Rust Shaker Short

[Tyr]

Rough splinters of aged wood exploded inward all over the tailored midsection of Tyr, leaving him in a stinging shower of faded paint chips and oak. He shook off all that was left of his shield from his protecting left wrist to sploosh into the soft sponge of dank underbrush left by centuries of season changes. Strong earthly aromas of mildew and rot spiraling eternally within stagnant forest air had been a dizzying tsunami to the senses, and he tried to push himself through steady hours of exhaustion since sunrise. Zegron had never been one to play easy on whom he had began to think Tyr as his son, and today was no different; he wanted him to follow in his footsteps of life after all, and become the warrior he himself had grown to be through hard work, sweat and blood. Tyr charged a lifetime depleting his lungs to a point of crippling emptiness voicing his desire not to follow in his path as a Ranger; he wanted his own path, his own... life. His pleas always slid off stubborn ears nevertheless. The grizzled old dwarf knew well the strings to pluck and his steely fortitude matched that of Tyr well; plus he quite enjoyed playing the infuriating puppet master, provoking Tyr to explode like a seething fissure.

That last underhanded horizontal slash barreling in from his left flank decimated his shield and bit hard into boiled leather and heated flesh with cold teeth of steel. Tyr nearly hit his knees from the chest-splitting blow, and hardly kept his feet as the quick reflexes of his benefactor sent forth another thundering attack; leaving him nay time to think about the warm slickness he felt rush behind battered tunic on down to the waistband of tattered forest dropped soiled black breeches. His sword rippled a dazzling splay through dappled sunlight, blazing an overhead downswing with all his weight behind it, intense brown eyes focusing sight to take his right arm off clean at the shoulder.

With the little strength left in his reserves, Tyr flipped sopping brown hair away from his eyes, and sent his own sword up to meet the menacing steel seeking out his blood once more with a weak cross-block. The wicked song of steel violently erupted, conducting an ear shattering crescendo to ricochet within the close-knit arena, an ancient array of solemn wooden witnesses surrounding and watching Tyr yet again fall at the hands of his dwarven counterpart from their eternal roots. He always thought if he listened closely enough, a rustling laughter was heard mocking in the substantial weave of branches and leaves.