Duffy
11-01-12, 07:08 PM
Oh Brother Where Art Thou? (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jsdCpqPs_UI)
2719
Closed to Enigmatic Immortal.
The First Tale in the Saga of Rediscovery, set after the Forgotten One Trilogy.
It had been too long since Duffy the bard and Jensen Ambrose the brawler had crossed paths. Sure, they had made men of one another plenty of times, but once a strong bond was formed between likeminded souls, it was impossible to break it. By all means, countless people had tried, but nobody had as of yet succeeded. It was a constant sore point to them both, that people just let them be, friends forever, and went about their lives.
With gods toppled, Forgotten Ones remembered, and then sent to oblivion once more, both heroes found themselves unrivalled, unbridled, and angry. The Citadel, given all both men had lost in search of freedom and love, was the natural stomping ground they found themselves drawn to. Against the behest of their peers and their loved ones, Duffy and Jensen took to arena. Here, they had fought in crystal worlds; decadent spires, and suffered each a thousand deaths to rival the greatest laments known to the civilisations of the world.
The fact that Duffy was unable to resist taking to the battlefield once more was not what unnerved him the most. The fact that he had felt obligated, composed, and without reason to decline was natural, he was, after all, always looking to prove himself. What irked him; however, were his blood brother’s natural gravitations towards Duffy to take out his frustrations. Family were never supposed to resort to using one another as punching bags.
“I guess I have a lot to answer for…” he sighed. A flock of birds, onyx ravens watchful of encroaching death fluttered by overhead.
He did, and the fact was undeniable. From debauchery to bravery, from sisterhood to sanctity, however way you cut the history between the two, Duffy was as much to blame for Jensen’s suffering as any other villain imaginable. The bard had, to date, asked his brother to die, sacrifice his allegiance, drink himself to death (an incident entirely out of Duffy’s control), and been unable to help Jensen in his hour of need – he had always thought the Immortal was furious for having sent Arden to his aid, instead of himself.
“There will be no looking back, though,” he added. The soft breeze danced through his messy locks, and the pallid sunlight, on its last legs, continued to shine down across the simple, level, and jade green lawn. It had been, until the last minute, an overgrown meadow. Duffy had changed his mind, called for simplicity in its purest form, and strode out onto the privet lawn one might imagine a fete being held on, or perhaps a game of bowels.
For the occasion, he wore nothing more exciting or protective than brown trousers, a non-regal white shirt, and two snake bite piercings. They were equidistant on his bottom lip, well dug in, and shone in the sunlight as if they were new fixtures on an old scorecard. He had grown used to them in his exile, but Jensen had yet to see them. On his right hip, held in place by a robust leather belt was the all too familiar sight of his daggers. Tooth and Nail had been neglected of late, and given their history of being thorns in Jensen’s side, Duffy felt it appropriate to wield them, over all the other trinkets of war he had collected through the years.
“I am ready for him, brothers,” he declared, resting on his cane to take the impatient pang of pain that tormented his right shin. His eyes, milky white discs of remorse glimmered as moisture rolled over the retina, and his heart began to beat erratically, as if expecting an altogether deadlier foe to roll in through the door with a laugh as loud as heaven’s fall.
As the daylight continued to dance over Duffy’s damaged eyesight, the warmth kindled a hope in the bard’s heart that kept him fixated to the spot. If he had not the courage, or the determination to solder their relationship with something longer lasting than blood and whiskey, he doubted he would be so brave, so foolish, and so wantonly longing for agony to have dared dwindle in the arena for a moment more than he had to. He clenched his right fist about the silver tip of his cane, and rested his left, a bloodied knuckle shaking with anticipation, against his left hip. The bone beneath his clothing protruded a sign of a forgotten health and a month spent drinking his numbness, his abyssal sorrow, and his lack of direction away.
2719
Closed to Enigmatic Immortal.
The First Tale in the Saga of Rediscovery, set after the Forgotten One Trilogy.
It had been too long since Duffy the bard and Jensen Ambrose the brawler had crossed paths. Sure, they had made men of one another plenty of times, but once a strong bond was formed between likeminded souls, it was impossible to break it. By all means, countless people had tried, but nobody had as of yet succeeded. It was a constant sore point to them both, that people just let them be, friends forever, and went about their lives.
With gods toppled, Forgotten Ones remembered, and then sent to oblivion once more, both heroes found themselves unrivalled, unbridled, and angry. The Citadel, given all both men had lost in search of freedom and love, was the natural stomping ground they found themselves drawn to. Against the behest of their peers and their loved ones, Duffy and Jensen took to arena. Here, they had fought in crystal worlds; decadent spires, and suffered each a thousand deaths to rival the greatest laments known to the civilisations of the world.
The fact that Duffy was unable to resist taking to the battlefield once more was not what unnerved him the most. The fact that he had felt obligated, composed, and without reason to decline was natural, he was, after all, always looking to prove himself. What irked him; however, were his blood brother’s natural gravitations towards Duffy to take out his frustrations. Family were never supposed to resort to using one another as punching bags.
“I guess I have a lot to answer for…” he sighed. A flock of birds, onyx ravens watchful of encroaching death fluttered by overhead.
He did, and the fact was undeniable. From debauchery to bravery, from sisterhood to sanctity, however way you cut the history between the two, Duffy was as much to blame for Jensen’s suffering as any other villain imaginable. The bard had, to date, asked his brother to die, sacrifice his allegiance, drink himself to death (an incident entirely out of Duffy’s control), and been unable to help Jensen in his hour of need – he had always thought the Immortal was furious for having sent Arden to his aid, instead of himself.
“There will be no looking back, though,” he added. The soft breeze danced through his messy locks, and the pallid sunlight, on its last legs, continued to shine down across the simple, level, and jade green lawn. It had been, until the last minute, an overgrown meadow. Duffy had changed his mind, called for simplicity in its purest form, and strode out onto the privet lawn one might imagine a fete being held on, or perhaps a game of bowels.
For the occasion, he wore nothing more exciting or protective than brown trousers, a non-regal white shirt, and two snake bite piercings. They were equidistant on his bottom lip, well dug in, and shone in the sunlight as if they were new fixtures on an old scorecard. He had grown used to them in his exile, but Jensen had yet to see them. On his right hip, held in place by a robust leather belt was the all too familiar sight of his daggers. Tooth and Nail had been neglected of late, and given their history of being thorns in Jensen’s side, Duffy felt it appropriate to wield them, over all the other trinkets of war he had collected through the years.
“I am ready for him, brothers,” he declared, resting on his cane to take the impatient pang of pain that tormented his right shin. His eyes, milky white discs of remorse glimmered as moisture rolled over the retina, and his heart began to beat erratically, as if expecting an altogether deadlier foe to roll in through the door with a laugh as loud as heaven’s fall.
As the daylight continued to dance over Duffy’s damaged eyesight, the warmth kindled a hope in the bard’s heart that kept him fixated to the spot. If he had not the courage, or the determination to solder their relationship with something longer lasting than blood and whiskey, he doubted he would be so brave, so foolish, and so wantonly longing for agony to have dared dwindle in the arena for a moment more than he had to. He clenched his right fist about the silver tip of his cane, and rested his left, a bloodied knuckle shaking with anticipation, against his left hip. The bone beneath his clothing protruded a sign of a forgotten health and a month spent drinking his numbness, his abyssal sorrow, and his lack of direction away.