Prudence

[orphans]

This event is to take place after The Colors of Grey (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?22032-The-Colors-of-Grey&highlight=). Also, this will be more of a quest style rather than a full blown combat, if any at all.

Closed to Amen, All Bunnying approved through the thread.


Sneaking about was no longer as challenging for Azza, ever since her fourteenth birthday a few weeks prior. This was especially true during the times when everyone at the Ixian Castle would be too busy to watch her. She never minded though, as the usual fix was to have her stay at the small orphanage in Underwood, her first home for the majority of her life.

And although the orphanage keeper Holly, or Mother Holly as the children would call her, disapproved of this method of raising the girl, she didn’t complain. The woman had always enjoyed the small girl’s company, and it was a fortunate wish come true to be able to continue watching the girl grow.

As an added benefit, most of those who resided in Underwood had seen the girl grow up had gotten used to her strange new appearance as well now. Thought to be albino at first, it was clear as day now that Azza was anything but human: a fact that no one who knew the girl cared about. To them, she was still the same adorable flower girl.

But, travelers who passed through town and some intolerant locals would simply gawk as if the young girl were an animal fit for a zoo. Whether their intent was malicious or simple curiosity, Azza never knew, as her only response was to run away and find those familiar with her: people that she could hide behind.


As these thoughts passed through her mind, the young girl gave a dejected sigh as she rode in the supply wagon.

This worried the sundries merchant riding beside her, having known the girl before she could talk. The child had always been a vortex of energy and limitless questions about everything imaginable on these trips. Sure, sometimes they were inappropriate or irrelevant questions and he had no idea how she came to the question itself, but she was always energetic without question. These days, there might as well been a cloud of gloom following the girl.

“Azza, yuh feelin alright?”

Jerking out of her thoughts, Azza peered up to the merchant from beneath her straw hat with a feeble smile. “I’m okay mister Jacobs.”

The man returned the smile as she mucked up his first name, as usual. “Goot. Keep uh smile oun. Radasanth jus round the bend.”


While it was business as usual for the merchant, Azza had another reason why she wanted to tag along. Usually it had always been to see new things, but today, there was somewhere she wanted to go and she knew full well had she been traveling with anyone remotely related to the Ixian Knights, they would protest. The Citadel, the knights would argue, was no place for a young girl like her. Well, mostly her adoptive mother Stephanie, but she made it explicitly clear that she didn’t want her daughter to live a life of violence.

Avoiding her primary caretakers was easy though. The problem, however, was convincing “mister Jacobs” to let her wander alone. It wouldn't be her first time wandering Radasanth, but lying had never worked in her favor. Nevertheless, she didn’t see any other option. Tentatively, as “Jacobs” checked the wagon and horses, she gathered her courage to tug on his sleeve.

“Wuts wrong?”

“I’m supposed to meet someone from,” She began, her voice starting out strong, but quickly deteriorated into nothing more than mumbles, “the Ixian castle to take me back…”

Of course, "Jacobs" was instantly suspicious and looked to the girl, watching her entire face turning red from the fib. Then, with a laugh, he nodded. “It be a boy dun it? Yuh can trus ol’ Jakuts with uh secret.” To him, the scenario fit perfectly as to why the girl was constantly gloomy these days: boy troubles!

Willing to make the most of the misunderstanding, Azza just nodded her head vigorously while her cheeks just darkened at the blatant lie she was weaving.

Edging closer, he lowered himself to whisper, “…fer nother wagon tuh take yuh back,” as he pressed a small coin pouch into her hands. Guilt trumpeted inside Azza’s skull, but she could only nod again before running off into the crowd.


The streets of Radasanth never changed much. Different people, vendors, bards, performers, and ruffians aside, it was always the same; crowded. It was because of this that Azza didn’t stand out at all. Being the main city and hub for importing and exporting, races of all kinds and variety could be found. This was especially true as she neared The Citadel’s majestic steps.

Though she had come before when her father, Jensen, fought against the Gisela Reaper Remi, she wasn’t allowed to wander about. Rather, she was held kidnapped and held hostage by Remi’s daughter. So when Azza beheld the sights and sound of all those around the general area of The Citadel, she suddenly felt… quite normal.

Of course there were full blooded humans, but she was hardly the oddest looking creature there. Through her haze of amazement, she managed to make it up the steps and past towering columns of marble and into a delicately carved archway, bordered by fantastical creatures. But not before she managed to catch a glimpse of what she thought was a bipedal, armored bear staring down a giant butterfly.


Suddenly, the excursion didn’t seem like such a good idea. Curiosity and a mix of want, had lead her here to learn to wield something since no one at home would teach her (on the threat of her mother giving a severe thrashing.) It seemed, however, that this wasn’t quite a place for training.

“Welcome, child.” The voice made a shiver run down Azza’s back as she turned to face a rather elderly man in a robe. “What will it be today?”

“Ah…” was the unintelligible reply that Azza gave. It took her a moment to realize that the elderly man was most likely one of the Ai’Brone monks that Mother Holly had told her about when she asked. Finally, after what seemed like a century, Azza managed to mumble out, “Training.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Please, take a seat.” Without any other words, the monk wandered away in a seemingly random direction.

With another disheartened sigh Azza took off her straw hat, figuring that her horns and wings were the least abnormal features among the other visitors. With nothing else to do but wait, she found an empty bench, took a seat, and prayed that whoever the monk found to train her wouldn’t be as scary as the armored bear.

[Amen]

The elderly monk walked the austere halls of the Citadel at a fine clip, pausing every so often to ask one of his brothers if they had seen Marcus Book. Book had become something of a guest of the Citadel of late, frequenting their training rooms and the unrestricted section of their library. The monks knew him well enough by sight, and it did not take long before the elder was pointed in the right direction.

He exited the Citadel proper and stepped out into a narrow cloister. This area was peculiar; being a small garden upraised from the streets of Radasanth but not entirely walled off from it. Indeed, one could hear the bustle of city life just beyond the far hedges, despite the thickening clouds overhead and the promise of rain on the breeze. The elder scanned the garden from the colonnade, but did not see the young paladin. He was ready to give up and continue his search elsewhere when he heard the rustle of paper from the far side of a nearby pillar. He approached the pillar, and sure enough, on the opposite side he found his man.

Marcus Book was stretched out along a stone bench with a small, leather-bound book, and his back was to the pillar. A sheathed bastard sword was leaned against the pillar from the ground beside him, and he spoke without looking up from his book.

“Hello, Seer.” His voice was a rumbled baritone, and though he spoke Trade clearly, he did so with a heavy, melodic Salvic accent.

“Mister Book,” the elder greeted him with a smile. “I believe the time has come to satisfy our deal.”

Now Marcus lowered his book and turned to look up at the elder, and his eyes were curious.

***

Book followed the monk back through the Citadel. His sword and its sheath were strapped to his back once again, its weight having become familiar. These Ai’Brone monks still troubled him vaguely, with their strange wisdom and secretive ways, but he knew better than to doubt them – especially the old ones. Indeed, he had taken to calling certain monks he knew “seer.” They did not seem to like it, but he found the word accurate: they seemed to know things they weren’t privy to, and from time to time this particular monk made crude predictions about the near future that always came to pass.

Indeed, he had requested a particular piece of information from this one, who he called Seer. Seer’s response was that he would trade for the knowledge the paladin sought. Marcus agreed and asked the price, to which Seer replied, “I don’t know yet,” and predicted that some third party would come to the Citadel and name the price.

Seer suddenly stopped, drawing Marcus out of his thoughts and back to the present. “That is she,” the elder said, pointing. “She has requested training in combat. That is the price.”

Across the entrance atrium to the Citadel, a slight girl sat on a bench looking about her surroundings. She was a stripling just leaving childhood, and Book’s immediate response was to look at Seer with one raised eyebrow. “Are you mocking me, Seer?”

But the old man’s face was as impassive as ever. “That is the bargain,” Seer said. “You will teach the girl, and then I will tell you what you wish to know.”

“Teach her what?”

Seer shrugged. “To fight. When she has learned what you are to teach her, our bargain will be complete. Those are the terms.”

Marcus set his jaw, and his mouth bent into a grim frown. These strange “terms” were too vague for his liking: the martial arts could be considered a lifelong pursuit. At the very least, it could take weeks to bring a green whelp to basic proficiency. When the paladin turned to the monk to express his doubts, the older man was gone.

Book growled under his breath, but knew his mind was already made up. He had to at least try.

He mentally complained as he cross the courtyard toward the girl. He didn’t like children, he didn’t know how to talk to them, they were weak and gave up easily, and they were fickle and likely to lose interest. And this one was particularly girlish – could she even lift a sword? And how serious could she be, wearing whatever ridiculous, horn-like hat...

And then, when he was near to her and at the moment she noticed his approach, his blood froze in his veins and he stopped in his tracks. His eyes widened and he all but recoiled. His hand snapped instinctively upward, reaching for the hilt of his sword, but paused there in midair.

Marcus was a paladin of The Brotherhood, an order of men and women dedicated to the fight against what they saw as iniquity. He was raised from childhood to fight demons, trained in how to identify them, and constantly reminded of the incredible need for constant vigilance against their considerable deviousness. For Marcus, like any other paladin, it was a natural and unconscious act to check every person he met for certain markings: the slightest mutation in the eyes, the teeth, the skin. He would eye fingernails without knowing it, even watch for a certain gait that might suggest the presence of a concealed tail. All of these ingrained habits were, however, a redundant defense: every paladin has an otherworldly and extrasensory ability to detect demon-kind. In practice, the unease would set in, and the demon would be identified by its physical malformations. And yet, here he saw the evidence but did not feel it.

His every instinct told him that she was already too close to him to strike first. Surely this was a tiefling – the half-damned spawn of the infernal and the natural – and she had the proverbial drop on him.

And yet, she did not attack.

The paladin’s heartbeat thundered in his ears, and he slowly lowered his half-raised hand. More peculiarities occurred to him: her eyes were not normal, yet there was no apparent malice in them. If anything she seemed…overwhelmed. She had no visible weapons, and her hands were not the rending talons that would be necessary for an unarmed attack meant to inflict any real damage.

Did she have some way of concealing what she was? Or was she truly innocent, cursed with the appearance but not the nature?

Azza should have died there. Marcus was a particularly bloodthirsty paladin, apt to strike first and ask questions later, if ever. Instead, the mere concept of her stirred up a strange reaction in him: kinship. Outwardly she was one thing, but there was a possibility that inwardly she was the opposite.

For Marcus Book, it became like looking into an inverted mirror.

For a moment he just stared, and then he spoke. “Any normal child would be stupid to do what you’ve done. You come here alone, to what is maybe the most dangerous place in the world, and specifically sought out dangerous people. You’re scrawny, and soft. I would be amazed if you could lift a sword, never mind swing one once, never mind repeatedly. And you’re wearing a dress.”

Marcus looked grim, and shook his head disapprovingly. The moment stretched. When he spoke next, his voice was softer.

“But you’re not a normal child, are you?”

The paladin offered his right hand to the girl, his eyes half-narrowed and cautious. The man already wanted the best for her, seeing something of himself in her, but the paladin still suspected her of deception. This would satisfy both: if she was a demon and burst into flames upon touching his hand, or ran away to avoid that fate, she would die. If she could touch him without being harmed, he would tell her his name and teach her all he knew.

Because, Marcus thought, gods know she’s going to need it as she grows up, looking the way she does.

[orphans]

The wait was much longer than Azza had anticipated and what was once an empty courtyard, became a courtyard for two. She had assumed that the new person was her trainer, but when he took a seat on the next bench over, she gave another sigh. The strange man, however, didn’t even make motion of noticing her, and just stared blankly ahead of himself, jaw slightly agape. His clothing was tattered and the only sound he produced was of air slowly escaping endlessly from his nostrils.

Azza did her best to ignore him, but when the strange man’s head suddenly whipped, cracked then bent at an odd angle onto his shoulder, she couldn’t help but stare. After what seemed for eons, she scooted over to the furthest spot on her bench away from the man. With nothing else to do but wait once more, she let her eyes roam about.

Unfortunately the courtyard had almost nothing of interest, as if its only purpose was for those waiting for their requests to be filled. That, by itself, had Azza wondering what on earth the man in the other bench could be waiting for as she watched her own feet swing about, not quite touching the floor.

Then another sound hooked the attention of her ears. Steady steps from heavy boots echoed off the columns in the courtyard, announcing the arrival of another person. When the steps were no more than a few dozen feet away, she decided to look up, instantly confronted with an intimidating man who looked directly at her.

Nearly bald in the fashion of the Ai’Brone monks, she quickly noted that he was much too muscular to be one of them. No, this man was a warrior by any definition and when her own maroon eyes met the man’s darker spheres, she felt a chill run down her spine.

But, when the man’s gaze widened and snapped his hand up for his sword, Azza cringed as her head turned away with eyes shut, hoping the action would offer her some protection against cold steel. Time crawled slowly, and when Azza realized that she was still holding her breath and alive, she took the chance to edge one eye open and saw the man lowering his hand.

Moments passed, allowing Azza to gather her courage to face the man squarely as he stared. What little she did gather was quickly dashed away by the words that came from the man’s mouth. They were harsh and cut her deeper than any blade he could have wielded. Most of all, they were true.

It was a foolish idea for her to seek strangers to train her. It was dangerous for her to be alone in such a place. And even though she knew she could lift any weapon a normal man could, she knew the size would make it awkward for her to handle. But the last comment made her cheeks burn red as she realized she didn’t even have the proper attire to begin learning.

Azza’s spirit sank along with her shoulders as she thought to why she had even wanted to learn. Try as she did, she couldn’t find a good answer. It was simply something she felt she had to do. Something that was etched within her very being.

But when the man’s voice softened and offered his hand, Azza looked up with both a mixture of surprise and apprehension. Was he the one the monk had found as a teacher? Of course, Azza was weary of a man who had nearly cut her down upon their first meeting, but she felt that she could trust the monks of the establishment. Were they not supposed to help all that came? And if this was the man they chose to help her…

Hesitance riddled Azza’s hand as she stretched it towards the one the man offered. Just as she was about to place her hand into his palm, she stopped, noting that his hand was more than twice her own. Taking a deep breath, she finally pressed her palm to his and then looked up with a tentative smile.

Unsure how to proceed, she did her best for an introduction with, “I’m A-” but suddenly stopped as a nagging feeling in the back of her mind warned against using her real name. In the split second, she had to think, she recalled her first given name and continued in a mumbled voice, “a-ah, my name is Sophia.”

[Amen]

Feel free to bunny Marcus as well, Orphans, if you ever feel the need.

When the girl reached out and hesitated, Book’s shoulders tensed. He was ready, at that moment, to leap upon her with violence and fire and…

But then, to his infinite surprise, she pressed her small hand into his and smiled.

And there was no fire, no screaming, no curses and oaths in a fel tongue. There was just a suddenly-innocent girl staring back at him from the face of his enemy, made sweet by childhood.

Marcus felt himself unexpectedly troubled. He was still wary, but that diminished with every second she did not attempt to eviscerate him. No, he was troubled because despite appearances, this innocent child, possessing a monster’s tools and markers or not, was asking to be taught how to get rid of her innocence. Perhaps she only thought she was seeking self-defense – Marcus couldn’t know – but he did know that what he was about to teach her would lead to death for someone.

He was going to make something innocent into a killer.

Inwardly, he sighed. Isn’t that exactly what they did to me? And would it be better for her innocence to be destroyed by evil or ignorance, rather than sacrificed of her own will?

In the end, the point was moot. The girl had to learn in order for Marcus to get what he wanted. His mouth formed a tense line – a grim smile in answer to the girl’s own tentative offering. As severe as his smile was, however, his handshake was warm, perhaps even comforting.

When she gave her name, however, he seemed once again stunned. He quickly banished the disbelief from his eyes, not wanting to once again scare the girl or seem mad. When he feared the damage was already done, he cleared his throat to explain: “They tell me my mother’s name was Safia. Between that and the mad monk’s predictions…well, none of that is important to you, is it? My name is Marcus Book, and I will teach you everything you want to know about killing with a sword. I do not claim to be a master or the best teacher you could have found, but…well. You ended up where you were meant to.”

***

Marcus had been basically living in the Citadel for nearly a month and a half now, and still each hallway was indistinguishable from the next. He followed a mental map now, proven many times by trial, and yet a nagging doubt still itched at him. There were no landmarks to speak of, nothing with which to verify the way was right, only the stubborn confidence that he was remembering the way right and he always doubted it and ended up in the right place regardless.

He did not turn to check on Sophia. She needed to feel the pressure to succeed. He would give her no sense that this would be easy or that he would slow down because she was tired or distracted. As far as he was concerned, her training had already begun.

“There he is,” Book muttered.

A monk had just turned into the hallway now from an adjoining chamber, and he was moving in the opposite direction as teacher and student. He was pushing a wide-walled cart, which was laden with neatly-folded linens and clothing.

“You!” Marcus said. The young monk jumped and raised his head, stretching his neck long in wide-eyed wonder. “Your name is Quell, isn’t it?”

The boy nodded vigorously.

“Gods, man! Master Cyrill has been looking for you for an hour, pacing up and down the halls yelling and slamming doors. Where have you been?”

The youth stammered for a response.

“Don’t talk, go! What are you doing? Leave the cart! There’s no time for that!”

And off the monk went, running as fast as his legs would carry him.

Marcus grinned, pleased with himself. He was not a good actor, nor a good liar, but intimidation came easy to him. He turned to the girl he knew as Sophia and waved at the abandoned laundry cart.

“Dig through there and find something to wear. Ideally we want something tight-fitting on top, or something that will leave your arms bare. The trousers should be looser, freer at the legs, but nothing you’re going to trip on, or something so big it’ll fall off you. You want a fabric that will breathe. You’re going to sweat and you want your clothes to dry quickly. Nothing too warm, but nothing as flimsy as what you’re wearing.”

There was a pause.

“Why are you looking at me like that? It’s all clean…look, the Citadel is famous because you can fight to the death and survive the experience. Weapons don’t just ruin flesh, they rip clothes in the process, and the monks mend flesh and silk both. Elves run in and out of here all the time, there should be something in your size. Now hurry up, eventually the kid is going to find out Cyrill has been in Akashima for three weeks and we need to be out of here before he gets back.”

Marcus turned around in a circle, picked a door at random, and kicked it open. He poked his head in and looked around to make sure nobody was inside, then shrugged and pointed at the newly-opened room. “Change in there.”

[orphans]

The smile on the man’s face might as well been bristles to Azza. Forced, uncomfortable, and in an odd way, misplaced. It wasn’t hard to figure that the man’s very muscles were not accustomed to forming such movements. Still, Azza appreciated the gesture, but when the man gave his name as Marcus, Azza frozen and nearly missed what he said right after.

The name rang a bell, a small and quiet one in the back of her mind. Of a memory from long ago that she couldn’t grasp. Either way, Azza had little time to ponder about it, as her trainer turned and began walking. Blunt with words and his actions, it sent Azza back to where they had started; tense.

Endurance was no issue for the girl ever since her recent birthday. It was a subtle change over the past few weeks, but one that she noted silently. Who would believe that a small girl like her could run for hours with dogs and not tire? And with nothing except bland hallways and corridors to follow Marcus through, distraction wasn’t a problem either.

What was was her disheartened spirit. Each stride Marcus took nearly equal to three Azza’s own and it was all she could do to keep up. With each step she took though, she knew it would be harder to run away if she wanted to. The maze of corridors had already left her head spinning and the only option she saw was to complete what she started. Or at least try to.

When Marcus suddenly stopped, Azza bumped into him. He didn’t seem to notice, and instead barked at a young disciple of the Ai’Brone. The scene reminded her of how the orphanage keeper of her childhood would discipline the children at times, those that were out of line anyhow.

Azza was astounded by how fast the monk took off down the corridor however, unsure whether he was more afraid of Marcus shouting orders, or the fact that his master was searching for him. However, Azza never expected Marcus tell her to change her clothing.

It made sense, but she still gave an incredulous look to the man. Azza wasn’t one to argue with the man she had asked help from though. Even so, it felt like stealing and that made her hesitate. That and she didn’t know what do look for. But the instructions Marcus gave were detailed enough and within moments, Azza found a set that looked about her size and being already sorted made it easy.

With clothing in hand, she ran into the empty room and closed the door to change. The brown cotton trousers she found fit fine with plenty of room to breathe, but not enough slack to trip her feet. Add the worn leather belt she had normally about her waist and it hugged on perfectly. However, when she looked at the grey tunic, she realized there were no holes for her wings to slip through.

Not wanting to keep her trainer waiting, she tore two spots in the back and pulled the tunic over her head. Not quite perfect, but sufficient enough that her wings were comfortable and it left her arms bare. Quickly gathering up her old things, she stepped out and joined Marcus once more.

Marcus gave a quick onceover and then a single nod. Whether it was a nod of approval, or a nod to indicate it was sufficient, Azza would never know. “Now, for a place to learn. Follow me,” were the firm words that came from the man. Once more, Azza tailed behind, struggling to match his strides.

[Amen]

They were now somewhere they probably weren’t supposed to be. Marcus had led his modest student through the confounding halls of the Citadel once again, and he had little doubt that she was perfectly bewildered. He knew he projected the utmost confidence, but in his heart of hearts, Marcus was not entirely convinced he knew where he was going or what he was doing. He supposed that was the nature of adulthood: the dimly sighted leading the blind, all the while professing mastery of life.

Book shuddered. Parenthood was suddenly a terrifying prospect. On the other hand, mere training seemed less overwhelming now. At the end of the day he only had to teach the girl a subject, and then she would go back to her parents or whoever took care of her. The more complicated lessons of life weren’t his to administer.

He began to contemplate the notion that the girl had no adult support, and that’s what brought her here, but it was quickly too disturbing to consider in depth.

Besides, the monks were beginning to give them sharp looks. Book had led the two of them into a section of the Citadel where the monks rarely led outsiders. He knew the way (roughly speaking) because the library was not far beyond here. This chamber, however, was where the monks sharpened their own martial skills. All around them, half-dressed Ai’Brone disciples were engaged in furious hand-to-hand sparring sessions, or performing repetitive exercises, or being trained by senior monks in finer arts or the use of various complex weapons.

“Wait here,” he told Azza, who he knew as Sophia.

He crossed the training floor alone, snaking between the monks as they practiced their…what? Religion? He didn’t know. Contrary to popular conception, his being a paladin had nothing to do with faith – he knew higher powers existed, but felt no need to worship them. Better they overlooked him, he felt. For a moment, Marcus worried that what he was about to do was a breach of some unspoken religious doctrine and the monks would attack him. Well, that could be fun: he never heard of anyone fighting an Ai’Brone monk.

He first came to a structure resembling a weapon rack, which was laden with finely-carved wooden facsimiles. He began to lift wooden swords and swing them experimentally. Early on he set one aside, and then kept searching for another, glancing back at Sophia every so often before returning to his task. Eventually he found a second wooden sword which satisfied him.

But he wasn’t done.

Holding the wooden swords in one hand by their “blades,” Marcus crossed the training floor once again, this time approaching a line of training dummies. These were fairly large and complicated wooden devices, which resembled human torsos mounted on sturdy posts. The “torso” on each was complete with two posts that stuck out from the “shoulders,” serving as widely-spread arms, and each dummy had a crudely-carved head and shoulders. This one had notches carved into the forehead, shoulders, and stomach, and the arms were dented, but never chipped. Marcus had seen the monks remove pins from the back of the dummies, where the “torso” meets the pole, so that the whole thing would spin when struck. Thus, a monk could train his reaction time by striking one arm and dodging the other when the dummy spun. He had also witnessed monks strike one arm only to be subsequently knocked senseless by the opposite arm, which had been infinitely amusing to him. He figured he oughtn’t to abuse his student in such a way, however.

Banishing the memory – which was still making him grin – Marcus bent down and, with a breathy grunt, lifted the training dummy up off the floor. It was heavy. It was a great deal heavier than he expected, but he was committed now and he wasn’t going to have his student doubting his ability already. He growled and steeled himself, hoisting the dummy’s post over one shoulder, and then he hurried across the training floor back to Sophia. A good number of the monks stopped mid-task to watch him audaciously take their training dummy in a notable feat of strength, but nobody moved to stop him.

When he reached his student again, Marcus handed her the wooden swords and breathlessly said, “Carry these, please.”

***

They were, at last, set up. Marcus had led her on another short, directionless jaunt through the Citadel maze before picking a door at random. It had been locked but, once again, he kicked it open. He liked to think Azza didn’t realize that he didn’t know the Citadel as well as he would have her believe. Ultimately, it didn’t matter. He put the training dummy down, closed the door, and they were ready to begin at last.

Their training grounds were peaceful, pleasant – beautiful, even. They were once again in a courtyard of sorts: a grassy lawn ensconced by a walkway of large marble tiles. The four walls of the courtyard were overgrown with moss, which in turn sported flowers with massive pinkish blossoms. There was a large fountain mounted against each wall, bubbling away merrily.

The courtyard was blessedly open to the sky. It was sunny in the way of early mornings, cool and vaguely humid. This was, of course, impossible: the weather in Radasanth was rainy, it was nearing midday, and this room was situated deep within the center of the Citadel. “That’s normal for this place,” he explained to Sophia, unsure of how much she already knew about the Citadel. “Magic, I guess. I don’t understand it.”

He had set the training dummy down in the center of the grass lawn, and motioned his charge to approach while he took his boots off. The grass was cool and dry on his bare feet, and he reveled in the sensation. When Sophia approached, he gently took the wooden swords away from her and tossed them down in the grass.

“Now, at last, you can learn something valuable,” he said. “Pay close attention, and ask questions when you don’t understand. All in all you’re lucky to have me as a teacher; I was punished for asking questions. I would prefer to be confident you understand what I’m telling you. I’m about to do a great deal of talking, and you must listen, because, well, I am not much of a talker.”

Book reached up and undid the leather strap which secured his scabbard to his back. He took hold of the large weapon and held it horizontally in both hands. “This is a sword (http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/0/08/Espadon-Morges.jpg),” he said as he held it close for the girl’s inspection. “Swords are unique. Weapons are merely a kind of tool, yes? And I believe they all started out as other tools. A mace comes from a hammer, an axe comes from…well, an axe. It makes sense: if an axe blade will cut a tree, why not a man? But eventually you need to make better tools for the job, and an axe is optimal for chopping trees. So you will make an axe for chopping trees and axe for chopping men.

“Swords are similar, but different. They operate on the same principle as knives, but serve no dual purpose. That is to say, I would not use a sword to spread butter or slice a steak. It is a highly-evolved tool, specially designed for killing men, and preventing other men with swords from killing you.

“Now this is important: being as evolved as it is, every part of the sword is potentially dangerous.”

Marcus tapped the sheathed sword. If the steel were naked, he would be tapping the blade directly. “Your average farm boy thinks this is the dangerous part. A smarter person knows the tip is also dangerous. What the inexperienced person doesn’t realize is that a good swordsman could kill you with any part of his sword. Attend.”

Marcus now turned his sword vertical, so that the sheathed tip rested on the grass. He pointed at what was now the topmost part of the weapon, indicating everything that was not covered by the sheath. “This is the hilt,” he said, and then pointed at the topmost part, a rounded knob at the end of the hilt. “This is the pommel. Its basic purpose is to serve as a counter-weight. You understand? The sword would be heavy toward the blade if not for the pommel. Balance is very important, we’ll get to that.

“But the pommel, especially on this sword, can be very dangerous. I have killed men with this pommel. They expect the blade, and so are sometimes surprised when you shove the pommel into their nose in a fast strike. I have also been in desperate situations where I held my sword by the blade and used the pommel as a club (http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/48/Wallerstein_219.jpg). Perhaps you think this is strange, but I am alive and my enemy is not. Now.”

Marcus paused, and then wrapped one hand around the grip of the sword. The grip extended well beyond his hand. “Some swords have shorter grips and shorter blades, some have longer. This type of sword is sometimes called the bastard sword, or hand-and-a-half. They call it this because it is between a one-handed sword and a two-handed sword, but neither really one or the other. I prefer this sword because it combines the best of two worlds: it is heavy like a two-hander, but light enough to use in one hand if I need to, and using two hands affords me a great deal of power and control over the blade.”

With his free hand, the one which was not currently gripping the handle of the sword, Marcus pointed at two thick metal protrusions which stuck out at right angles from where the sheathed blade began. “This is the cross-guard. It exists to prevent another swordsman from sliding his blade along mine to slice at my hands and wrists. Of course, it is not perfect.”

Marcus held up his left hand with the palm facing away from Azza, and she could see a mad network of scars drawn at every angle across the back of the paladin’s hand. “I got most of these just from learning how to use a sword. You’ll probably get a few of your own in time, but I took the wooden swords to try and prevent that. The guard is important, but it is not infallible, so you must still be vigilant about every part of your body. Now, like the pommel, the guard can be used to kill. I have stabbed men in the throat with the cross-guard, put it into their eyes, and shattered their teeth.”

Now, and abruptly, Marcus unsheathed the sword, and the newly freed steel sang with a beautiful and unique song, which echoed throughout the shaded courtyard. He tossed the sheath to the grass. “The sheath has its parts and there are things you should know about it, but we won’t worry about that yet. It’s less interesting, and there are far fewer opportunities to defend yourself with a sheath. Just know that, should you ever own your own sword, one always keeps it sheathed until one is ready to cut something. The blade is more dangerous than you realize.”

Book raised the sword so that Azza could clearly see the blade, now. “You’ll see both sides are sharp. This is a double-edged sword, but not all are. Now, this is important. It may seem like common sense, but in the heat of battle you must always be mindful that your sword can be as dangerous to you as it is to your opponent. If we lock blades, you could surprise me with a burst of strength and shove the underside of my own blade into me, you see?”

The paladin paused for a moment, looking over the sword while considering what else to tell his student. What he had just taught her had been taught to him over the course of weeks, with countless drawings and verbal tests. It had seemed ridiculous at the time, and not much had changed – Marcus didn’t see the point in belaboring any of it.

“I know,” he said suddenly. “When you’re defending yourself with a sword, you must take care that you’re deflecting your enemy’s sword with the right part of the blade.”

The paladin pointed to the far end of the sword, near the tip. “This is the weak or foible, while the strong or the forte is here, from the middle of the blade to the hilt. If you deflect a blade or strike something hard with enough force on the weak of the blade, you may snap it.”

Marcus paused again, staring abstractly at his sword while rubbing his chin. After a long moment of this, he gently returned his sword to its sheath, and then laid it in the grass.

“You’ve heard of a pushup, yes?” he asked suddenly. Before she could answer, Book dropped to the grass and demonstrated an admirably choreographed pushup, with his hands equal to his shoulders and his spine parallel with the ground, his fingers splayed and hands turned slightly outward.

“Get used to pushups,” he said when he was finished, coming to rest on his knees. “For the rest of your life, you will do perfectly executed pushups every day until you can’t anymore. If you wake up and your arms and shoulders are not sore, you did not do as I asked the day before. Which I suppose is up to you, but you cannot use a sword without strength. An Akashiman will tell you grace is more important than strength – this is silliness and a lie. Grace is essential, but I have killed many men because they were not stronger than me – I shattered their swords, or broke their guards, or crushed their shields, or simply pushed them down.

“So you will be strong of arm and shoulder and core, and to do that you will do pushups every day until you die.”

The paladin stared intensely at his student for a long moment, his strange eyes shimmering like golden stars in deep brown voids, as if he could impress the truth of this statement on her merely by creeping her out.

It was easy to believe that for many people, he could.

When at last he relaxed again, he nodded at his discarded sword. “Good. Now, do you have questions for me about swords or pushups?”

[orphans]

The commanding tone used by Marcus had Azza’s confidence the entire time. Well… perhaps not the entire time, but she was intimidated enough to believe that her trainer knew where he was going. Then Marcus procured a training dummy, instantly striking Azza dumb with wonder as she watched the man hoist it onto his shoulders and carry it away. A number of monks did as well, but like her, they did nothing more than gape their mouth open.

When Marcus passed her the wooden training swords, she took the pair into her arms and followed behind him without question through another series of winding passages.

***
When at last the two entered another courtyard, this time more secluded, Azza felt the urge to explore for a while first. Marcus’s voice however, grounded her back to reality as he explained offhandedly that the area was “Magic,” something Azza didn’t quite understand either.

With little more than a passing glance at the lush green grass and various flowers scattered about (some of which she could name and others completely new) she focused her full attention to the man. It didn’t seem to be a good idea to cross a man of his strength and from the indent the dummy made in the grass, she could tell it must have been quite heavy. In comparison, he could easily toss Azza to the other side of the courtyard if he had wanted.

But when Marcus displayed a sword nearly the same height as Azza and began flatly with, “This is a sword,” the girl frowned. Of course she knew what a sword was! As well as axes, and maces. As Marcus continued his explanation however, Azza’s attention held.

Everything that left Marcus’s mouth had purpose; from the ways to kill a person with the pommel, to the individual sections of the blade and hilt. Most of what Marcus said though was basic knowledge to anyone who wielded a sword or served as a soldier. Even most adventures would have the basics ingrained in their head.

Azza on the other hand, amounted to none of those things. In her entire existence in Althanas, Corone specifically, she had never held a weapon whose sole purpose was to end another’s life. Thus, every word and detail Marcus gave the small girl, she absorbed.

Even when Marcus displayed the back of a single hand, Azza traced the scars, nearly able to picture how the deflection or parry went wrong. Eventually, he tapered off after indicating where a blade was strongest and weakest. In the time he spent staring at his own blade, Azza reviewed all she could in her mind.

She enjoyed his instruction about swords. It even felt familiar. Why it did she didn’t exactly know or have the chance to wonder, as Marcus abruptly changed subjects to… pushups?

Confusion etched into the girl’s face as she watched and listened to the lesson. It looked simple and strange at best. Had she ever attended a training session of the Ixian Knights, she would have understood and watched the soldiers do the same movements, but being the first time, she stared in disbelief.

That was until Marcus returned her stare, challenging her to question his reasoning and methods. Azza shrank down and lifted a hand to rub the back of her neck to ease the tension. It didn’t work.

At long last, Marcus let up his gaze and offered himself to questioning.

Immediately, Azza opened her mouth to ask one, but only inhaled some air and closed her lips. With so much raw information still swirling in her young mind, she needed time to process it. Even so, she eked out, “What should I do now?”

“Begin with a pushup,” was the simple reply.

Had it been anyone else familiar to Azza, she would have protested. It seemed ridiculous and silly to the girl and she was about to tell Marcus so, except the image of him nearly cleaving her in two upon their first meeting played before her eyes.

With an unhappy grumble, she placed herself in what she thought was the starting position. Marcus only shook his head. “Shoulders level, back straight, feet together! Go!”

Of course, Marcus didn’t expect the scrawny girl to manage even one for there were plenty of grown men who couldn’t manage a single pushup. In contrast, Marcus resembled a bear to Azza and had the strength to keep that image. Azza on the other hand, weighed less than a typical sack of Raiaeran potatoes, but possessed the strength of an average man, at least. Naturally, neither of them knew this fact.

But upon hearing the strict tone, Azza’s body snapped in place and then dropped down in a practically perfect imitation of Marcus before raising itself back up.

For a few minutes after, nothing happened until Marcus finally asked, “What are you doing?” He was surprised she had managed one and did it well, but after the novelty had worn away, he was befuddled by why the girl just remained motionless.

“I…” Azza began, but struggled with what words to use. “… don’t know?” With a hesitant smile, she turned her eyes up to Marcus, unable to tell if his expression was amusement or annoyance.

[Amen]

Marcus was impressed. He stared at the girl for a long moment, surprised at her, and the shock lingered longer than he cared to admit to himself. He had fully expected her to struggle with even one pushup, and he was already preparing to teach her to do it from the knees as most beginners needed to. Could he blame her for being dismissive of the lesson when strength training came naturally to her?

I don’t know why I’m surprised, he told himself. Why would I expect human normalcy to apply here?

“Again,” he ordered when the girl turned to look at him for instruction. There was authority in his voice, but one could hear the grin on his face too. He was pleased.

When she flawlessly executed another pushup and paused, Marcus started getting to his feet and said, “Again. And again and again. Keep doing them until I tell you to stop.”

He could tell Sophia was not pleased with her training thus far, but to her credit she did as she was told with a minimum of dramatic sighing. As she was completing her fifth consecutive pushup, Book bent down and retrieved the two wooden training swords. He considered their heft and balance, watching the girl out of the corner of his eye.

“Slow down,” he said around her fifteenth pushup. “Don’t let yourself get bored or lazy. Every pushup matters. All the way down. Don’t lock your elbows when you come up. Good.”

By twenty-five, the paladin’s attitude about the training process was much improved. As he watched the young teenager’s winged back effortlessly rise and fall, Marcus almost started to feel like this might even be fun. Here he had expected a horrible struggle, the hardening of a reed into a weapon. Now he realized this reed was a great deal sturdier than he could have imagined.

At twenty-nine he said, “Go to forty, then you may stop.”

She did as she was told, and then slid her knees under herself and sat up straight. Her breathing was changed, her cheeks very slightly flushed, but she was not exhausted.

“You’re stronger than a child,” Marcus told her, nodding his approval. “I have heard of things like this. I suppose I’ve even experienced something like it. A normal girl wouldn’t have been able to lift her weight as effortlessly as you do, but perhaps your muscles are denser than that of a normal human being. As I said when we first met, you’re not a normal girl.”

After a pause, Book worried that he’d troubled the girl and added, “For our purposes today, this is a good thing. To a degree anyway. No more pushups today, but my orders still stand. In fact, considering your strength compared to your weight, you’re going to have to do more to get the same benefit. At least one hundred, three times a day, every other day. And don’t shy away from using your strength whenever you have the opportunity. Carry heavy things. When you run, run as fast as your legs will carry you as far as they will carry you. Come now, on your feet.”

Azza again obeyed, and Marcus tossed her one of the wooden swords. Though startled, she caught it. It was not as ornate or finely crafted as a real sword – even the old standby her instructor used – but the basics were represented. It had a carven handle, a solid pommel, a cross-guard with its armed angled upward toward the blade, and a heavy, solid “blade” with dull edges and a crude point. She could even see where the craftsman had attempted to recreate the foible and forte phenomena, though they seemed superficial designs on a false sword.

Her practice sword was the shorter of the two, but she realized that her sword was proportionate to her own body. If she rested the tip of this sword in the grass, the pommel would come even with her chest, just as Marcus’ true sword stood in relation to him. Then it dawned on her that, fake or no, she was holding her first sword.

Marcus smiled at her, this time wide and genuine. “I remember that feeling. Scary, isn’t it?”

The paladin nodded vaguely, and his voice softened, “I didn’t think we would get this far so fast, but there’s no point in waiting. It’s clear you’re going to be dangerous when you’re grown if you want to be, but only if you want to be. Are you sure you want this?”

[orphans]

Never in her life had Azza felt her actions as pointless as of right now. Her body rose and fell with each pushup, listening to Marcus’s instructions to the period, for had she decided to fool around she was sure he’d yell at her. Azza didn’t want that.

When Marcus finally set a goal of forty, Azza nearly broke her rhythm to complete them faster. Surprisingly, she found a source of control within herself to finish in a controlled manner. Maybe it was because of how structured and rigid Marcus was being with her, or maybe it was because being ordered felt so familiar that Azza didn’t really mind. Either way, when she finished the fortieth pushup, she sat up with her legs beneath herself.

However, when Marcus laid out the expected regiment of exercise that she would most likely require in the future, Azza was surely the saddest girl in all of Althanas for the moment. She didn’t dare show her frown of displeasure though. Mother Holly didn’t like it when children pouted at something for their own good, and Azza figured Marcus was rather similar… except male.

Marcus’s words also distracted Azza as well. It was obvious that she wasn’t human, but his assessment of her abilities only confirmed that she was more than accelerating away from how a normal person would live. Though beginning to feel discouraged, despite her abilities, she stood up. Not expecting the wooden sword to be lobbed at her, she fumbled with it a moment before holding it still.

As she held the weapon in her hands while her eyes played over the individual parts, there was an inkling of familiarity within her young mind. A sudden mixture of exhilaration and wonder, but also fear, filtered into her limbs. Marcus said something and she looked up to see his smile.

It wasn’t the same as the forced smile from before. This one was warm, proud and true. It was the kind that characterized a person for who they really were and in that very instant, Azza let go of her judgments of the man. She could trust him without reservation now knowing full well had he any ill intentions, his smile would have betrayed him.

Azza had learned this well during her years of growing up in Underwood. Instinct, most would call it. What solidified her reasoning though, was when Marcus gave the option to back away; one last chance to retain her innocence of a world all too familiar in her trickling return of memories.

Turning her eyes down to the sword in her grasp briefly before looking back, she gave a nod without hesitance. “Yes. I’m sure I want to learn.”

“Very well.” Marcus then took a few steps back and then motioned for Azza to stand before the wooden dummy. “To start, I want to see how you swing. No need to use full force. Just enough to show me.”

Azza opened her mouth to say something, but then closed it before accepting the task. In truth, she felt a little silly swinging a wooden sword at a wooden dummy without having been instructed what proper form was, but she did it anyways, having fully committed herself.

Marcus watched the girl swing with both hands, making a clean connect with the blade’s weak half. Effective if the opponent was unarmored, but risked damaging the sword otherwise. “Keep swinging until I say stop.”

[Amen]

Marcus watched impartially as his student battered the training dummy. Each strike sent a sharp crack echoing from the stone walls of the courtyard, despite the fact that she was clearly not swinging as hard as she could be. Time stretched. The paladin didn’t move, or speak, and for Azza it must have seemed that an hour passed.

This was, of course, another test. Book suspected certain physical abilities came naturally to his new apprentice, perhaps even drove her, and he wanted to know the depth, scope, and limit of those abilities. In the end, he was impressed.

He had no method of measuring how much time passed, and did not care to guess. When the girl began to sweat and show signs of strain, Marcus felt that it was at a point not far short of where he, himself, would have begun to really feel such exertions. And she was a child yet. Given even modest physical advancement over time, he had little doubt she would surpass him before her twentieth birthday.

The briefest vision occurred to him then: this girl, full-grown, having taken his teachings to heart. Physically sturdy, steel-eyed, confident – a woman whose solid arms and shoulders would still conceal the full extent of her strength and endurance, a consummate she-warrior with tremendous wings and gracefully curved horns. Marcus visibly shifted his weight, suddenly uncomfortable with a wash of mixed feelings: pleasure that he would have a hand in the formation of such a creature, and the old niggling concern that he might come to regret it. Was she destined to be an avenging angel, as her wings suggested, or an unstoppable conqueror as so many that shared her horns?

Wait and see, he told himself.

“Stop,” he said out loud.

The girl stepped away from the dummy and turned to look at him, her cheeks flushed and her breathing heavy. He nodded his approval. “Very good,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong with the way you’re swinging, and you’re maneuvering the blade properly at each angle. But there are easy ways to improve the strength behind your swing, and to prevent your opponent from detecting the strike before it happens, countering it, or attacking you during an opening. Some will say the goal of any fight is to survive it.”

Marcus hoisted up his own wooden sword. He held the weapon overhead with both hands, with the tip pointed back. “This is the roof stance,” he said. “There are other stances, but in my experience this is the most essential. I want you to learn it, and know it well before you make use of the other stances. Look at my feet.”

She did, and saw that his left foot was forward, the right back and turned outward. “This is important too,” he said. “Watch.”

Now the paladin approached the training dummy, and then reassumed his stance. He swung and snapped forward in one swift motion, and it seemed his entire body went into bringing the sword down directly on the dummy’s head with a sharp slap of wood on wood. Immediately after landing the blow, Marcus’ arms flew up and he returned to his default stance before repeating the attack twice more, landing blows on the dummy’s right shoulder and left arm, respectively. She also noted that he was landing the blow on what he had called the “weak” portion of the sword.

“Strike first, strike fast, and don’t stop,” he said, “but don’t swing wildly. Always control your blade and your stance, and always return to your guard before launching another attack. But you must do so quickly, lest your opponent push against your balance and gain momentum against you. Put him on the defensive, overwhelm him with strength, speed, and skill, and crush him quickly. Give him no time to think, breathe, attack, and preferably prevent him even from mounting a decent defense. The goal is to survive, yes, but you are safest when your enemies are dead.”

Marcus once again lifted his sword, and returned to the roof stance. “Watch closely, I’ll do it slow, one piece at a time.”

First, he brought his arms very slowly down toward the dummy. “Lead smoothly with your arms,” he instructed as he did this. “Let the weight of the blade serve you. That’s part of the benefit to this stance: gravity is on your side and the blade has great potential for speed and power when coming down from on high.”

Next, he stepped toward the dummy as the blade was coming slowly down. Azza would realize that he had been stepping toward the dummy with each of his actual attacks, but the motion had been so smooth, so fast, and so integrated into the swing that it was barely detectable – when done properly, the step gave the illusion that his power and reach were greater than they were. “Always move your body with your swing. There are many reasons to do this, too many to make it worth listing them. It does not have to be forward. Swing while retreating to create distance and discourage an attack, or step to the right or left to position yourself for a follow-up, perhaps a strike on your opponent’s extended arms after a counter-attack. But always keep moving. Try to only take one step at a time, maintain your stance, if only for balance’s sake.”

Finally, as he brought the blade down, he nodded toward his hands. “Watch closely, this is subtle but important,” he said. Indeed, as the blade came down, Azza saw that Marcus was pulling up on the pommel with his left hand and pushing down on the upper half of the hilt with his dominant hand. This leverage, of course, ultimately caused the tip of the blade to drop.

“It will take practice,” he said, “but eventually you will learn to do this automatically with every swing, and balance the leveraging of your hilt against the force of your swing.”

Once again, the paladin stepped away from the dummy, and then repeated his strikes at full speed and force. This time, Azza could clearly see the individual, nearly-invisible parts that made up what, on the surface, seemed a simple attack. After three harsh cracks, Marcus stepped away from the dummy again. “Now you,” he said amiably.

[orphans]

Survival. The word echoed in the young girl’s head as she observed her teacher and gripped onto everything that he said. Yet, the more she watched him, the more her body twitched in reaction to imitate him. What he did, and what he said were all something that she could remember someone else showing her as well.

The final crack of wood sword on wooden dummy from Marcus sparked something in Azza’s mind as she watched. She could see briefly the face of another upon his as he turned to offer Azza the chance to practice on the dummy.

As she took each step towards the dummy, she could hear another voice echoing in her own mind. You have enough strength, that’s for sure. But you lack grace, again! Standing before the wooden target, she thought of how to start and began reviewing all that Marcus had told and shown.

Bringing her arms up in a roof guard, she observed to keep her dominant right hand near the sword’s cross-guard and her weaker left above the pommel. Mimicking Marcus, she kept her right foot back and looked to the dummy. Nothing felt awkward, from the way she stood to the way her arms were held. It all felt strangely natural, as if it were second nature already.

We’ll need something sturdier for you to use. Besides, excellent shock value against enemies to see one of their own cleaved in two. At the mental trigger, Azza swept her right foot forward while executing a downwards stroke. Without thinking, her left hand pulled up while her right forced down, dropping the wooden blade into the dummy with a sharp crack.

Well done. Returning to how the stance began, she looked to Marcus a bit quizzically. “Well done,” was the reply that Marcus gave. “Practice the strike a few more times.” Again, and again, Azza struck the dummy as Marcus watched. “Loosen you shoulders and you can bring your foot back a bit more.”

Azza did as she was asked and struck again, hearing the improvements in the strike through another resounding crack. She continued to practice until Marcus told her to rest, seeing that her breathing was becoming more and more labored. Truth be told, her mouth felt a bit dry as well, tempting her to wander in search of water.

Using a forearm to wipe at the sweat on her forehead proved to be difficult, her horns impeding her slightly. She managed though as she returned her attention to Marcus. It was hard to tell how long he had been instructing her, as the false sky overhead continued to shine brightly.

Yet this entire time, a question had been bothering the small girl and though it wasn’t too important, she felt the need to ask her trainer. “Marcus, why did you learn to use a sword?”

It was obvious that he had had much practice and from the scars on his hand, she could only guess that his armor hid more upon his body. But he was a kind man. At least, that was what she could tell from her short time being with him. Why would he need such an art?

Balance, her mind echoed. For as long as there are those who would do harm to others with the sword, there must be those who protect others with the sword. Azza chased the voice away and focused on the person before herself. She wanted to know his answer, not a memory's.

[Amen]

The sharp crack of wood striking wood filled the courtyard, punctuations on the continuous sound of water bubbling in the wall-mounted fountains. Marcus stood aside, holding the wooden training sword loosely in his right hand, and the tip was resting in the grass. He felt like a man in the midst of some grand natural phenomenon, like a woodsman standing by as a tornado uprooted a forest, or a sailor witnessing a distant maelstrom. Sophia was settling into stances and habits with superhuman ease, developing techniques in minutes that normally demanded weeks of constant repetition.

Every so often he would toss advice into that whirlwind of development like a seed, and watch it burst into a tree of skill over the course of scant minutes. Marcus reflected on his own education in the martial arts: he had been chosen to participate in an advanced class, among the best of the best of those his age in the already-selective Brotherhood. He had been told it came naturally to him, but it had taken him weeks of constant practice before leveraging the hilt became an intrinsic part of every swing. And how hard it had been to ensure that he was striking with the blade, or to use his entire body instead of just his arms and shoulders – his student had none of these limitations.

Book would have been intimidated by “Sophia’s” rapid development if not for the fact that she was surely still mortal: she was exhausting herself. It took a moment of consideration for the paladin to realize that any other girl her age would have been exhausted after three or four swings, even of a wooden weapon.

“Take a moment,” Marcus said. “Catch your breath.”

The girl stepped away from the training dummy and let the tip of her weapon drop, and then stood straight and let herself breathe. She was in the process of working around her horns to wipe beads of sweat from her forehead when she suddenly turned to her teacher, her face flushed with exertion and scrunched with curiosity. “Marcus,” she said, “why did you learn to use a sword?”

The young paladin was caught off-guard, and for a moment it showed on his face. In that moment Azza would realize that Marcus was only perhaps a little more than a decade older than she, and perchance ten years is not long at all. He cleared his throat and lowered his eyebrows, and instead of immediately answering he pointed at the nearest fountain. “You should get a drink,” he said.

As the girl obediently went to the gurgling fountain, Marcus thrust the end of his training sword into the grass so that it stood upright on its own. He retrieved his true sword from the grass and strapped it to his back as he followed his student to the fountain. As he approached, she was splashing cool water on her face and washing away the heat, color, and sweat from the skin of her face. He leaned on the stone lip of the fountain with one hand, and used the other to scoop a few mouthfuls of water to his lips in rapid succession.

Finally he paused, an answer at last occurring to him: “I didn’t have a choice,” he said, and it seemed as much a revelation to him as it was to her. “I’ve belonged to my order since before I can remember, they raised me, and they decided I would learn how to fight because they figured I would be good at it. I didn’t ask for it, it was just given to me, and I never really questioned it.”

There was a long moment of silence, which Marcus used to get another drink and contemplate his own answer. Wide-eyed and cautious, her voice a little softer now, Sophia ventured to speak again. “What if you had been given a choice?”

Book was not surprised this time, but the question clearly inspired as deep a thought in him as the first had. After another long silence he said, “I would have chosen the sword.”

He suddenly grinned wide, and then chuckled darkly, shaking his head. “I suppose none of us really have a choice, eh? It’s probably decided before we’re born. There are violent people and there are peaceful people, all the way down to the smallest child, and I am a violent person. And if the way you’re picking this up is any indication, so are you. I guess the only choice we really have is who we’re going to hurt.”

“Balance,” the girl muttered thoughtfully.

Marcus nodded his agreement. “Balance. Like rabbits, dogs, and bears.”

Sophia seemed startled at his response, and Marcus assumed it was because she didn’t think he had overheard her. How could he know how keenly he echoed the past?

“Which are you?” she asked.

Marcus smiled. “I prefer to hunt the hunters,” he said, but his smile began to fade and he looked away from Azza and toward the fountain. “Try not to be idealistic, though. Nature is not kind. Sometimes a bear eats a rabbit, even if he prefers dogs.”


***

Ten minutes later, they were back in the middle of the courtyard. The conversation had, thankfully, turned to lighter subjects and the pair felt a little less socially awkward than they had previously. “Now, if you’ve finally exhausted every possible question in the common tongue,” Marcus teased, “perhaps you’d like to learn a bit more, Rabbit.”

“I don’t think I like that nickname,” Azza muttered.

Book ignored her.

“I know I said the other stances would wait but, well, you’re catching on faster than I thought you would. There’s no reason to hold off,” he said.

And he was right. In less than a half an hour, Azza was demonstrating proficient strikes from what Marcus taught her was the ox guard. And next came the plow stance, and the fool came after that. It was not long at all before she stood before the training dummy, switching stances on command and striking as Book ordered her.

And then the next step became unavoidable.

“Alright,” he said. “Enough with the dummy. Come here.”

He stepped out into the grassy courtyard and pointed at a spot directly in front of himself. Azza obeyed, though not without a curious quirk of her eyebrow. “Roof stance,” he commanded. She obeyed without question. “Now hit me,” he said. She hesitated. “Hit me!”

So she did, and Marcus caught the blow horizontally with his own training sword. “Good! Again!”

When the girl was finally comfortable with taking swings at a person rather than a dummy, the exercise changed. Without warning, Marcus took a swing at his student from the roof stance. She reacted without knowing she was capable of it, and it wasn’t until an instant after their swords interlocked that the girl felt a thrill – danger, and the excitement of having diverted it.

“Good!” Marcus said. “Now pay attention to what you did. I attacked from the roof, you displaced horizontally from the ox. You could have done it from the roof as well, but remember that your sword would have had farther to travel if you did it from the fool or plow. That doesn’t make them worse, just take it into account – it also means if you’re in the plow stance, your opponent is more likely to attack from the roof or ox. You can use this to guide or control the combat. For example: if your opponent is stronger than you are but doesn’t have as much endurance, force him into the plow stance so he has to repeatedly lift his sword, and to deny him the extra power of the roof stance.”

The game changed then, and became more challenging for both of them. Though Marcus initiated his attacks in slow motion, there was a lesson to go with every parry, every dodge, and every counter-attack. And this became all the more complicated when the teacher surprised the student by sliding the length of his “blade” along the length of hers to stab toward her head, forcing her to lean out of the way. He grinned wide, and the lessons began anew, one after another at a breakneck pace.

It was overwhelming, but what Azza couldn’t possibly realize was that they had ventured into the territory of advanced swordplay. These were lessons Marcus had been taught multiple years after first learning the roof stance, and the girl was snapping them up with incredible poise. Were she a dancer, the prima donna would be sweating. Perhaps six hours ago, Azza couldn’t have known a pommel from a parry.

“Hold,” Marcus panted at last, and he sheathed the top few inches of his sword in the grass again, leaving it standing upright. Now they were both flushed and sweating.

Without speaking a word, the pair returned to the fountain to drink. Less dainty than his student, Marcus cooled his face and head by simply thrusting it down into the once-pristine waters. But then, he didn’t have a pair of horns to get caught on the fountain’s bowl.

When he came up again, and as he shook and rubbed the excess water from his scalp, he turned to his student. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the lip of the fountain, tilting his head curiously as he spoke. “I’ve told myself it’s none of my business, but what’s making you learn all of this? Clearly you were meant to, but why?”

[orphans]

There was more hidden within every lesson than Marcus could have known. Not only did each moment and movement teach the girl how to defend or attack, but they reinforced themselves with a similar memory from another time. She couldn’t make sense of any of them during this time, however. Her focus was entirely on dodging, blocking, and returning each blow as best she could and although it was frightening, it was exhilarating all at the same time.

It was a feeling that the girl had nearly forgotten and perhaps, should have, had the hand of fate not been guided. Azza couldn’t decide if she enjoyed it though, as she followed Marcus to the fountain. Resting her training blade on the side of the fountain, she scooped water up with both hands and drank eagerly.

Azza stopped though when Marcus returned her question. It was something she had expected. Nevertheless, she didn’t have an answer ready for him. Instead, she stared at her imperfect reflection in the rippling waters of the fountain for a long while. “I’ve always been protected by those who care for me. But, I want to protect them as well…” Her voice drifted though as she carefully lifted a tiny puddle between her hands, letting the water settle so that she could see the reflection clearly. “At least… that’s what I keep telling myself. Honestly though? I don’t even know what I am.” Sipping the water down, she pushed off the marbled edge of the fountain and stretched her arms and wings.

“You believe this will help you discover what you are?” Skepticism was dancing on the tip of Marcus’s tongue and had curiosity not gotten the better of him, would have allowed it to be shown.

“I don’t know.” Azza’s response bothered both of them. Azza because she wasn’t sure if this was the right thing, and Marcus because it made him wonder about which side of the scale the girl would end up on. It was unnerving to both in different ways. “But, I’ve been remembering things ever since I picked up this sword.”

There was a fond smile now as Azza picked up her training sword once more. “I can almost remember using something like this daily, even though I know I never have in my life. It’s… strange.”

The next question that Marcus rolled upon her was one she would have never imaged. “Would you care to show?”

Alarm appeared in Azza’s eyes as well as uncertainty. “What do you mean?”

“From what I can see, you respond quickly and everything I’ve taught you, you already have a solid grasp of. Now, you need practice and the best practice comes from sparring.” Without saying another word, Marcus made for the wooden blade he had left sticking in the grass.

Azza was speechless after that. She felt that she should have declined. On the other hand, her blood rushed at the opportunity to have her teacher no longer hold back. Well, hold back as much. She knew full well had Marcus actually wanted he would be able to floor her rather easily as his experience far outweighed her own at this point and perhaps, always will.

Even so, Azza followed and raised her sword into a roof guard as Marcus plucked his sword from the ground. Marcus then eyed the girl for a moment, and lowered his sword into a plow stance.

Azza froze up, unsure how to respond. Didn’t he teach her that it was more advantages for her if her opponent was placed in such a position? But in that brief moment, Marcus saw her hesitance and closed his blade in, forcing Azza try and lock swords instead of swing down to deter him.

Practice was becoming chillingly more realistic to her now and that excited her.

[Amen]

This took Marcus back.

Their mock fight was that of students: evenly paced, relatively calm. It was a strategic game that could be played without desperation or the threat of injury and death. It was as it should be, and as it was when the young paladin first learned. He could see the focus and steady stream of realizations in Sophia’s eyes, and it reminded him of his early sparring partners. And it reminded him of himself in those days.

It was, for him, a refresher for the basics and a chance to reaffirm his understanding of the art. As his student considered the next best course of action, Marcus predicted what she would choose and why she did, or why another choice would have been better. He did not verbally instruct her, however – when she chose poorly, he showed her why with a deft maneuver. There was never any question, just the silent expectation that she try it again until he could not find a mistake to capitalize upon.

As they sparred, Book’s mind considered the events of the day after Azza’s most recent revelation, which he could not dismiss as the poetic dressing of a simpler fact. In one way or another, she was made for swordplay. The most basic possibility was that the art was part of her genetic memory – that whatever she was, they were born knowing how to fight, just as a cat is born knowing how to scratch. The answer could have been mystical as well: was she burdened with the actual memories of another being? Were her unique physical features the outward manifestation of some otherworldly possession?

It was impossible to know, and these were not Marcus’ puzzles. Indeed, he had his own, but he could not deny that his troubles were mirrored by hers. Like his Sophia, Marcus was seemingly born with compulsions and understandings beyond his ken – and they were troubling.

Furthermore, the mere act of training this mysterious horned child, and his consideration of what he had a hand in turning loose on the world, and the strange urge to take her troubles and mysteries upon himself to solve all gave him a new perspective on the mission that set these events in motion. Sophia herself had mentioned family, the urge to protect those around her, and like Marcus she could not know that her words and actions had broader implications.

Imagine if this were your daughter, and not merely a student. Imagine the responsibility, the fear…there’s so much I don’t know about...

He was on the verge of an epiphany, which was promptly shattered when Sophia’s sword very nearly shattered the bridge of his nose. Marcus whipped his head away and to the side, narrowly avoiding the attack and dancing away from his student. Azza stared at him wide-eyed, surprised at herself and clearly concerned she’d done something wrong.

Marcus laughed. “Good!” he said. “More than I expected. I shouldn’t have my head in the clouds. Again!”

For a short while after, the student was hesitant to push the offensive. Book discouraged this by pushing her, attacking faster, beating away her training sword with force so that she soon had no choice but to push a new offensive to keep him too busy to harry her. This time, the teacher did not let his mind wander – though he remained troubled with unanswered questions and unrealized revelations.

Sophia was growing tired, but Marcus would not allow her to slow or relent. Though the sky above was unchanging, his exhaustion spoke of the hours they’d spent training, and he knew the day was coming to an end. He wanted to push his student to her limits before she slept – to frustrate her as he had been frustrated at her age, so that she fell to sleep in the midst of mental spars and dreamed strategy, and woke fresh and eager to test her subconscious stratagems in the morning.

He had been a kind tutor thus far; liberal with his breaks and pauses. He did not know if Sophia would beg for respite, but he intended to push her as close to that limit as he could find. Every other offense was met with a slow counterattack at first, and then every offense, and then – in time – Marcus began making a concentrated effort to defeat his student at her own pace.

Soon, he began tapping the flat of his wooden blade against her limbs to signify a failure. “You just lost that arm,” he said the first time. He did not need to say what it meant when his training blade grazed her calf, or when he brought the guard of his sword to within inches of her throat. And he could see her frustration mounting. He began to doubt his new, unkind method, but did not back away from it: she needed to be challenged now, not when the swords were metal and her life was on the line.

Better hurt and frustrated than dead.

Then the unexpected began to happen, though the paladin would later wonder why he had been so surprised. He raised the bar, and she rose to meet it. He hewed down from the roof guard, and rather than deflecting his strike she danced to the side, adopted the plow, and lifted her blade so that it bounced off of his extended forearm.

She smiled wide, showing teeth. “You just lost that arm,” she said between panting breaths, and loose strands of her hair clung to the moist skin of her flushed cheeks and forehead.

Marcus smiled fiercely and nodded his approval. “That is a student of mine. Perhaps we’ll make a bear of you yet, Rabbit. Again!”

He asked a lot of her, and he could see it on her face, but she would not back down from it. Now the game was progressing into something more serious, and Marcus once again remembered old training sessions with his sparring partners, years after they began. Now their teachers would play them off one another, praising one at just the right moment to foster jealousy in the other, or wondering out loud if some small victory were a fluke to encourage improvement. Book was not so manipulative, but the effect here was similar: Sophia was exhausted, pushed to her limit, and felt the need to repeat her victory against a much more challenging opponent.

But the lesson did not call for encouragement.

Now, every other crack of wood on wood was punctuated by a tap to one of the girl’s limbs, or a jab to her stomach. Twice he threw his bulk against her so that she fell backward to the grass, but he did not let her rest there. Soon she was wincing as the wooden edge of the sword rapped her shinbones, and scowling her frustration with every creative twist of the blade that brought it gliding along her upper arms or shoulders even from a close lock.

This time he was prepared when the moment came. Sophia took a deep breath, her eyebrows lowered, and her eyes took in every detail of her master’s stance. He came from the ox guard, but shifted to the roof even as he stepped in for a strike. Azza’s blade met his high, turned horizontally until she danced to the side in one deft, graceful step, putting her in the perfect position to stab toward her teacher’s face. Once again he snapped his head to the side to dodge the incoming blade, and slid himself back to reassess.

But the girl had momentum.

She followed him, snapping a quick attack up from the plow, which he battered away with a wide grin. He was amused, pleased with her intent and focused offensive. Her attacks came in a flurry, a systematic string of every successful strategy she’d employed thus far. Marcus would have nodded his approval: she was using what she knew would work, a review of her successes that displayed an uncanny ability to remember.

What he didn’t realize is that this was a ploy.

In the midst of showing off what Marcus knew she could do, she quite suddenly – almost reflexively – locked her master’s sword low and entangled the guards, and then pulled. The tip of his training blade sank in the grass, rooting it there, and then Azza brought her blade up in a deadly arc toward Book’s face.

Between a sparring pair of equal skill, it should have resulted in a minor injury, a bloodied nose at worst. But Azza was a creature unaware of her own latent abilities and deadly creativity, and Marcus Book was a paladin with thousands of hours of muscle memory born of constant repetition. The threat was suddenly real, unexpected, and uncontrolled, and in an instinctive and instantaneous panic, Book yanked the tip of his sword from the grass and snapped his pommel into his aggressor’s face.

The girl reacted swiftly, turning her face away from the oncoming blow.

Instead, she was struck in the temple.

Lights exploded from the corners of her vision, and then the dark closed in.

***

Shit, shit, shit!

“Open your eyes,” Marcus said, hating the fear in his own voice.

A thin line of blood ran from Sophia’s hairline, zigzagging between the beads of sweat on her cheek. Her eyes were lightly closed, just as if she was asleep, but the depth of her unconsciousness did not bode well. The paladin had seen his fair share of head injuries and knew their seriousness. A mild injury should have only stunned her for seconds, a half-minute at most: she would have been blinking, insensible and confused but responsive.

He remembered the way her head had snapped backward and groaned. This was not a mild injury. If she remained out for more than five minutes, she might never wake up, or wake up with no memory, or be a fool for the rest of her short life. Rage boiled in his chest, a primal fury with no outlet. Marcus Book, damned fool and child-killer. Why had he thought himself responsible enough for this?

“Wake up!” he roared toward the unchanging sky, so that the force of his own voice ripped at his throat and lungs.

Out of the corner of his eye gleamed a light, and he realized all at once that it was the tattoos of his left arm, burning with the power of the Light that flowed through him.

“Oh,” he moaned. “Oh!”

Of course, you idiot!

He took a calming breath, and pressed his hands gently against the girl’s head. The familiar energy flowed through him and into her – the energy that would have destroyed her had she been a monster, the energy that would undo the anathema of harm he’d done to an innocent girl.

She didn’t wake up. The blood didn’t stop flowing. It was as if the Light rolled through her and then back into him, seeing nothing in her to consume. At once, he was powerless again.

And losing time.

His mind worked furiously, clouded by fear and self-loathing. Then, at last, he remembered where he was.

“Hold on, Rabbit,” he growled, gathering her small body up in his arms.
He carried his student from the courtyard, feeling unworthy of that delicate and precious cargo, and kicked the door open so violently that it left its hinges. The training dummy stood alone in the grass, surrounded by the soothing gurgle of the fountains and the fading sounds of Marcus Book screaming for help. Before it were two wooden training swords abandoned side-by-side in the grass. That is how the room would look until the end of time.

Neither Marcus Book nor Azza-called-Sophia would ever enter that room again.

[orphans]

It hurt to move. Every muscle felt sore and yet, they screamed at her to do something, anything. Murmured voices drifted about Azza, ringing and slipping in and out of comprehension. Gradually, she could make out words and after an agonizing effort, string them together. Male voices.

“… this has never happened before.”

“What can we do?”

What had never happened before? Confusion riddled the small girl’s mind as she pushed her body up with an arm. Nothing felt broken, just a dull aching and a rather painful throbbing in her head. “That’s right… I was sparring with… Marcus.” The thought drifted then clung to her. At once, she snapped her eyes open and looked about the room she was in.

It was a dimly lit room with a row of three small beds, an aged wooden desk and an equally ancient table. Two men in Ai’Brone robes had their backs turned to her, unaware of her stirring as they mumbled to each other, pointing at the various books, tomes and herbs that lay on the table before them.

“Confounded! Everything we’ve tried hasn’t worked.” One of the robed monks threw back his hood and scratched at his bald head furiously, as if the violent massage would help him think better.

“Easy, young one.” The voice was older, calm, but showed a weariness of age. He lowered his hood as well and rubbed gingerly at the back of his neck. “We’ll keep looking until we can help her.”

Azza knew the beds beside her were empty, and figured they were talking about her. With a small push, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, a bit shakily, but up. At the sound of her movement, both monks turned with surprise pouring from their eyes. After their amazement had subsided, they only stared at her with uncertainty while Azza returned their stares with confusion. The younger of the two made a motion to speak, but Azza spilled the first words. “Was there something wrong with me?”

The younger monk choked up a bit as his voice clogged his throat. The older, saved him the trouble and waved for him to leave before saying softly, “I’ll explain to her. Please tell her guardian to wait a little longer.”

As the younger monk left and shut the door, Azza felt the need to run and escape. Someone had come for her. For how long she had been unconscious she didn’t know, but she knew that her training with Marcus had extended far beyond what she intended. So caught up in the moment and bliss of something familiar, she had forgotten those she was tied to. “Who’s here looking for me?”

Tiredly, the old monk motioned to the bed she had been using. Azza took a seat and the old man took one as well across from her on the empty bed. “A woman from Underwood. She comes here from time to time, but today, she was asking specifically about you.”

There was no more doubt in Azza’s mind. It had to be Mother Holly. Old Jacobs had probably cracked under pressure to the orphanage keeper, which Azza had expected. It had been foolish to think that she could return on time or before Mother Holly found out. The woman had a way of knowing when something was wrong or when she was being lied to. “I see…” was all that Azza could muster with what she had for strength.

Time stretched before the two before the old monk finally asked, “Were you satisfied with your training?”

Azza’s fingers and hand twitched reflexively as she thought back to the mock bout she had with Marcus and how much he had instructed her. While it was true that everything flowed back naturally, and that she was beginning to remember a much more violent past, she felt unsure. She had told the paladin that she wanted this to protect those close to her and to discover what she was. And while she had always known fighting to be dangerous, her heart faltered the memory of her opponent’s pommel closing in. Azza knew about the Citadel’s reputation of restorative might and being able to resurrect those that fell within its cloistered walls. She shuttered to think of what might have happened to her had she been elsewhere. But, was she satisfied with her training? “Yes... I am.”

The monk nodded her head. “Good.” Feeling that it was time to face the orphanage keeper finally, Azza stood up again and barely took a step when the monk spoke again, “One more thing, small one. I must warn you that you have a strange condition about you.” The monk motioned again, and Azza sat down once more.

“There, is something wrong with me isn’t there?”

The old monk shook his head. “No. Nothing is wrong with you. We of the Ai’Brone, however, were unable to treat your injuries with any of our magic. We were in the middle of preparing a medicinal drought for you when you awoke on your own. I fear, had you succumbed to your wound or died, we would not have been able to help you until too late.”

A sickly chill ran down Azza’s spine and her throat felt suddenly dry. In those simple few seconds, Azza realized that she could have very well died and stained the hands of an honest man with her blood. That she would have left behind her adoptive mother, father, and everyone that mattered. Her head become disoriented with what the old man told her while fear gripped the pits of her stomach at the single word forming, “Why?”

At the simple question, the old man seemed genuinely tired and miserable. His pride as a master healer for his entire life had been shaken for had Azza died, his sacred vows would seem all for naught. The answer he gave was barely above a whisper. “We don’t know.”


In time, the elder monk left the room so that Azza to wash up and change back to her normal clothing. He allowed the girl to keep her training garbs to remind her of her unique disadvantage going forth in life and as an apology. To Azza, it would be a source of motivation to improve so that she wouldn’t ever dance so close to death again.

When she was finally ready, she opened the door and found herself in the main lobby of the Citadel. There was no longer sun shining through the ornate windows high above. Instead, stars glimmered through the glass on a black veil while the moon hid out of sight.

Before the front gate, Mother Holly stood with the younger monk and elderly monk from before. At the sight of Azza approaching, the three stopped talking and walked her come closer. Guiltily, Azza looked up into the stern eyes of Mother Holly and expected an earful. But, after a few moment of ill silence, Holly knelt down and hugged Azza to herself.

Words between the two were not needed and the monks allowed them to stay in the embrace for as long as Holly saw fit as Azza was in no mood to complain. When finally Holly stood again, she turned to the elder monk and bowed to him. “Thank you Seamus, as always.”

The old man chuckled and waved for the two to be on their way. “Had it not been you who came, I would have told you to leave, Holly.”


After Azza and Holly left the great doors the two walked slowly down the steps. The chirping of crickets was only broken by the sound of their feet as they moved slowly towards a cart at the bottom of the stairs. Sitting sheepishly at the reins, Jacobs held them the lines in one hand while the other clasped a damp cloth over his head. Azza could just barely make out a small lump beneath it as she took a seat beside him. When Mother Holly climbed up and settled in, Jacob clicked his tongue and jingled the reins. As the horses pulled the cart at a slow trot, Azza turned to steal one last look at the Citadel, smiling to herself as she thought of the note she had left on the table.


To Marcus,

Thank you for everything.

Sophia

[Amen]

The girl was gone. Two monks had calmly taken her and disappeared into the indefinite depths of the Citadel. He had not told them that he’d been incapable of healing her, and now he wondered if he should have. What if the difference between telling them and not added up to precious seconds? What if she died, denied those seconds?

He had to tell himself to let it go and wait.

For the first few hours he paced, and then he sat in the hallway where he’d parted with Sophia. He sat with his back to the wall, staring at the wall opposite, and his mind wandered. The night went on somewhere, but Marcus Book was unaware of it. His eyes traced the grooves between bricks on that far wall, from floor to ceiling and back again.

Then morning came, and with it the Seer.

“Did she die?” he asked dully.

“Who?”

“The girl, Sophia. I gave her to your brothers to heal.”

“Sophia,” the Seer said thoughtfully. “As it happens, there is no one named Sophia under our care.”

Marcus sneered, annoyed at the Seer’s ignorance, and then his face relaxed and his eyes widened.

“No one under your care…she died, then.”

“No,” the old monk said carefully. “No one has died here in some time. Sophia, you say. It occurs to me that I found a note signed by a Sophia, but I am sure that I have not recently met anyone born with that name.”

Marcus accepted the note when it was offered to him, and his brow furrowed his confusion.

“You’re fucking with me,” the paladin said flatly.

“Yes,” the monk said cheerily. “But I did not lie.”

“Where is she?”

“Safe,” Seer said, sliding himself down next to Marcus with a pained grunt.

“There wasn’t a mark on her when she left, you’ll be happy to know, though we couldn’t do a thing about her injuries. Not a thing. She left smiling, a little older and a little wiser, but otherwise just the same as she arrived.”

Marcus grunted, examining the script on the note. An incredible weight left his shoulders, but now he felt…empty. Unsatisfied. Part of that was certainly tied to his emotional exhaustion, but he also felt that everything had begun and ended so abruptly.

He shook his head. “I don’t understand,” he said. “I feel like I brushed up against some mystery I didn’t know was there.”

“And now you just have questions,” the Seer said.

Marcus nodded.

“Content yourself that this was intended. You did what you were supposed to do.”

“Intended by whom?” Marcus said, raising an eyebrow.

Seer shrugged. “Perhaps I know and perhaps I don’t. I’m out of favors to ask of you, and that answer was not part of our original agreement.”

Book stared at the monk blankly for a moment, and then shook his head. “I assume you’re trying to infuriate me and sound wise at the same time. I’m too tired for it.”

Seer scoffed. “Too tired for anger? Not you. What you mean is, you’ve been given perspective and becoming angry at such a trivial thing no longer interests you. There are greater injustices in the world than being deceived by old madman. Greater accidents.”

“Like harming a child,” Marcus said.

“Exactly. But soon you will learn that there are greater injustices than that, too. You will do well to remember your own accident today when you meet her.”

Marcus snapped his head to the side to face the Seer, narrowing his eyes.

“You satisfied your end of the bargain,” the old monk said. “You taught the girl what she was meant to learn. I will satisfy my end, if you still wish to pursue this mission. Ask your question again.”

Marcus didn’t miss a beat: “Who is my mother? Where is she?”

Seer stared in silence for a moment.

“I could tell you her full name, but she forsook it when her husband died. Telling it to you would bring you no closer to meeting her. I must confess, the desire to…how did you put it? The desire to ‘fuck with you’ is overwhelming.”

“I will wring your neck.”

Seer chuckled softly. “Be at peace, friend. I keep my bargains. She is now known as Safia the Touched, a name which will also bring you no closer to her. What you must know is what her name was as a child: Safia of Dordeka.”

“I’ve never heard of Dordeka,” Marcus said.

“It’s not a place, but a people. A tribe, in fact. You are not likely to find mention of them outside of their homeland in Fallien.”

Book shifted, his mind reeling. “I guess I’m going to Fallien, then,” he said.

“Yes,” Seer said, grunting as he crawled back to his feet. “You are, and I do not envy what will begin for you there. But I suppose great lives are rarely easy ones.”

Marcus tilted his head, looking up at Seer and feeling very much lost, young, and alone. “What will happen to me there?”

“You’ll start to learn things about yourself, and things learned cannot be unlearned.”

Seer began to walk away.

“Like Sophia,” Marcus muttered.

“Yes,” Seer said without turning around or slowing his departure. “Like Sophia.”

[orphans]

Requested Spoils List-

For Azza:

Changes in Physical Appearances and Abilities:

Dovicarian Healing: Dovicarus cannot be healed by magic other than that from their race. Conversely, the Dovicarus must use a different spell if they wish to heal others not of their race. This means Azza cannot be healed by the majority of Althanas. Medicinal and natural herbs can assist in healing, as long as there are no magical components mixed into the potion/draught consumed.

At this point and time, Azza does not know how to use any magic that is specifically from her race.


Swordsmanship: The training session with Marcus has assisted the return of Azza’s former memories. They are far from complete, and at this point, Azza is average with her swordsmanship skill, with occasional spurs of inspired technique. These moments can be trigged by something her opponent says, her surroundings, or being injured in certain fashions.


Items Gained/Lost:

Set of Training Clothing: A set of loose fitting cotton trousers and a grey tunic with no sleeves. Upon returning back to Underwood, Azza has tailored the tunic (with the help of the orphanage keeper) so that the two holes on the back fit snuggly and won’t hinder her wings.

Azza has returned the coin pouch that “Jacobs” (Jakuts) gave to her.



For Marcus:

Items Gained/Lost:

"Sophia's" Note: A note that Azza wrote to Marcus. Says, "To Marcus, Thank you for everything. Sophia"

Misc. Spoils:
Anything else the Judge feels that might make sense to receive as we both had no idea what else... >_>

[Knave]

Alrighty, I think I've laid out the details fairly well >_> its a rat race, there is cheese at the end, good luck!

Plot Construction ~ 15/30

Story ~ 5/10 – In terms of structure, it was all there in varying degrees. The problems existed in, however, in every section of the story. In the opening posts, I was treated to a precious little concerning past events, though you both gave minor motivations. Though introductions are things that might be strewn throughout a thread. In terms of construction, there were touching moments strewn throughout the thread, but few of them particularly exciting in terms of events of thoughts. So between a pacing which at times dragged on, or towards the end rushed on to accommodate Azza’s “genetic memory” I feel like I’ve been robbed of time, not that the story was a waste, but those moments which were enjoyable passed too quickly toward the end. Things progressed by leaps and bounds, and I think it hurt you.

I suppose I ought to write it here, this is a slice of life story, and those stories seem to be driven not by the strength of the plot, but the strength of the character in terms of drama or humor or any other genre. Yet this was driven by plot, I knew that before the thread began, and so did you. This was a “Teach Azza to Fight” thread… I think that might be the name of the recruitment thread where this started. And though they are in separate categories, when it comes to some stories, especially slices of life, characterization is paramount when you don’t have explosions in the background to keep troglodytes like me happy.

Strategy ~ 6/10 – Did Book and Azza mesh for any kind of compelling character dynamic? Did the motivations of each have some narrative presence throughout? Did personal characteristics become the focus rather than the events around them? Was it truly appropriate for an emotional cripple kowtow to the indecision that made the rest of this thread possible, or contain his suspicion to that of a well-meaning father figure? Do Azza’s characteristics switch often from being along a spectrum of age between eight and fourteen?

I think that the motivations that placed the characters in the Citadel and the motivations which drove the characters were somewhat betrayed for a character relationship that wasn’t built on mistrust as I would normally think it would be.

Azza fled to the arena to attempt some semblance of normalcy, or that is what I gathered from the opening post, this seems to disappear for the more heroic, “I want to protect people.” I give Orphans the benefit of the doubt because he plays a child and might have more information on her background than personality, which is not to suggest mercy. Normalcy was a more real and palpable reason to be there than anything so noble as that for a little girl in a body too big with horns and wings and not a similar point of reference in sight.

Amen, your character reads like the goddamn batman or a space marine, and that is to mean that he seems to be built on zeal and instinct. I feel more critical here, the indecision after and while establishing him to be the blight upon the wounds that never heal and the scourge of every evil eye that dared to turn itself on the lands of men or man’s sun. Personality wise, as I read it, Marcus settles far too easily into being a “good” person with all the soft emotions and awkwardness that comes
with someone so out of practice. I like those parts, but you set aside Marcus’ driving motivations.

Setting ~ 4/10 – Full sum of setting can almost entirely be attributed to Amen, and that is likely because he gets there first and establishes the setting in a manner that I’d dare to call list like. Once the place has been made, it is usually to Amen that the setting continues to fall to in points of reference. Orphans, I’m looking at you, your style is so inundated with thoughts and feelings, and thoughts and feelings about Azza, that the outside world is really something other characters exist in and then imagine Azza into being along with them.

Setting is not simply your surroundings, but the sensations that they create; it might be the best possible source of inanimate personification possible.


The training dummy stood alone in the grass, surrounded by the soothing gurgle of the fountains and the fading sounds of Marcus Book screaming for help. Before it were two wooden training swords abandoned side-by-side in the grass. That is how the room would look until the end of time.

Amen, you tend to take your setting as something you can setup in the beginning, placing things here and there with what is usually an inorganic method. This single paragraph however is truly the most poignant paragraph you’ve written, and though I know the sadness implied is strictly a literary touch, I am almost moved.

Orphans, I’m disappointed, 40 push-ups. Now.

Characterisation ~ 15/30

Continuity ~ 4/10 – I’ve already laid out what I felt were inconsistencies and breaks from the… LITERARY SOUL OF CHARACTERISTIC MOTIVATIONS BORN FROM THE IMMATERIUM WE KNOW AS THE WORLD OF FORMS! (Graffiti: Diogenes was here, Plato is a loser.) This is where I talk about Althanas as a whole, and how your character’s exist within it: with very little mention of anything outside whichever room Marcus has decided to kick the door into. (Seriously, he cannot enter a room without doing that. Is he showing off? Is this another awkward touch? I like it, see more later.)

Pasts are supposed to come into play, a life and history born, but without extreme or powerful introductions, or a narrative voice which likes the sound of details, it’s going to fall short. Was canon invoked? In the curious backing away sort of fashion, perhaps. In essence, the background of the thread and how it related either to the character’s histories or Althanas history at large was like being in a house with little furniture and no windows. Give me a television, men, some background voice or Greek choir to fill in that which two people and a few NPCs can’t.

Interaction ~ 4/10 – Sweet, I’ve been waiting on this category for days. In terms of writing style in relation to surroundings, it’s like I’m watching a pair of introverts leading each other in circles. They both see what’s going on, they speak, but the possibly vast depth of any reaction is not expressed to the point where reaction is an internal thing when invoked. Azza hardly makes any gesture; I can just imagine her staring at Marcus with those huge eyes. Amen, you make the attempt once or twice to situate Marcus in a situation with some more human mannerisms.

Orphans, early on, you do a few things with Azza’s posture and physical reaction, that trend promptly declines to the point where Azza seems more physically alive in Amen’s hands. That’s not a statement of value, that’s an observation on your style choices in comparison to his. You both spend a LOT of time thinking, Marcus less so.

Watch 12 Angry Men, the both of you. It’s a movie about a group of people held hostage by the justice they came to give, and frustration abounds without excessive violence (violence being what I see most often in a written thread). A movie has the benefit over our medium because character’s gestures and intonations are filled in by a real person in that very moment. It’s not impossible, however, and I’d certainly like to see you do more. Look at the shoulders and hands, hear the voices, how would you reflect that into written form?

Character ~ 7/10 – Azza started out as the most darling thing, and me being a he-man among gods, I wouldn’t normally say that. Of course, then little Azza got older physically, but hardly changed at all inside, literally. There is some drama here that would have been particularly moving given all the side notes and details of what it would be like to this reincarnated angel. It’s hardly pushed however, the state of Azza’s mind is something the reader pieces together and the story never addresses, and while such clues are fine for the hunt they don’t help the story at hand until after the fact.

In terms of physical presence, Azza’s height is never addressed, and this should have been a prominent feature of a thread whose third mission was to assess the girl’s physical capabilities. All the other features are there where they matter, horns, wings, the hair gets no mention.

All these things combine to make a little girl who is somewhat childish. Her reactions to the voices of the past weren’t portrayed as being particularly strong, neither distracting for her, or particularly powerful in their own right to deserve characteristics beyond being only words.

Angst, anxiety, a question of being, these are things that Azza would be perfectly excused to feel. She’s a little girl, fourteen and still a little girl; this is schmuck bait for reducing people to tears. Instead, Azza comes off as just a bit more bland than the last I’d seen her.

Amen, you’ve managed to situate more of your narrative inside Book’s head while occasionally setting observations up that stand outside of the character. I do feel the character had to bend for all those fatherly moments, but I think you played those moments well, actually. Marcus is wonderfully awkward character here, and I’d have no complaints if you had slowed the transition by one more post. Heck, this might even apply to be a sort of hidden depth.


He supposed that was the nature of adulthood: the dimly sighted leading the blind, all the while professing mastery of life.

This is what keeps a character alive in their minds and the minds of others, not whether or not they are thinking, but that they are coming to new realizations as they do so, making connections rather than simple observation. Brief moments like this make Marcus Book a more endearing character than hearing what he likes or what he thinks.

Every once in a while, Marcus does something that is particularly extreme, and when no harm comes of it no big deal is made. He tells a little girl she’s going to hurt people, and when she does she’s going to only be able to choose who, this was good, but in terms of a narrative, I think it should have been touched. Otherwise between you and him, I sense some complicit agreement rather than an observation on the state of Marcus’ mind.

Writing Style ~ 21/30

Creativity ~ 6/10 – Between the two of you, I’d be wrong to assign labels, but then again, I am a judge, and with my manifold signs carried where I cannot see them, I come to judge my brothers.

Orphans, I’d dare to call your posts well written, but unambitious. I don’t see new things as I read from you. There was more that could have been done and said, and in terms of your grammatical setup, I found little varied. You’ve got a handle on the basics, and I suspect Microsoft Word is a handy tool when it suggests you make use of the semi-colon.

Amen seems to be experimenting with grammar and a style which has potential to burn and shine and make the soul moist. (Heraclitus was here; the Logos still makes no sense.) Amen’s best power here was that of description and characterization as he explores a side of his character I doubt he’d thought of before.

Mechanics ~ 7/10 – See the word “experimenting” up there? I wasn’t kidding. The EM Dash “—“ is a tool of divergence for either thought or narrative voice. It is not a means of eliminating words and commas. As lifted from the Wikipedia page, this is an excellent example:

At that age I once stabbed my best friend, Fred, with a pair of pinking shears in the base of the neck, enraged because he had been given the comprehensive sixty-four-crayon Crayola box—including the gold and silver crayons—and would not let me look closely at the box to see how Crayola had stabilized the built-in crayon sharpener under the tiers of crayons.

It’s a tool for clarity, but for setting asides for those details of thought, speech, or simply detail which break the direction of the sentence to wander or linger on something important.

I approve of your use of the colon, though I think you use it just a bit too often to a less than stellar extent.

Clarity ~ 8/10 – I was rarely obliged to reread any portion of the thread.

Wildcard: 4/10 — My heart remains stone, it does flutter with wonder or eroticism for that which I have poured my mind over. >_> Going back the Slice of Life thing, you guys need to step up the power of character when the plot is to a less impressive extent.

The Ultimate Total : D

55

The experience god grants Orphans: 528 points, and 200 gold! Azza is rich! =O
To Amen, from the annals of time are the records of growth and wealth extracted, data calculated grants thee: 484 experience and 321 gold for a job done!

I am not available for questions, the yellow AIM sign is not functional or a decent method of contacting me, my PM box is limited to one PM and that spot is taken is by the message I sent to myself to ensure no one could talk to me today. Some of what has been stated is a lie, enjoy them anyways.

All spoils approved, skills pending RoG approval.

[Knave]

There appears to be a mistake in the calculation I made. Major apologies, I must now adjust.

[Silence Sei]

GP-EXP Added.