[Storm Shrine] Duo (Wrenmae)

[Trente]

Trente lended nothing short of an utterly sardonic smile at the mention of Sunberth.

"I would bare the weight of sin to gut every thug in Sunberth if they stood in the way of my goals. Martial prowess composites essentially selfish skills into a rather blunt tool, even at the best of times. If I thought you selfless I would be a fool, and believe you one for taking a blade. You are here because you wish to be capable of murder should what you value be put in danger.

All I needed to assure is that I am not stealing your innocence like some common thief. You deserve to recognize the power you hold to destroy, so that you may properly direct your new found skills." Trente had no desire to sacrifice the integrity of the Association, though he wanted to assure that a certain xenophobic mentality filled them. It seemed ironic to him, then, the number of the Association that had come from Sunberth, taking sanctuary or perhaps preying upon Zeltiva from the inside, like a disease. Still, if Trente could showcase those willing to spill blood for Zeltiva, and witty enough not to bring disgrace to the Association then all would be well.

Some might think this goal rang sharply of Sunberthian logic. Trente knew otherwise. Sunberth was chaos, Trente was like his sword, a focused well sharpened blade. They would only cut what they needed to thrive, nothing more. He, in that moment, decided sophistication would be a new goal of the association. Yes, sophisticated warrior philosophers. Indeed, the young mutt was idealistic as one could be. He would learn.

"Fine then, let us begin with the tedious portion of our training. The rapier is a temperamental tool, it demands grace and wit from it's wielder. Develop a close and precise relationship with your blade and it will serve you with just that, precision. If you do not command your blade properly you will find it no more useful then a weight within your palm as you struggle to survive in combat.

So, let us see if your body has what it takes to finesse a proper Rapier. Balance; Discipline."

Trente was no master of his body, but he understood enough to keep quick feet at least in practice. And, how he was taught, on the deck of a ship, this skill was essential to all combat. Applicable or not, he would teach it.

"Draw your weapon." He demonstrated. "Point it toward the sea." Again he stood beside Wrenmae and pointed his blade outward to the sea. Without thinking he fell into his pose; leg crooked behind him, right foot out, all in a loose crouch. He delivered his upper body forward and back, loosening himself. assuring his weight fell on his legs properly, careful to keep foot flat to the ground for balance at all times.

"This is your battleground, Wrenmae. If you dominate this stance you will always have a strong upper hand above any novice you face. However, if you fail, your strikes will turn against you, your body will break under you and likely lead to critical inopportune injuries. So let your body learn properly, do not tolerate mistakes.

Set your dominate leg out like this, pivot toes straight toward your enemy. Good, now step back into your off leg. Pivot your off leg foot outward straight to your side, err on out rather than in. Farther than that, Wrenmae." He corrected. "Sink back so that three fourths of your weight rests on your crooked leg."

His eyes narrowed slightly before he straightened up and moved behind Wrenmae, keeping his blade far from threatening bu sheathing it. He rest a firm hand on Wrenmae's spine, encouraging it to tighten and remain straight then without paused reached down and shifted the man's back leg farther out so that it was placed in the proper spot. Trente was no master of teaching, and his words and demonstrations could only convey so much. He unabashedly used all of the modes of communication he could to teach this his pupil how to wield the sword with respect.

Following the touch to the crook of Wrenmae's leg he paused, letting Wrenmae a moment to grow accustomed to Trente's violation before reaching a hand up, still firm but not as harsh, and hooked it around Wrenmae's off side hip, using the touch to slowly guide his hips back, then down.

"You want your pelvis to float directly in the center of your pose, here, and rest down so that you have a proper crook in your off leg... good, that is it. Now, the Rapier is a proud weapon. You must keep your head high when wielding it." Holding his hip in place he took the hand still pressed rigidly against Wrenmae's back and moved it under Wrenmae's chin, guiding with with very light pressure of gloved hands. "Back, with a straight neck, so that you can imagine a perfectly straight line from off foot to the crown of your head." His words came less demanding as he focused on adjusting Wrenmae into the perfect spot.

With a run of touch from Wrenmae's jaw to his shoulder Trente continued, calm now that the stance was falling into place. "Don't square your shoulders, this is no battle axe. Let your shoulders mimic your hips." He let Wrenmae move his own shoulders, and told him when to stop. "Good, that feels better, now the arm." Touch streaming down his forward arm Trente encourages it up with a light touch of only several fingers, the weight of the blade rising at Wrenmae's discretion.

"Let your arm run down along your side, then the outer arm straight out. Relax, let your elbow some room to move in front of your chest." He coaxed the elbow into position, then removed his hand from Wrenmae's hip, certain at this point he could hold the comfortable pose.

"Your off hand." He brought the his own hand up to Wrenmae's off hand and pressed his palm against Wrenmae's, "Don't clench your fist, relax." He fed Wrenmae's arm out till it ran properly along side the forward arm.

Both arms run from behind Wrenmae, around Wrenmae, to each of his own Trente looked him over, pressed in his chest momentarily to Wrenmae's back as he looked over Wrenmae's front. Into his ear, speaking softer so as not to shout commands into his ear Trente commented, "This is not a club, and you need not brandish it as one. Finesse is required with the Rapier. Loop your pointing finger up around the next rung of metal. The ornaments are there for a reason. This will weaken your cuts, but your thrusts are what matter. It offers more finite control of your blade. Perfect." Indeed Wrenmae took easily enough to the bodily control it took to wield the rapier. He would be a lithe student, and with luck a witty study.

oocAhem, so, I figured out why Trente got so sick...

[Wrenmae]

Whoa! Whoa! Stranger Danger! Stranger Danger!

What the shyke are you yelling about? He can't touch you.

But what if he could? Ever consider that?

Yes. Briefly. I'm sure he'd be uncomfortable.

HIM!? Where's the loyalty? Where's the camaraderie? I'm hurt. Crushed. Mashed. Broken. Mixed. Fritter'd

I'm going to ignore you.

Pulverized, brokenized, eye-opened, shocked, bereeved, bereft

Shut up

Loquacious, fried, seared, poached, skewered, roasted, toasted, ghosted...

Wren let him continue, focusing on Trente's physical instruction. Square his feet, face outward, turn sideways...it presents your opponent with less of a target. As lanky as Wren was, it made sense...he was practically a shadow's width, the perfect stance for a fencer.

Holding the sword out, gripping it in the way instructed, Wrenmae thrust it through the air, experimentally cutting at invisible opponents. The blade didn't help him feel as strong as he wanted. At his level of expertise, he was still terribly untrained.

Trente was quick to correct his form, to ease instruction by pushing Wren's arms, kicking his legs into different positions, showing him with physical instruction the correct way to handle the blade.

A bell passed before he could truly stand in the stance on his own, even move with it. A fierce grin found its way to his face. He was enjoying the lesson, moreso the idea of progressing.

"Do you think we should try a short spar?" He asked Trente, taking a breath, "Maybe go over some of the styles in fencing?"

[Trente]

*
Wrenmae's body was perfect, and Trente may have let the observation slip once. Wrenmae handled the bells of endless dialogue and demonstration with the ease of a natural born predator, and grace of a naturally talented acrobat, just waiting for proper training. Trente realized the potential in him, and knew he would one day be better then Trente. This did not disgruntle the teacher, but rather caused him to dedicate himself more keenly to the process of instruction. He found himself disregarding time as he passed, much more interested in instruction with Wrenmae then he was with any other of his half hearted pupils. He felt that he understood what Maria must have seen in him. It was not coin, not truly. Wrenmae would be an enviable man were he not so unsure, not so guarded. Trente understood falsehood, and insecurity and had been around it his entire life. Wrenmae feared something about himself.

He smirked at the comment of sparring from several paces away, having gradually adopted more distance between the two as their lesson progressed. "Do you wish me dead, Wrenmae?" He asked, almost rhetorically.

"The first lesson I taught you was to never point your blade at one that you are not willing to snuff out. Perhaps you would have me believe that was too long ago to remember." He would have been lying had said the thought of an exciting confrontation wasn't a desire, on some level. He also understood the risks of any spar, no matter the rules set upon them. Men and fate were as unpredictable as all could be. Men changed with a blade perfectly balanced, stretching out before them, something in their minds switched and for some this was nothing, as soon as the urges and confidence rose it would be suppressed. These men would never reach greatness. Trente considered himself one of these men, who had self discipline. What Trente truly feared were the other men, the mean of greatness. They feel power in their hands, and opposition before them and the urge to overcome seems nothing force of instinct. Fate needed no change to be unduly cruel, as men did.

"Fine. We will test some simple counters, but first I have some further instruction, and another question which you must answer, after I answer yours."

Trente sheathed his sword for the moment and motioned for Wrenmae to do the same. "There are many styles in Mizahar. I imagine nearly every culture would wield each tool differently. Tool of death or not. I only know, and have interest in knowing, one style with the rapier.

A great Svefra man instructed me in the basics of the technique, and so I honor him, and I assume so will you. His words are being passed to you now, after all." He did not truly believe that Wrenmae cared.

"Awareness, Balance, Wit." The words came simply enough, without overstated dramatics.

"These are the three principles of fencing in descending importance which my instructor taught me.

This style is adapted for flawless combat in any terrain, even unruly sea decks thrown upon upset waves.

Awareness teaches not only an awareness of yourself, but your opponent and the environment in which you fight. It will be very rare that you even find the opportunity to fence in an open field where only you and your rapier wielding opponent play a part in combat. Instead, you will be closed into narrow alleyways, be bombarded by uneven footholds or be surrounded by combat with people who do not mutually confront with rapier. A competent fencer learns to nullify the effects of harsh environment, and survive the assaults of the unexpected. An expert uses their environment to their advantage, causing the enemy to destroy themselves despite their own respective strengths.

Balance. I do not know how spiritual you are, Trident Champion, but if not spiritually then at least master balance of body. Taking an uncalculated tumble in combat will end you, to lose your footing is death. Do not fool yourself that the speed of your blade means a thing if you have no solid stance. Svefra have fought on ungulating sea decks for as long as Laviku has willed. Be like the Svefra, train your body and mind, trust your body and mind.

Wit. These countermeasures I have shown you. Single move parry and strikes. They are about turning your enemy's aggressions back on themselves. This is wit at it's most primal. Understand your foe, steady yourself, then let them fall into your trap."

Trente then lightly began to stretch, folding his right arm over his chest and bracing with the opposite. "Your body is like Laviku's. It is not brittle bone and harsh rock. That is what awaits you when you die, when you lose what you are now. What you are now is more like water. Stop thinking of your body as a mechanism that has a limited range of movement. Stretch your body, mold it to your liking and it will become what you wish of it. Go into combat without stretching, without preparing your body then you will be half way to nothing but bone and dust already."

He demonstrated simple stretches, focusing on joints mostly. He explained simply the effects of each stretch, and spoke briefly of great acrobats he had seen before. The things that the human body was capable of with proper care.

"Now," the word accompanied by the dull sound of sword being drawn from sheathe. "Take you stance." He took his own, and let his eyes fall upon the ground around him. Even as could be expected. "Answer my question, and take the defensive. Go slowly. No blood needed here."

He applied evenly deliberate pressure to a strike forward, but went a fraction of his normal speed, still faster then one might expect from a spar. Slow enough that the blade would not truly strike, however.

As he thrusted, hoping for Wrenmae to recall the maneuver quickly enough to strike he posed his question.

"What was it like the first time you took a life, Wrenmae?" Trente's face revealed that this was not sick game on his part, but an essential element of understanding swordsmanship. His face lied.

"If you can not counter quickly then retreat as I taught you. Buy time."

He struck again, still slow, and prompted for Wrenmae to answer with haste if he was not already.

In truth he had never tried to speak and strike at the same time, and even at the fractioned speed it took great brain power to maintain the two modes of operation at once. Combat, and speech. Most importantly his mind and eyes focused on reading Wrenmae, constantly assuring himself he would not do something unpredictable and get one of them killed.
*

[Wrenmae]

Wrenmae listened with rapt attention to Trente's instructions. The younger man had a poise the storyteller envied, a confidence that belied his youthful visage. Had anyone accused the young man of being a God, Wrenmae would be the first to take a knee.

There was something powerful about Trente's personality, about his energy. Was it attraction? Wrenmae had never felt attraction to a man before, certainly not in any carnal sense. Perhaps it was more the unshakeable quality in his stance, his instruction, his voice...there was an immutable property there, the stuff of kings and heroes the storyteller tried to recreate for audiences.

But while he played at charade, Trente was legend embodied.

"I respect the Svefra," Wrenmae blurted out suddenly, "A Svefran initiated me into Reimancy after saving me from a watery grave. I'd be honored to learn one of their techniques."

He was quiet again, blushing. Truly, he was a bumbling fool. Trente pulled his blade and Wrenmae fumbled to pull his up. For all the lithe potential in his body, there was a certain shy awkwardness about how he tackled threats. The first question froze him, the sword Trente swung coming within inches of the boy before he flinched away with a wild swing of his own blade. It swished uselessly through the air and Wrenmae struggled to keep the stance, holding out his blade again. Once more, Trente approached, Wren's mind whirled.

"I...I..." He intercepted the blade, but weakly, without spirit. Panic filled his body. The first time he killed...his brother? his sister? Yes. They were out there, left to die in the snow.

Panic filled his throat, his vision blurred. The sword came again, Wrenmae stumbled, his free hand going to his head as an assault of pain drove him to his knees.

"Gaaaahgh!" He snarled, his sword clattering to the ground where it lay, wobbling in the light with a deadly glitter. A moment. Maybe two. Before Trente could put a hand on the storyteller, his hand grasped the sword again.


He stood, but there was a notable difference to his form, a confidence, a danger that was not there before.

"The first time I took a life was to save my own hide," Shroud answered Trente, holding out his blade, "I had no choice and yet I tortured myself over it for the decade to follow." Back on Trente now, Wrenmae was noticeably different. Gone was the shy man with little form or character. This new...person in Wrenmae's body was entirely different. Bringing his sword up, he waited for Trente to strike, stepping forward at the last moment and bringing his sword up sideways, catching and pushing the half-hearted swing up above Wrenmae's shoulder, allowing him within inches of his teacher.

It was sloppy, but unexpected. Balling his fist, Shroud brought it up to Trente's face, tapping his cheek lightly before stepping back.

"Hardly fair if you're the only one to ask me questions, Trente," Shroud teased, circling the teacher, "Tell me...Trente, is teaching a loose association of swordsmen the extent of your ambitions?" He struck at the question, a straight thrust forward, stronger now that he had his form. No doubt the better swordsman would avoid it, but he struck all the same...all reservation was gone, all hesitance.

He was different.

Entirely different.

Dangerous.

[Trente]

*
Wrenmae changed, though not from the power of wielding a sword as his teacher had suspected. Trente had watched with knitted brow, and clear concern as his new protege yelped out in pain at the question posed, and crippled. The man revealed secret after secret. A reimancer, and now... whoever he had become. Whatever.

Wrenmae did seem dangerous to Trente, not because of his new found confidence, but the fact that it was newly found. Trente knew full well that any mage so weak that they must become so unbalanced to function could never do anything but harm to those that were close to.

Still, these thoughts and fears were somewhat suspended by the sudden need for focused concentration. The tap on his cheek got his heart pounding frantically. Too close.

Fighting the urge to go on the offensive he steadied his blade and twisted out his forarm for a clumsy and rushed parry, which did little as Wrenmae slipped away. The next was more calculated, on both their parts. But, Trente's skill predictably swung the situation in his favor.

Resisting the temptation to dodge, Trente put his blade at an angle, letting it draw Wrenmae's aside, then held it firm, pointing straight to Wrenmae's chest. If Wrenmae closed distance or tried to follow through with his attack he would impale himself without question, though if he had full intention of pulling the strike he would remain unscathed. Thus was the nature of the single action parry and attack. One could never prevail against an undedicated enemy.

Admittedly the majority of Wrenmae's answer faded at the edges of Trente's hurried awareness, but the question in return came through clear, as Trente began trying to decipher the mad mages intentions.

He asked of politics, and with a demeanor of confidence and control. His voice came clearly, his pose improved. Trente was speechless for another volley of fake blows, before he could comprehend what was happening.

"I heard advice once that all men worth life should seize every ounce of power within their grasp." Pause to Parry.

"He was a very powerful ghost." Trente's words came somewhat dully through his focus, hinting very little at his show of rhetoric.

He took his eyes off of Wrenmae's body, which he has been observing closely for telling signs of movement, to fix on his eyes. They looked the same, but not enough to be easily mistaken. The fierceness excited Trente some, and as worried as he was he would not trade the moment for normalcy.

"So, then, Wrenmae. How does this work?" He goated lightly with his tone. "When you feel too much, when the world becomes to much you change? Are there side effects?" He paused, eyes still fixed, as a serious sound gripped his words.

"Do you plan on killing me now?" He had never truly been in a life threatening duel before, not with another man armed with a rapier, and though he was confident he could destroy Wrenmae, this man before him now did not seem the sort to honorably abstain from the use of magic against an individual he truly wished dead.
*

[Wrenmae]

"Kill you?" Shroud laughed, twisting the rapier through the air and lunging at Trente. The superior swordsman fended the blade easily and Shroud retreated, circling step by step. "Killing you would prove little. You seem to understand I am not of sound mind...fair point, I trust you to not use the information against an opponent you barely understand."

Another thrust, caught and easily displaced by the superior swordsman, Shroud returned with a slash at his face, but Trente easily ducked the blow and pushed Shroud back on the defensive. "When my life is in danger, I take steps to control the situation. I call myself Shroud...far superior to the sniveling fool you must have taken me for before."

His eyes flashed dangerously and the rapier swiftly returned to its sheathe, replaced by a long dagger, cold iron. It lacked the reach of the rapier, but the blade was broader, almost more wicked. There was a distinct change to Shroud's stance when he held the blade. All the awkwardness of the new fencing stance left him. He was nimble on his feet, dancing from foot to foot. The long blade glittered as it traded hands. For swordsman of Trente's caliber, he'd easily see the vast sea of difference between the two styles.

Wrenmae was a novice at rapiers...at best, but with a dagger, his skill was frighteningly fluid.

"Cute answer, but talk to me with such vague shyke again and I'll gut you from crown to groin." A smile followed the threat, but somehow it didn't banish the weight of it. "I asked you what your ambition was. You build yourself an association of weapon affecionados in a city with a police force...do you seek to create tension? Insurrection? Or..."

His voice dropped before he leaped in, blindingly fast. Trente's blade came up to block the dagger and they were locked for a moment.

"Coupe?"

[Trente]

*
Trente felt his heart beating violently through his head, his vision attempting to narrow. He fought it, and listened to the mad man's ravings.

Shroud's sudden assault pushed Trente's blade into the air, and too close for a proper retaliation. Shroud was fast, and understood the importance of tying up the enemy's blade. Had the man two blades Trente would have already lost. As things stood, neither were dead, and Trente fancied very little the prospect of continuing a spar with the lunatic.

Shroud laid the rules of their game, speak, or die. Perhaps he planned to kill Trente anyway? Very little to gain may be just enough for a mad man.

Trente's face remained stoney and distant for a long moment, staring into Wrenmae's own, letting the thoughts of panic and plotting roll over his mind without resistance.

"The Wave Guard are stingless jellyfish, Shroud." The words strained out with much tension, and resistance, ending in a pointed tone with the fresh name. "Not Police. And since they are not controlled by Lord of Counsel, the Guild, nor the Reagents a coup could not be made through resistance of them, even if the citizens wished it, which they do not.

So no, Lunatic, I do not wish a coup, nor tension, nor insurrection." He broke away with a sudden shift of his body back, tilting of toes then another, bringing his blade around when distance allowed for a sweeping parry, arm high and blade swooping down before them both, in anticipation of a following attack. Once distance was earned he leveled his rapier again to hold against Shroud closing in. No doubt it would just be moved aside if Shroud desired, for Trente had yet to piece out how exactly the fluid movements of the crazed fighter managed to place himself so close to begin with.

He felt a sudden lack of interest in lying to himself, or Shroud, so he spoke the truth, assuming that Shroud would feel more inclined to leave Trente alive at the conclusion of their conversation if he felt he had some leverage over Trente. Knowing one of Trente's secrets could be quite powerful.

"The Association was an inevitability. Men were being slaughtered in the highest parties of sophistication, the gods rained retribution for untold sins down on all men equally. The society of Zeltiva has been assaulted, not one cast, nor one man, the whole of our city. Men would rise, as they have, with or without my influence, they would defend themselves and their home, not wait idly for another thread to breech the shores and skies.

All I have wished from this from the start was to line my own pockets with coin, for I as all others in this city wish protection. Though I, unlike the others, feel more at risk from famine then blade." The statement seemed almost humorous considering his situation, and this caused the slightest of sardonic smiles to cross his face.

Unwilling to give Shroud a moment of silence to contemplate this he responded with his fair question, as their quick volley continued. "Are you Syliran born, Shroud? Is Wrenmae? What do you care for revolution, and peace keeping?"
*

[Wrenmae]

The two were dancers, clouds, no...the wind. They moved with an eerie grace which barely belied the ferocity between strikes. The rapier moved between them and the long dagger batted it away, it dipped and weaved to the erratic stabs and thrusts the long dagger followed.

Trente was only in danger of losing his head if he lost his advantage in distance. Shroud was an able opponent, leaping and circling, seeking those chinks in his guard to reach in and kiss flesh with cold iron. Still, Trente remained a bastion of peerless form.

"But jellyfish they are," he murmured between the blades clashing. Stepping forward, he brought his blade up to meet Trente's, angling his shoulder so that should the man step forward and push the tip of the blade, it would slide through empty air above his left shoulder rather than into his flesh. "Even jellyfish can learn to have a poisoned sting if pushed enough."

They caught the rhythm again, danced backward, then forward.

"Fear the famine, fear the plague, fear your age, but not the blade." Both blades met again, kissed and departed. The two combatants circled each other, testing the distance.

"I care for what benefits me, Trente, I care for what lies in the heart of all men or..." he thrust forward again and the fencer anticipated, caught his blade and displaced it. Grinning, Shroud retreated, "Or...what does not. You're a skilled opponent, and you have premature ambitions. What you do with your Association is interesting enough that I think to retain membership...whether you indite me as a lunatic or not."

He chuckled. "If I have a face I wear to fight and a face I wear to work, what business is it of yours? We think differently. We fight differently. What you perceive as lunacy, I call organized." He stepped back, sheathing his blade, "And I was born a child in Syliras, though I owe my home to Alvadas."

[Trente]

*
oocGratz on over 1000 posts!

Trente allowed his celerity of step to pull him through the quarrel as apposed to his skill at blade. Fully defensive his stance brought his blade in only to attempt to hold Wrenmae at a fair arm's length, as his feet whisked him back. Smooth shifts, like the tide lapping forward and back, as he thanked Sama'el for the extensive stretch of ground beneath them. Were he cornered... He did not think of this, instead he let his body move as it would, and his mind listen as it should.

When Wrenmae finally backed away Trente kept on guard as the final words of the spar were uttered. He was shaken, for he knew the truth, that Wrenmae (no, Shroud) could have undone him, if he wished. He was not Trente's superior by grace, not utterly. But, with blade, and more importantly purpose he prevailed. Trente had fear, though, and that would play a factor if even Shroud struck again.

Once a moment of calm caught them Trente allowed his blade to return to it's resting position, as he looked Wrenmae in the eye. His heart still pounded, and there was no part of him that was calm. But, not all of him hungered for Wrenmae's blood. None of it did, in truth. Not then.

He thought of Shroud's little rhyme and it struck him with a certain authoritarian attraction. "Fear the famine, fear the plague, fear your age, but not the blade." How true this could be, for a man of their time, and the words made Trente quake within.

Trente opened his mouth to almost unconsciously continue their volley of words, but then, with a sudden calm he seesed. His lips met together once more, and he just smiled at Shroud. He wanted to laugh. This was Maria's Champion? Zeltiva's Champion? He had actually begun to think Zeltiva different then the rest of Mizahar. Actually begun to believe in Maria, and her cause, that the sentimentalities of the city had some foundation in the citizen's hearts. But, they were just sheep after all, and so had Trente been. Sheep to the doe eyed gold seeker and her pet power mongers. Of course Zeltiva survived the Valterrian, it was more evil then all of the cities combined, so evil it knew to hide it's impurities. Unlike Ravok, unlike Sunberth. Clever, corrupt country.

His voice finally came, with an overtly dignified tone that even surprised him, "This exchange has been both thrilling, and enlightening.

Welcome to the Zeltivan Martial Association, Trident Champion Wrenmae Wilmont. I have no doubt that you will make an invaluable impact on our ranks, and the city. I hope that we can arrange another session soon.

Contact me." His smirk caused a bead of sweat to curve in an arch along the contour of his close shaven face as he maintained careful eye contact with the man so different then he had been a short time prior. He was unsure he wanted to see where this was going, but he knew he desired to he this man's strength again. For all of the idolization Wrenmae may have felt for Trente, Trente felt for shroud.
*

[Paragon]

Trente

Experience

Skill	XP Earned
Rhetoric	3
Teaching	5
Philosophy	3
Interrogation	2
Tactics	2
Rapier	3
Anthropology	1
Acrobatics	3
Observation	3

Lores

•	Lore Earned
•	Wrenmae Wilmot (acquaintance)
•	Ethics of the Blade
•	A Teacher's Integrity
•	Passing on Svefran Wisdom
•	Shroud: Trente's Alter Ego?
•	Zeltiva: The Cold Truth

Wrenmae

Experience

Skill	XP Earned
Land Navigation	2
Observation	2
Philosophy	3
Rhetoric	3
Rapier	4
Tactics	2
Long Dagger	1
Intimidation	2

Lores

•	Lore Earned
•	Storm Shrine (Location)
•	Trente Ostentatoire-Criard Eclatante (acquaintance)
•	The Ranks of Zeltiva
•	Trident Champion
•	Ethics of the Blade
•	Positioning when using the Rapier
•	Svefran Wisdom: Awareness, Balance, Wit
•	Member of the Martial Association

Legend Becomes Reality

Bravo! Exemplary thread guys. So much detail, gorgeous dialogue and descriptions. I awarded generously as such. And yes Trente, you are not imagining it, I have given out 5 XP in a skill! Congrats guys, you should be proud of this one. If you have any questions or concerns regarding your grade, please send me a PM and we can work from there.