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