Legion of Light II: The Tides of War

[Flames of Hyperion]

This story was written in a twelve hour stint on an air journey from Osaka to London. As such it may be slightly unpolished, although I have tried to edit the worst of it out whilst typing it up. Please enjoy ^^.

Four score and two men and women, mostly woodsfolk and trappers with the odd squire and knight errant mixed in. Armed and armoured as best possible given the circumstances, which is surprisingly not very poorly.

Approximately three and a half hundreds of beast elves, outfitted according to their own particular custom. Their garb, their speech, their very mannerisms... all is still so very unfamiliar to me. And yet, after spending long hours in conversation with members of their tribe, I feel myself drawing certain parallels to their situation - fighting willingly, in a foreign land, for a cause not of their own making.

Fourteen dwarves, twenty elves of varying origin, and a single rather reserved adventurer that I believe is half ogre. At least, he is certainly large enough in size and brutish enough of build to be so, although I have not had the courage to ask him to his face. A polite fellow, intelligent if of very words. His strength is undeniable, easily putting any two of us to shame.

This is the sum of the relief force I am part of, travelling as quickly as the winds will take us towards Anebrilith. We have been at sea for ten days now; the past five of them have seen us assailed by an almighty gale nearly rivalling the great taifuu themselves. I write this by the light of a single wavering candle, trying to ignore the weak snores of seasick dwarves enjoying their first full night of rest since we ran into the storm. Of course, this does not deter them from their incessant grumbling and idling - how I wish that we could have counted on their strong backs manning the halyards amidst the howling winds, the lashing rains and the battering waves.

I guess that Lord Arminas wasn't lying when he referred to the dwarven folk as being useless on board a ship. Only venerable Telchar has been any semblance of use, and even he was loathe to venture out into the open.

Tomorrow, however, the captain predicts a fine day. With the expected fair weather and a decent wind in our sails, we are four days out from Anebrilith.

In all honesty, I know not what to think.


~ Entry in Ingwe's Book of Travels

[Flames of Hyperion]

He emerged from beneath the overhanging canopy of the poop deck, into a fine winter's morn. The wind was crisp and clean as it nipped at his cheek, the skies above a very pale shade of blue, as if apologising for the discomforts they had imposed upon the small convoy over the five days past. A few clouds scuttled across the heavens like wisps of puffy smoke, driven by some unseen force towards the far horizon, but they did little to impede the wan sunlight as it danced across lightly cresting waves.

The sails were gently full of wind today, Ingwe noted, tugging at the hempen cordage to pull the little carrack across the oceans. Thankfully they lacked the reckless and remorseless haste that had so characterised them during the storm, when they had threatened to tear mast from hull as choking waves nightmarishly engulfed the bobbing prow. The Nipponese warrior-mage took a deep breath of the salty sea air, giving silent thanks for life's small blessings.

Truth be told, he could not bear to be cooped up below decks any longer. Patient and long-suffering as he considered himself to be, even he had limits as to how much he could endure Derthark's self-pitying moans. The dwarven prince had taken to the seas even worse than his fellows, and had not even the strength to glare balefully at the other dwarves lumped listlessly below decks. Old Telchar had assured him that a few moments on dry solid ground would set him as right as rain... Ingwe certainly hoped so, for his own sake as well.

The decks were relatively empty, crew and adventurer alike taking a hard-earned rest from the exertions of yesterday. The three-masted carrack that he sailed in - little Warspite, a fitting name he thought for such an intrepid little ship - led the convoy in column formation, pennants proud to bear the colours of Scara Brae streaming gaily behind her. Close to her rear... aft, he corrected himself with all the disdain that nautical types reserved for landlubbers... was the galleon Spirit of Scara Brae, her solid wooden hull bearing almost no sign of storm damage whatsoever. Ingwe was too far away to distinguish the speck-like figures darting about on her deck, but he almost fancied that he could see Lord Arminas standing in the prow, facing down the next challenge the heavens could throw at him.

The third ship in the convoy - the carrack Thunderchild, only slightly larger than Warspite herself - hadn't fared so fortunately. Little more than a speck on the horizon, her signal flags at the end of the previous day had indicated that she had lost canvas and would need to put on new sails, and this had prevented her from matching the pace of her sisters. Still, she looked in good shape now to his admittedly untrained eye, and Ingwe privately echoed the captain's opinion that she would rejoin them around twilight.

Back to his immediate surroundings, and Ingwe caught the movement in the crow's nest so high above. Just staring up the ramrod-straight mast to the dizzying heights of the sentinel position gave him vertigo; he did not envy at all those who had duty there, and neither could he fathom why anybody would want to go there of their own free will. Suffice it to say that it would be a cold day in the depths of Haidia before he ever contemplated joining them.

"Vedui', Ingwe!" a cheerily lilting voice called to him, morning greetings in delicate elven. Ingwe smiled in response; it was good to know that at least one person was in good spirits this fine morn.

"'Quel amrun," he replied, trying to match her exuberance. Trying and failing, of course, but he considered it a good attempt nonetheless. "How's the view?"

Nonchalant... nonchalant was the key... try not to let his fear of heights show. Somehow that didn't prevent Selinde from ducking out of sight in stifled mirth.

"Blue in all directions, nothing to see..." she shouted back almost sighingly, a wistfully resigned note entering her voice. What she would do for the feel of verdant green grass beneath her feet and the shade of fertile forest upon her face...

Ingwe sensed her pensive thoughts, and paused hesitantly at the base of the main mast.

"Don't mind her," a second voice intervened. Ingwe started when he realised that he wasn't alone; peeking around the cork-bound timbers, he wasn't too surprised however to find that the owner of the voice had intricately-braided waist-length hair of brilliant shimmering gold, and was clad in glittering banded scale mail probably worth a small country's fortune.

Glorfindel had both eyes closed as he leaned casually against the mast, but one of them opened to reveal pupils of a delicate baby-blue, aimed unflinchingly at the far horizon. His arms were casually folded against his chest, a slender of longsword of obvious elven make slung loosely at his waist.

"Only a very few of us are truly born to the sea," the elf explained at length, ignoring Selinde's inquisitive glance from far above their heads. "Many of our kind long always for the grass beneath our feet and the leaves casting dappled shadows on our faces."

Not so different from dwarves then, Ingwe thought, although he kept it diplomatically to himself. Just exchange grass for rock and leaves for caves...

Outwardly he was content with a polite, sympathetic smile and the words,

"It isn't long now, is it..."

It was unfortunate that they came out far more menacing than he had intended them to be.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Slowly, surely he made his way towards the bow of the ship, dismayed still by the haunting echoes of his last words to Glorfindel. The bladesinger had done nothing more than give him a curiously neutral look, but if the perceptive elf had failed to notice the sudden chill in Ingwe's expression, then the Nipponese had no more wit than a donkey's rear end.

His movements could on one hand be described as deliberate and on the other as lethargic, as he settled himself down cross-legged, back to the carved prow and the breeze sweeping the hair from his face. They maintained the same sense of stately ritual as they reached into his waist pouch and pulled out various items, one by one; ink, calligraphy brush, a well-worn leather-bound tome, and finally a stack of identically-cut pieces of cardboard, each large enough to fill the palm of his hand but small enough to be both compact and easily used. Neatly and carefully each item went into its predetermined position before him; ink and brush easily accessible to his right, tome opened to a particular page opposite, and his cards fanned out at his feet before him.

When all was at last ready, Ingwe allowed himself a deep breath and contemplatively removed his spectacles, setting them safely at his feet. What he was about to undertake was a delicate and difficult process, especially since he had barely touched upon the basics of the technique. Channelling magic into non-magical substances was an iffy proposition at best. At his skill level, it was nigh impossible. And yet it had to be done.

He would need all the power he could muster.

First, however, he would need to prepare.

One finger traced around him a circle on the deck, invisible to all eyes except those attuned to the winds of magic. This would be his perimeter, the safety net should he lose control of his powers under any circumstance.

Now his breathing turned as composed and as regular as he could make it, his eyes closed against distractions and his mind blanked like the pieces of cardpaper laid out in front of him.

Focus.

Control.

Focused mind.

Controlled soul.

The mantra repeated itself in the darkness within the confines of his head, until all that remained was a single bright flame, dancing gracefully in the midst of a voidal calm. The carefully contained stillness and poise had yet to come easily, even after many years of training, but it was a blissfully soothing balm to his agitated mind.

Suddenly, a flash. Colour invaded the serene darkness, lights and noise and smell as concrete as any reality assailing his senses. Dusky sulphur to his nose, hellish shrieks to his senses, a reddish tint to the surroundings in his mind's eye as he was brought back to a place all too familiar now. Haidia, his inner self spat, convulsing uncontrollably against the overwhelming antagonism of it all.

She was there, he now saw. Unable to spot him as he fought to rise from his knees, his thoughts frantically working on how not to betray himself to the denizens of the land while experiencing detached relief that she was still safe and well. He knew that they would not hesitate to rend his limbs from his body, his tongue from his mouth and his eyes from his skull if they saw him...

Another abrupt bright flash and true reality reasserted itself with a mind-tearing wrench. This time it had been his own doing, he realised, breathing heavily from the exertions and feeling the tense perspiration on his forehead. Perhaps the mental exercises that he had started upon were indeed serving their purpose. He hoped so, fighting to regain control of his pulse rate and desperate not to let his loss of composure show.

His eyes somehow remained closed, and gradually the bright, random bursts of colour dissipated into a more subdued turmoil. As long as he had no idea what - or who - was causing the hallucinations, the only thing that he could do was to hope to protect himself against them... and in this, at least, he seemed to be making some form of process. Now if only he could make any sense of what they meant...

I hope I'm not going mad...

He didn't fail to notice a quiet nagging in the depths of his heart that did not want the hallucinations to go away, for fear that he would lose sight of her completely.

Eventually, he managed to restore some semblance of control to his troubled mind; enough, at least, to once more attempt to enter his meditative trance. Once again the wind caressed his brow, this time almost chilling as it rippled across fresh sweat. The faintest of frowns, a slight twitching in the muscle above his right eye, that disappeared almost as it was formed.

Worry not about what you cannot affect; think only of what you can do, and how you can best do it. The voice whispered like a light spring breeze into his mind, and he knew to heed the words.

This time, there were no hallucinations.

But, through it all, he failed to notice the pendant gem glowing warmly within the folds of his tunic.

[Flames of Hyperion]

His eyes opened. They shone with suppressed power, as if the light of a thousand fires were carefully harboured within. The sky, the sea, the horizon... each was but a hazy blur in his newly rediscovered sight, although Ingwe was not quite sure whether this was because of his poor eyesight or the puissant power that nigh tangibly throbbed through his mind and flowed through his veins.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, he began to let it seep free. Channelling it along the polished wooden deck of the Warspite, melding the energy into precisely the exact runes that were needed for the preparations to continue. If he'd had a bird's perspective of the scene, he knew that he would be witnessing the formation of a minor circle of power, just about large enough to encompass the multiple objects he had placed within hand's reach. The magic that leaked from where he sat would be a bright fiery crimson in colour, coalescing into intricately formed oriental runes and elaborately geometric shapes.

Those who said that magic was not an art had no idea what they were talking about. For that matter, neither did those who said that magic was not an exact science.

It was both, and it was more.

His concentration wavered minutely when the circle was just about complete. Channelling the winds of magic in this way was not an overly difficult process, and sustaining a circle of power was not inherently sapping to his mental reserves, either. It was the act of switching between the two, however; the delicate and subtle operation of handing control of the power from the conscious part of the mind that manipulated it to the subconscious part that maintained it. This was the portion of the ritual at which most novice magi struggled and failed.

In moments, his mind turned from tense like a taut guitar string to something that had relaxed just a bit. Done, Ingwe thought to himself, not a little relieved and satisfied.

But there was no time for dawdling. Every minute the circle was active, every precious second that his subconscious spent holding the boundaries of the sphere, drew taxingly on the strength of his mind. He could not afford to waste any of it, for he had no idea how long his reserves would last, or how long he could continue to draw mana from the wind on his face, or how long Aqshy and Ulgu would continue to guide his hand.

Movement, swift, true, almost frantic. It was like watching a falcon swooping for the kill, the way his hands darted across the rune-encrusted leylines. His left accurately flipped the pages of his personal tome to a particular location, a set of runes that to the educated would be recognisable as a mixture of elven and oriental, and to the magically-inclined would describe the arcanic intricacies of a simple fireball spell. His right reached for the brush at his side, carefully dipping it into just the right amount of ink so that it pulled away with enough to do what needed to be done without dripping messily all over the polished wooden deck and the easily disrupted circle of power. His pupils seemed to narrow, focusing intently on the first of the cardboard scrolls that would store the magic. It resisted him for the briefest of moments before floating free, travelling upwards before his gaze under the influence of power not unlike, but subtly different from, telekinesis.

Each of his movements was deliberate, accurate, perfect. There was very, very little room for error, and amongst the worst consequences of failure was the possibility of his head exploding due to the rampaging effects of ill-controlled power. It was easy to see why Ingwe was such a perfectionist, and how such a character trait had helped him survive an oft-dangerous path with not physically visible scars.

But even those movements paled in comparison to the brushstrokes that followed, the sublime grace and elegance in which the ink wove itself onto the scroll. It was like carving fire into marble, or perhaps tracing runes into the very breeze as it sped him by. Firm was his hand but gentle the touch of the brush, as the magic flowed from the circle to the scroll in one fluid motion.

Never once did the tip leave the scroll until the magic was complete and sealed within an innocuous-looking piece of card that would just about fit into the palm of his hand. But then it was done, and the bright crimson runes on the circle faded ever so slightly, a minute proportion of their powers expended. The card-scroll itself fell neatly to the deck between the temples of his spectacles. The beauty of the innocently exquisite calligraphy belied the potency of the spell imbued within, able to be activated by a single pulse of thought from Ingwe's mind.

The warrior-mage paused long enough to allow himself a small smile at the finished product, testament to the sheer effort and control that he tried to maintain over what skill he possessed.

Then his eyes narrowed in focus once more.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Night fell.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a particle of consciousness kept track of the sun as it wound steady progress overhead. The shadows danced from one side of his body to the other, shrinking into oblivion before growing again. The rest of those aboard the little carrack knew better than to disturb a mage and his concentration, with the blissful result that his circle of power remained remarkably free of foreign influence.

Of course, this meant that he had only himself to blame when the process went wrong. As time passed and the sky grew darker and darker, Ingwe grew more and more annoyed at the heap of failed card-scrolls scattered about him, so much more impressive than the small pile of successes at his feet. Twice the gusts guiding the flotilla died down to but a mere whisper, and he was forced to draw upon the guidance of Aqshy and Ulgu to continue. Twice more the circle of power ruptured due to his lack of steady concentration, and he had to build it again from scratch, draining his precious arcanic resources to do so. When at last he had completed twenty of the precious card-scrolls, each imbued with a simple fireball, exactly eleven hours had passed since he’d first sat down. And there were no less than forty-one failed attempts scattered outside the circle where his errant magic had taken them.

At least my head's still in one piece, he sighed wryly, although in truth it throbbed so badly he felt as if he'd dipped it into a river of molten lava. He could feel the exhaustion and the frustration grasping at him, and as he raised his drained ink-stained palms before his face, he knew by the way they trembled frailly that his magics would be of little use to him again until after he rested. With a tremulous breath, releasing the last vestiges of arcane energy accumulated within his body, Ingwe allowed the circle of power to dissolve into nothingness.

That'll have to do for now.

Abruptly he was aware of the lethargy that poured through his bloodstream, a sudden release of lactic acid that cramped his muscles and strained his tired bones. For the first time in nearly half a day he shifted position, feeling his body complain mightily and all at once at the abuse. Ingwe just about managed to stifle a loud yelp of pain, instead resorting to a slightly more dignified "Ow ow ow ow," as he stretched his legs to bask in the glowing moonlight.

It was early evening still, but the stars were bright in the sky, sprinkled like diamond dust against a backdrop of black just about tinged with a dark blue. As he stood up wearily, his long cloak catching the breeze lightly before settling around his shoulders, they seemed to twinkle at him in encouragement.

He paused for a moment, then chuckled quietly to himself, "As if."

One by one his possessions made their way back into his travel pouch - ink, brush, tome. The successfully imbued card-scrolls were carefully stored in a clear-pocketed folder that was part of his treasured book, whilst the failures were also carefully tucked away within the confines of the leather bag, to await cleansing and another attempt at a future date. Satisfied that his belongings were all where they were supposed to be, he took a moment to relax, for the first time that day fully appreciating the beauty and the grandeur of the scenery.

All he could see of the ocean was its shimmering surface sheen, gently rocking Warspite back and forth like a baby in a cradle. The muted crackling of the forward lantern was barely audible above the waves lapping at the little carrack's bow, the scent of the sea tingeing even the warm smells of supper being served below. His stomach rumbled silently; Ingwe suppressed it in irritation, though he had to admit that he was slightly peckish.

But he didn't go below. For he was relishing the sheer serenity, the purity and tranquillity of his surroundings as he stood at the very prow of the intrepid little ship as it carved its way towards battle. What with the storm that they had weathered, and the altogether different storm that they would no doubt face once they arrived in Anebrilith, he had the strangest feeling that he would want to savour this moment for a long time to come. The gentle touch of sea-spray on his pale cheeks, made even colder by the tangy breeze that mercilessly ruffled his unkempt hair; the brightness of the stars and moon overhead, the unfathomable calmness of the depths below, and the monotony of the horizon three-sixty degrees around him. It was all just so... peaceful.

On a whim, he unclasped the heavy cloak that shielded him from the cool, shivering briefly when the first touch of wind sent chills rippling down his spine. The travel pouch around his waist was the next to join it on the polished wooden deck, the timbers creaking subtly when Ingwe began to limber lethargic limbs. His hunger and his tiredness seemed to shed themselves away, old useless burdens discarded like so much dead skin. As he went through a quick stretch routine to further loosen his body - it wouldn't do to injure himself now, would it? - the years seemed to fall away from his worried shoulders.

Satisfied that all was in working order, Ingwe's hands reached up behind his shoulders to grasp the cloth-wrapped hilts of the twin blades strapped there. They, too, were cool beneath his touch, poised and nearly trembling with power. A gentle, subtle twist, followed by the whisper of fine steel on lacquered wood as he drew his tanto free of their silk-sheathed scabbards. They spoke to him as they cut the wind, gleaming glowing quicksilver when he adopted a standard defensive stance.

Let your body and your soul sing as one...

Ingwe began to dance, his motions perfect and precise, elegant and exquisite in the star-studded moonlight. His swords moved in perfect harmony, physical constraints almost forgotten as he pushed his endurance and his dexterity to their limits. Never mind the fact that he had just spent eleven hours almost perfectly still on the deck of a small warship; never mind that he hadn't eaten for over twelve, or had a good sleep in at least forty. His movements were quick and determined, his steps surefooted and almost sensual, as he slipped gracefully but purposefully through the night.

For what do you do this? the wind seemed to whisper as it sailed past his ear.

Why do you fight? the fires joined in as they illuminated the wood at his feet and glinted dangerously off the hardened steel.

Because I am weak, he replied, not missing a step to their lilting queries. There are lives at stake, innocent people to save...

... and so I must be strong, his blades sang as they cut through the darkness. I cannot let anybody down.

The crescent moon looked down upon it all... and smiled.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Sudden sound ruptured the serenity, the soft subtlety of an elf's applause. Ingwe halted mid-stride, thrown off-balance and unwilling to continue. As he turned to face whoever it was, genuine puzzlement clouded his features, along with not a little colourful embarrassment.

"Not bad, for a young human," Glorfindel allowed, stepping forth from the pooled shadows in which he had hid. His intricately interwoven mail clinked slightly as he advanced, glinting almost brighter than the moon itself. "Your steps are very defensive, but your blades sing true. Even I would have trouble piercing such a guard."

His words were praise indeed, for in the days since they had left Scara Brae, the Anebrilithian bladesinger had proved himself to be a consummate swordsman; perhaps the best on the ship, much to Selinde's chagrin. The increased flush on Ingwe's face was visible even through the dim lighting, and he looked away, pleased but unable to hold the elf's gaze.

"Thank you," he murmured, humbled by Glorfindel's assessment. "But I still have much to learn."

The admission earned him an approving nod, almost thoughtful in its appraisal. "Yes, you do," the bladesinger said. "At least you seem willing to learn."

The elf's eyes never left Ingwe's, and now it was the warrior-mage's turn to nod.

"Perhaps I can help," Glorfindel offered, after a moment of deliberation. The elf took another step forward, barely audible on the polished planks, and now Ingwe could see clearly the longsword carried casually at his waist.

It was of typical elven make, long and graceful, slender but deadly. There was a slight curve to the blade, indicating that it was a slashing weapon rather than a thrusting one. The hilt was relatively long for its overall size, and Ingwe suddenly realised that it was designed to be wielded both single- and two-handed.

No doubt he's proficient with both, the Nipponese observed ruefully. But there was only a brief moment of hesitation before Ingwe bowed thankfully. It wasn't too difficult a decision, even though Glorfindel was a far more proficient swordsman than he. Experience, skill, strength, speed... there was no way that Ingwe could realistically hope to match the elf. But, after all, how was he supposed to improve if he was afraid to face the best?

He readied himself for an unaccustomed offensive posture as Glorfindel reverently drew his blade. If the former's twin shortswords were quicksilver in the wan luminescence, then Glorfindel's longsword was a very manifestation of the moonlight itself, pure and flawless as it whisked loosely clear. Ingwe instinctively knew that it was an honour... no, a privilege even, just to face it in combat.

The warrior-mage bowed again, and Glorfindel gravely returned the gesture. Then they both dropped into trained stances, the former probing with both swords forward, the latter awaiting movement with his own blade poised and ready above his head. As always, there was a brief moment of calm before the fury, this one broken only by a timely wave that breached the side of the ship and lightly drenched the deck. The tension was so thick either of them could have cut it; the silence, if anything, was thicker.

Breathe in...

Movement, crescent flashes faster than the eye could track. Like a hunting falcon Ingwe swooped, his strikes precise and fluid if just a little less rehearsed than before. But it was no surprise when every blow came up against a wall of parrying steel. A subtle feint, followed by a delicate twist of the upper body that sent his sword in the opposite direction from what his feet indicated... but still Glorfindel was equal to the task. The single longsword presented a barrier nigh liquid in form, but as impenetrable as any rock.

Breathe out...

Almost in an instant it was over, and Glorfindel had taken a step back to where Ingwe's short swords could not touch him. Tellingly, perhaps, the elf was barely winded; Ingwe, on the other hand, could not help but curse inwardly at the traitorous trickle of sweat on his forehead, and at the sudden shortness of breath that he fought to contain.

The bladesinger eyed him briefly, and Ingwe hoped that he was only imagining the disappointment he saw flash through the baby-blue.

"Three," Glorfindel spoke, and now his voice was flat and emotionless. "Do you know what this number is?"

The number of times he had me, Ingwe thought bitterly unwilling to trust his feelings to words and settling for an acknowledging nod as neutral as he could make it.

There are certain times when destiny is forged, when fate chimes loudly and the future is determined in a single vital second. And this was one of them, for Glorfindel saw something in the human's eyes, there and then. Perhaps it was his willingness to admit to his own failings and learn from them. More likely, it was the singular determination not to lose, not to give in, that burnt deep within. In any case, it was enough for the ghost of a small smile to touch the bladesinger's pale lips.

"Very well," he replied, pleased. "Shall we?"

The song of steel on steel rang out again.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Long minutes stretched into even longer hours, punctuated only by the roar of the waves, the howl of an occasional gust of wind, and the continuous chime of metal. There was almost a quaint little rhythm to it all, if you were lucky enough to remain detached enough from the action to notice. Ingwe most certainly wasn't, and didn't, and even Glorfindel was too busy concentrating. But there was a third party, who watched the one-sided duel for almost four hours before she spoke up.

"Don't you think that's quite enough?" she called from the top, the platform halfway up the main mast. Her expression was innocent as she rested her face on her folded arms, but her voice carried just a little bit of challenge. When Ingwe looked up to meet her downwards gaze, he almost swore that she was laughing at him. "If it's practice you want, I'm feeling like some."

Goaded by the dare implicit in her words, Glorfindel opened his mouth to reply. This time, however - and for perhaps the first time that night - Ingwe was faster on the draw.

"Wait your turn," he laughed, matching the playful mirth in her voice although his eyes were deadly serious. "I'm not about to give up yet."

And indeed, though he was breathing heavily and figuratively almost drowning in sweat, his footwork had actually improved quite a bit since he'd begun. Even the numbers that Glorfindel uttered after every exchange...

"Two!"

... had, on average, come down. Not that Ingwe thought that he was much closer to piercing the bladesinger's guard... but an improvement was an improvement, was it not...?

"You should give it up," Selinde sighed, obviously not sharing Ingwe's thoughts. Obviously, she was bored with four hours of nothing but watching Ingwe's ineffective attempts at an offensive being avoided with ease by the bladesinger. Even her golden-brown hair lay limp and unhappy against her face. And yet...

"No thanks!" came the shouted reply, as defiant as it was necessary. Ingwe's next thoughts hung loud in the starry sky, even though they were not given voice, I have to be strong. I have to improve.

It was as if his very determination spoke for him instead. Selinde, however, sighed again, this time even more lacklustre than the last.

"You do know that you can't beat Glorfindel, don't you?" she stated, as if explaining the obvious to a young child. "It just isn't possible. A human, besting a trained elf...?"

"But I can still try," Ingwe finished for her, his voice low and firm.

Selinde didn't know whether to respond by burying her head in her palms or by bursting out in laughter, so ridiculous did the Nipponese scholar's actions seem. The very idea was preposterous to her Raiaeran sensibilities; never in her one hundred and twenty years had she ever entertained even the thought. But then she took a closer look at the young man as he danced back out into the moonlight, his swords slicing through the air in perfect harmonious unison. And she too saw the fire that burnt in his eyes, an inner soulflame that rivalled any of the elder race's in brilliance and intensity.

She didn't make any more objections.

In fact, she made the decision to climb down from her vantage point, the better to observe the action up close.

"Five!" Glorfindel shouted, obviously just as determined to make Ingwe's task that much more difficult. Selinde laughed to herself. For the young human's benefit, she hoped that what she had just seen was true.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Duck. Parry. Strike.

"Two!"

Dart in, twist away. Keep one blade low and the other high. Feint with the first, slash with the second.

"Three!"

Pirouette gracefully into a bladed human hurricane, wince as his ankle failed to support his weight. Somehow manage to recover without giving away too much of an opening.

"Two!" Nice recovery, Glorfindel added to himself, although he knew better than to say it out loud.

Six hours had now passed since his initial offer, and it was obvious that the human was pushing far beyond his limits. Perspiration almost literally poured down Ingwe's face, a coating of salty moisture that glistened flickeringly in the lantern-light. The moon darted in and out from behind the safety of some newly summoned clouds, causing the ship to be alternately bathed in glowing light and shrouded in oppressive darkness. Each time it shone, it highlighted the weary exhaustion in Ingwe's features; every time it disappeared, shadows cast by the unruly lanterns wreaked ghastly havoc upon the warrior-mages complexion.

But, much as Glorfindel and Selinde had dared to hope - and the only reason that the bladesinger had yet to call off the practice - Ingwe had not yet given up. True, his steps and his strokes lacked the energy they'd shown at the beginning, but the young man just about made up for it with desperate skill and sheer determination. It was impressive, really, quite remarkable.

Ingwe, in stark contrast to his new mentor, had little time for such detached observations. His whole world had devolved into his immediate surroundings. The three swords that danced in the darkness. The slippery wood under his feet and the restless air on his brow. The smell of the sea and the sound of the wind. And an overwhelming, burning desire not to lose, to prove a point both to the bladesinger and to himself. The emotion transcended his exhaustion, his physical hunger and his need for rest; it was a focal locus, its meaning reaching far beyond the mortal coil.

Again he went on the attack, forcing his tired arms into movement once more. His peripheral vision was a blur as he ducked low, acrobatically bringing both blades to bear from the left. Glorfindel's own was there to block them, though, and the high-pitched ring rent the air...

... and suddenly it was all so clear to him, as if somebody had poured a pail of ice-cold water onto his face. The arcane winds, Aqshy and Ulgu, spoke into his mind, a vision of what could be. It was the breakthrough that he had needed, the inspiration that he had sought all along.

Silently whispered words, focusing his remaining energies and letting them flow. Steel was not the best metal for conducting magic, but if he allowed it to form along the edge of the blade instead...

"Gogyoto... Fuu!"

The air immediately adjacent to his blades seemed to shimmer and coalesce. It was nowhere near perfect, obvious to even the untrained eye that there was much room for improvement.

But it was enough.

Abruptly, Glorfindel leapt back a pace, the surprise and the shock easily readable upon his perfect porcelain features. He peered closely at his longsword, his eyes seeking to confirm what his honed senses had warned him not a second ago. Sure enough, at the exact spots on the blade where he had parried Ingwe's shortswords, networks of minute cracks had appeared, undermining the integrity of the finely crafted steel.

The bladesinger looked up again, still unable to conceal his astonishment. He was only spared from gaping by a hearty bellow of laughter from behind him.

"Surprised ye, that one, didne it," the dwarf roared, patting his large belly to the accompanying rattle of heavy armour. "Nae bad for a manling, nae bad at all."

Telchar sauntered over as jauntily as his poor sealegs could manage, his discomfort well-hidden and in any case almost forgotten now. Glorfindel didn't know what to be more surprised at, and it showed in the fact that he allowed the greybeard to walk up to him and critically eye his longsword without even a modicum of complaint.

"Hmph," Telchar snorted, giving the minute cracks a disdainful look. "Ye'll hae to work on it, though. Nae nearly as impressive as it could hae been. Now hold still."

The last of his stern words was directed at Glorfindel, who had just about regained his wits and was on the verge of pulling away from the dwarf, but froze obediently when ordered to. The merciless glare that the venerable longbeard gave him may have influenced the decision somewhat.

In any case, the dwarf reached into one of the many bags hooked to his belt, withdrawing from it a miniature smithing hammer that looked almost a child's plaything in his massive meaty hands. Peering close at the damaged blade, he murmured something incomprehensible beneath his breath in the dwarven tongue. Then, with a delicacy almost unimaginable in one of his nature, he carefully struck the sword twice, once for each set of damages. Dwarven runes glowed faintly upon the elvish steel, and when they faded from the cold silky blade, it was as if the metal had never been blemished at all.

"There. Much better," Telchar declared, guffawing at the mixture of confusion and relief that cluttered Glorfindel's expression. Even Selinde could not completely disguise her shock, although she too was having trouble stifling giggles at her fellow elf's bewilderment.

"So what say ye?" the old dwarf continued, turning to the fourth and last member of the midnight party...

... but Ingwe had collapsed in a heap against the prow, utterly spent. It was all the Nipponese warrior-mage could do to smile a small, wan smile.

[Flames of Hyperion]

"I come from an island nation, far to the east," Ingwe began, his voice soft and weary, barely audible above the gentle lapping of the waves against Warspite's hull. "It's a mystic place, difficult and overbearing at times, but hey, it's home."

The obligatory introduction out of the way, for Glorfindel had yet to be formally named before Telchar, the talk between the four adventurers had eventually turned towards their respective backgrounds. In his weakened state, Ingwe had been unable to resist the prodding - playful from Selinde, quite literal and almost painful from Telchar - and had started them all off.

"Anyways... I worked my way up through various schools, into higher learning... swordsmanship, magic, a number of other disciplines..." Ingwe smiled, pausing briefly for the nostalgia. "Then something happened, something bad... and here I am. Trying to set things right."

For a moment, silence reigned. Then Telchar guffawed once more, a low and slightly sad sound.

"Nae gonna tell us, eh?"

Ingwe blinked, then laughed softly and ruefully. "Not yet, please..." he replied, almost begging. "It's just..."

There was no disguising the pain that welled up within his chest, and all of his companions knew better than to inquire further. It took a couple of minutes for the young man to collect his thoughts once again, during which nobody said a word. Then, an embarrassed cough rolled over the wooden planking, followed by a muted, "Sorry," from the Nipponese's mouth.

Another moment of silence passed them by, and now it was Selinde who spoke.

"Unfortunately, there's nothing quite that special about me," she shrugged, laughing half-heartedly. "Just another adventure-seeking wench."

The accent that she aped elicited a wan grin from Ingwe, although the humour was lost on the other two.

"My sister joined the Rangers, hoping to avenge our parents, so I followed her in... travelling the world, setting evil right, so on, so forth..."

"An orphaned adventure-seeking swordswoman?" Glorfindel chuckled, prompting a harsh, unrestrained glare. It was obvious, both from Selinde's words earlier in the night and the look that she was giving him now, that she regarded him as a rival of sorts. It was also clear that at the moment, she was rather envious of his ability with a blade.

"Well, if it's one thing that we have in common," the second elf continued, laughing off the daggers piercing his shoulder, "it's the fact that there's nothing that special about me, either. I'm just a bladesinger from Anebrilith... I was on a diplomatic mission to Scara Brae when Xem'zund attacked. The war meant that I had no way of travelling back to my kinsmen." His eyes, downcast and focused on the deck as he spoke, suddenly looked up again, burning with flaring purpose. "Thanks to you, now I do. And I will save Anebrilith... no matter the cost."

"Big words from a poncy elf," Telchar interjected, cutting off whatever conscientious - or not - remark that Selinde had been about to make. "Let's hope that ye're able to bide up to them!"

"And you, dwarf?" Selinde riposted without missing a beat. "What story do you have to tell?"

Telchar gave her a hard stony gaze in reply, willing her to call him "dwarf" one more time so that he could show her all the unabashed straightforwardness that the word implied. She didn't wilt before the look, however, just smiled at him innocently. At length, he grunted noncommittally and looked away.

"One too long to tell in one night, elf," the dwarf growled. "At least, certainly nae without at least two kegs of a good dwarven ale. Suffice it to say that Xem'zund and I hae ne'er seen things eye to eye. I was a respected runelord until we first crossed paths, an' though now I'm just another auld dwarf in his greyin' years... nobody keeps a grudge quite like a dwarf.

"Speaking of which," he continued, scratching thoughtfully at his long grey beard. "That magic ye were castin' earlier today..."

Ingwe had remained pensive and quiet whilst the others were talking, a picture-perfect model listener. The sudden words directed his way caused him to start, breaking out of his silent reverie as if shot.

"I take it ye were inscribin' runes?"

Ingwe nodded warily, abruptly on his guard, but failing to suppress the slight surprise showing in his wide brown eyes. After all, it never paid for a mage to over-advertise his magics, even amongst friends.

"Well, as I said, I used to be quite th' runelord back when I was a respected figure in Gunnbad. Strikin' and forgin' runes used to be my speciality." Telchar eyed the reserved young scholar quietly, careful to keep his next words almost nonchalant. Phrased badly, they would only lead the honour-bound man to refuse... and Ingwe was too rare a talent for that. "I could teach ye a few simple tricks to help ye, if ye want..."

"So could I," Glorfindel chimed in, thoughtful. "As a bladesinger, I have knowledge of song magic... certainly I noticed that your control and your focus was letting you down this morn. Perhaps I could aid you in rectifying this problem."

When Telchar first offered his aid, Ingwe's expression had been the picture of incredulity. Then Glorfindel offered his aid, and the young man had cycled through unabashedly astonished, and finally to extremely grateful.

"I dunnae ken what ye're tryin' to prove, young'un," the old dwarf finished for them both, "but it sure looks like ye're gonnae need our help in provin' it."

Neither he nor Glorfindel failed to notice that Ingwe's eyes were misty, but judiciously they both chose not to mention it. The heartfelt nod, and the choked, whispered "Thank you," that followed, was more than enough to justify his decision.

He also ignored the smouldering envy in Selinde's eyes that erupted when she realised that she was the only one of the four who could not use magic in some form or another. Maybe she'll be inspired to work as hard as him, Telchar grunted to himself, filing the information away into his mind.

[Flames of Hyperion]

When the first rays of the new dawn shone down upon the little flotilla, they did so through a hazy veil of cloud lying low over the eastern horizon. Skimming straight and true over the gently lapping waves, guided forth by the same steady breeze that sped the ships towards their destination, when they finally reached the Warspite they were but a pale remnant of what they had once been. But it didn't seem to matter as they gently illuminated the young man curled up tight beneath a warm navy-blue cloak at the very prow of the carrack, or his two elven companions huddled ranger-style against the foremast opposite.

Telchar grinned paternally at the sight, feet spread as wide as his stubby legs would allow in an attempt to maintain his precarious equilibrium. Their conversations had lasted long into the wee hours of the morning, but then first Ingwe, followed closely by both Glorfindel and Selinde, had fallen asleep. Only he had remained awake throughout the darkest part of the night, the rocking rhythm of the boat preventing his mountain-bred senses from finding serene solace.

What was it about the lad, he asked himself for the umpteenth time. The young man's sleeping face was like that of any human, a beardless babyish picture of innocence made even more vulnerable by the fact that he removed his glasses when he slept. There was little of the strength and determination that had so characterised him the night before, or at Scara Brae. And yet, I cannae help but want to help...

He shrugged, spat a thick gob over the side of the ship, and then shook his head weakly. I'm too auld for this kind of thing, he told himself, chuckling wryly. Someday soon I'll join my ancestors in the great halls, and the stories I tell will match theirs in valour and courage. Until then...

"Ha!" Telchar laughed into the morning wind, daring the gods to strike him down for his impudence.

"Mornin'," came the sleepy reply, and the dwarf looked down, startled, to find Ingwe peering serenely in the same direction. The short nap had done him a whole world of good, Telchar noted, although the lad needed to eat something before he faded away completely.

For the moment, though, all was right with the world - simple, peaceful, fresh. A new day awaited them, a blank slate upon which to carve the experiences by which they mortals defined life. Today, Telchar thought, he would start Ingwe on the basics of runecasting... no doubt Glorfindel and even that poncy Selinde would have things to teach the lad as well. There was no shortage of things to do, only time in which to do them.

Three days out from Anebrilith, Ingwe thought as he watched the dawning sun.

[Witchblade]

Storyline

Continuity: - 7 The quest had a rather simple storyline to it during a complex time of war. Though this was meant to be nothing more than a training quest for Ingwe and an exercise into his feelings, it was very well written and executed. I just wish I had known a little more about where he had been before he’d placed himself on the ship. It just seemed like he’d been thrown into the mess of the war simply to protect innocent people and get stronger. And while that’s not a bad thing, it leaves the reader wondering if there’s possibly something more than that driving him and hoping so.

Setting: - 7 You write beautifully descriptive settings. I can always perfectly picture the things that are around Ingwe and the other characters while they’re fighting and talking and interacting with one another. My only criticism here is that you need to have your characters interact with their setting more. Yes, you were on a ship and there’s not really much that can be done, but I felt that particularly during the fighting scene, the characters should have been interacting more with the deck and things on it.

Pacing: - 4 The feel of the quest was a nice, slow going pace that kept me interested enough as a reader and yet also hoping for more. It just felt like there needed to be some kind of climax to this thread, something besides the cracking of Glorfindel’s blade at the end of all that training. Perhaps it was because as a reader I did not entirely understand the breakthrough of magical thought that Ingwe underwent. It just seemed to coast along at the same speed with a slight blip along the road and then an end. I do have to say, that the jump in time between posts 8 and 9 was a little jarring though, even if you did backtrack, noting that they were now talking about their brief pasts.

Character

Dialogue: - 9 I loved the accents and the different easy you have the characters talking. The dwarf in particular was very well done. I always have a hard time pulling off those crazy dwarf accents and mannerisms of speech that everyone assumes they have. Glorfindel had a very light and musical way of talking, almost something like a very proper way of speaking. All of your characters, even your NPC’s had their very personalities come out in their writing, which is not something that I see as a judge very often. Most people just leave their NPC’s as very cardboard cut out characters that just sit there.

Action: - 8 All of the actions of the characters seemed true to their respective personalities. I do have to make note that after such a long time without rest and food and after having sat so stiffly for so long, Ingwe certainly was able to train for quite a long period of time. I expected him to collapse a lot sooner than he did, even if his will and determination were pushing him further. I was surprised though at the ease that Telchar would help an elf, since there’s usually animosity between those two races. On top of that, Glorfindel even accepted the help.

Persona: - 9 Once again, you’re definitely strong when it comes to your characters. The personalities of each one, even the NPC’s truly shined throughout this thread. The personalities of the two elves particularly were a nice change. It gets rather tiring to see elves always hating humans and dwarves alike, thinking them beneath them and walking around like they are the masters of the universe. Ingwe has a very strong willed and determined personality that I enjoyed reading.

Writing Style

Mechanics: - 7 Your style of writing sometimes makes your sentences a bit awkward to read. I suggest reading things out loud from time to time and if you have a hard time with it, and then change the word and punctuation a bit. Then again, you as a writer know the rhythm of your own writing. Also, there were a few times when I noticed some run-ons.

Technique: - 7 You have a very interesting technique that I enjoy reading. I think you just need to work on the structure of it sometimes to eliminate the reader having to re-read a few of the sentences twice.

Clarity: - 8 Clear and precise, what else can I say?

Wild Card: - 6 It was a very interesting read and there were few things holding it back from getting a higher score. I look forward to reading more of your work if I ever get the chance to, or who knows, maybe even writing with you.

Total: 72

Rewards:

Hyperion receives 1,200 experience and 140 GP!

[Zook Murnig]

EXP/GP ADDED!