Brother v. Phyr: Handicaps

[Brother of My Blade]

Another day, another challenger. I have begun to grow weary of battle, desensitized to the carnage and tactics. Where once I would have said I felt most alive when engaged in combat, I now find the endless stream of warriors to be redundant. Crazed cultists, mass murderers, and their ill-minded ilk — that is what I face day after day. Or rather, it was.

There was a warrior, however, who stood out among those mental masses as intelligent and challenging. Despite his handicap, or perhaps because of his mastery of its limits, the battle-scarred drow veteran Phyr Sa'resh haunts my idle hours still.


____________________________


I waited for him that day, seated before the altar of the church I call home. Deep in prayer and contemplation, my ever-open and glowing green eyes looked inward. I had hoped that the Flame would bless me that day, as I did most days, that I may bring it honor in battle once more.

My bow lay across my lap, its pale wood contrasting against the dark grey of my steel plating in the colored light of the stained glass window behind me. I had decided that this day would be one of archery, though I was less than skilled in the art. In my training, I had been taught that the most sacred weapon of the Church of the Silver Flame was this slender, strung length of wood. They said that to fight evil is to be exposed to evil, and archery was the least exposing method of combat. Still, the priests feared little for the soul they believed did not exist, and gave me only the most basic training in that weapon.

But I will yet be an archer, and that day presented quite the challenge to me in that endeavor.

[Les Misérables]

The sky scoffed silently as I stood outside the church of the Silver Flame, a slim sickly stranger staring at the sturdy oaken doors. I was caught in a moment of horrid disapointment. I had a habit of taking a swig from my hip flask before entering any conclave that frowned on such earnest routines. The disapointment came when I snatched the iron flask from its residence behind the waistband of my shredded, soiled grey slacks and gave it a customary shake. My wrist cracked, but the sacred vessel produced no joyous sloshing sound, no comforting shift in its centre of gravity. Empty, just like the right sleeve of my shoddy navy shirt. The sleeve was knotted and hung limp as a man after a flogging. I gripped the flask with my bottom four fingers and meshed the pad of my thumb with the minute serrations on the edges of the cap. As it slipped off the container sang a single sorrowful note. Empty as the mocking sky above. The color of that cursed sky matched the azure pigment of my skin and eyes perfectly.

If I could fly, I'd be invisible.

I held the yawning flagon's narrow mouth to each nostril in turn, and inhaled the heady musk of spent whisky. It was enough to perk me up, at least, like wagging a carrot beneath a workhorse's nose.

Come on old boy, I coaxed myself, Kill this monk and you'll make enough money to keep the flask full for a long while.

The cateen's cap slid from where I had cupped it in my palm, and seemed to spin itself snugly into place. You do some things enough times, you learn to do them without thinking. But killing wasn't one of them so I stared at the door, stuffed the bottle back into my waistband, and set my mind on the monk.

Go to the church. Kill its only resident. Get gold. I wished life was always as simple as the Dajas Pagoda made it. I didn't know much about my target, but anyone who lives in a church is a monk, and monk's wear their weaknesses on their robes. I gripped the heavy iron ring and heaved, twisting my shoulders to torque the stubborn door open. It swung out in ominous silence, uncanny due to the hinges that looked like they never tasted a drop of oil.

Say your final prayers, warrior monk. You're all that stands between me and my first hot meal in months. I reserve a special amount of scorn for those who worship war; any brother-at-arms who's seen real battle knows it is a godless art. The church was nice though, despite the foolish ideals it represented. I like most churches, because when you've done hard time in harder prisons, even the most boring pew-streaked place of worship is a luxury hostel and warm breakfast. Besides, churches were serene, meditative, and normally a place where no one would try to kill you.

Not today, though. I suspected the monk was ready for me, and it wasn't my seasoned warrior's intuition. From just inside the door I saw that he was wearing some sort of armor, thick steel plates that covered his back, shoulders and head. I deduced the rest of him would be covered in the same exoskeleton. His back was to me, and if I'd had two arms and a musket I'd have walked out two seconds later in search of a decent tavern. Wishful thinking. I slid into the last row of pews, feeling my knees pop and hearing that unpleasant crunch as I sat. The stiff oak was like swaddling to my old body, and I slumped down low but didn't relax. One end of a strung ash bow poked around the corner of the pew the monk sat on. If he turned and fired, he wouldn't have a clear target.

"Praise be to the silver flame, brother." The words crumbled from my cracked throat, but my lungs were strong enough that the room still resounded with the foreign sound. That's what monks like to be called, isn't it? I toyed with the idea that he might think me a lost bum seeking redemption, rather than a bum that had come to murder him for a purse full of gold.

Out of habit, my eyes roved the room, seeing nothing of interest other than the stained glass window behind the high pulpit. The chaos contained in that still image was about to spread like wildfire and consume it's worshiper... all for a loaf of bread.

[Brother of My Blade]

The drow's voice was weak and strained I recognized the accent from previous fights, but it was hard to find in the crackling and hoarseness. He was weak, probably from hunger and hard roads. He might not even last through the battle, if he was in such poor health as his voice suggested.

"Praise to the Flame indeed, challenger," I responded, rising to my feet. My leathery tendons stretched and pulled with the exertion of the movement, having been unused for the hours I had waited. My bow was in hand, and I reached back to my quiver for an arrow. "Do not despair, Phyr Sa'resh, son of Alerar. The Flame will welcome you, should you repent your sins and show courage in this battle. Just as the Silver Flame welcomed me, a weapon made by man to slaughter man."

Turning, I made a single step toward the dark-skinned veteran, the steel of my feet rapping quietly against the oaken floor as I took an open arching stance. Nocking my arrow, I took aim at the man. "Deceit and cowardice will do you little good against me, in any case," I said as I released the missile.

[Les Misérables]

Despair?

My mouth twisted violently, the taste of bile invading my mouth like a rotted lemon. My hand reached for my flask, then pulled back as I recalled the emptiness of the iron vessel. I wanted to spit, but swallowed painfully instead; the clanky monolith showed no manners, but that did not justify me doing the same.

I had known despair for years. In the Aleraran and Salvic prisons that had stolen my youth, hopelessness was the way of life. It had been all around me; in the eyes of the other prisoners, carved like runes in the walls, cooked into the slop they fed us to keep our bodies alive while our souls withered and died. This church was not a place of despair. This church was a place of plenty, where killing one man could earn me a livelihood.

It seemed so easy, yet as the monk stood and faced me, something swelled in my empty stomach. Not fear; I had forgotten fear long ago. Just a simple realization as I came to terms with the fact that I might not win. The monk looked impervious, coated in heavy plates of steel that did not seem to slow him in the slightest. He looked odd as he stretched that ash bow; an archer wearing more armor than most footmen.

The arrow slammed into the pew in front of me, punching half of its length through. Instinctively, I grabbed the iron head and snapped it off, stuffing the length of wood and metal into my pocket. I had only just arrived, and already the monk offered me gifts, a free weapon, and even more important, information. Even if the pew had not protected me, the shaft would have missed by the length of my forearm at least.

Does he think he is toying with me? I wondered as I scooted along the polished bench, staying low. I am a the wolf, and he the hen. He will realize that in due time. I neared the church's humble wall, putting more distance between myself and the would-be archer. Peering over the pew, my azure eyes laughed at him as I cleared my throat and forced words out towards the high vaulted ceiling.

"Deceit and cowardice have won more battles than you've seen in your wet dreams, boy." I growled, my voice like a rusted chain gathering on a dusty floor. "You should show them the respect they deserve."

If my legs were younger, I might have rushed him the moment he fired the arrow. But I no longer commanded the speed and explosiveness of a young bull. Instead, I would be a spider, waiting with my fangs bared for the boy to come to me.