Fall 9, 514 AV
It was one of the few days of the season where no employers contacted him for mercenary work, and a day where no one really irritated him to the point of his usual killings. As the morning dawned, and Vaylen found himself sitting on the edge of his bed with his feet settled upon the wooden floorboards below, his gray eyes wandered to the left—toward the disassembled, simple practice dummy that he bought not too long ago. He had meant to use it to train with his kukris and his abilities to dual wield the weapons, but he had never gotten around to it. Maybe today would be that day.
Fitting himself in his normal battle gear save his mask, his waterskin, and food for the day, Vaylen picked up the loose equipment of the practice dummy and exited his quarters, heading for the northwestern outskirts of Sunberth. He passed through the twisting streets, not bothering to look at anyone in particular as he reached the boundaries of the city.
His boots soon stepped through lush grass as he made his way to the northern wilds northwest of Sunberth. Patches of woodland areas came into view as the mercenary trudged along, his narrow eyes attempting to scan everything. The gray orbs that were so accustomed to the tight alleyways of Sunberth found themselves relatively unfamiliar with the natural environments of the world, but after several chimes of looking, Vaylen came upon a copse of trees.
The large cluster of trees was thick on the outer boundaries, but loosened as Vaylen ventured deeper into the shade-covered location. Where the trees finally parted and the sunlight shone through onto tall grass, the mercenary began to set up the practice dummy, sticking the wooden posts into the soil.
Once he was finished assembling the dummy, Vaylen unhooked all of the scabbards, both for his kukris and throwing daggers, and set them upon the grass at the base of the wooden posts along with his waterskin and his lunch-containing bag. Backing up a few feet, Vaylen breathed in a deep breath and shift his body downward, placing his toes against the sediment along with the gloved palms of his hands. The long grass tickled Vaylen’s nose as he began to perform push-ups, his elbows angling at a ninety degree angle and then back to perfectly straight. Sweat began to form on his brow, and his face began to flush as he continued the exercise. He hadn’t trained his body, other than fighting, in a very long time, and it was about time he got back into a routine. He needed to be stronger.
After about thirty or so push-ups, Vaylen already felt the tightness in his muscles. They ached, but the mercenary did his best to fight through it. Standing afoot once more, Vaylen made his way to one of the many trees surrounding the clearing of the copse of woodland. His eyes examining many of the woody perennials, they finally came upon a firm branch twisting forth from the boughs of a tree, about ten feet above the ground.
The ambition of Vaylen’s mind drove him to attempt and climb the three, though he little skill in the field whatsoever. His fingers clawed at the bark as he attempted to ascend, causing the tips to bleed. His feet chipped away the tree’s outer bark, and the first time up, he found himself unable to complete the process. His body slid down the base of the trunk, the wooden chips slicing his bare arms and fingers.
“Petch,” the mercenary cursed, his eyes locking onto the branch above as he tried again. His fingers aching, Vaylen roughly climbed the tree and leapt to the ten foot high branch, barely hanging on. His body already tired, the Wraith began to perform pull-ups, his entire body quivering and trembling as his arms raised his chin above the branch. As he lowered, he found himself breathing heavily, his arms resembling loose noodles. The tenacity, if there ever was any, was leaving his entire anatomy. But he struggled through, doing another pull-up, and then another, pushing his body to the brink until he reached about twelve and his hands slipped from the branch.
Vaylen landed to the ground with a thud, instantly feeling agony course through his back muscles and those beneath his arms. “Petching shyke…” The mercenary murmured, sweat lathering his body. He laid there for about fifteen chimes before he shakily stood to his feet.
Wobbling over to the wooden posts and his gear that rested at its base, Vaylen took up his waterskin and drank until the burning his throat cleared. Due to his lack of knowledge of his own body, the ensuing cramps were not on his mind. Tossing the waterskin to his left, along with the bag of food, Vaylen picked up his kukris and throwing daggers and refigured them to his physique. After he was finally ready, the mercenary stood before the dummy and unsheathed his kukris.
Circling the unarmored practice target, Vaylen sliced away, but not simultaneously. While his dual wielding capabilities were much improved since his younger days, he still had not reached a level where he could coordinate separate attacks at the same time from either hand. He felt so close to that barrier, however. His curved kukris sliced at the wood, spewing splinters through the air as Vaylen’s weary legs nearly buckled two or three times during the battle routine.
Fifteen or twenty chimes passed before Vaylen returned his kukris to their scabbards and took several paces backward, until he was about fifteen yards from the dummy. Quickly unsheathing one of his throwing daggers, he whipped one at the wooden posts, but alas, missed his mark. Gritting through his teeth, his body wracked with pain from the exercise, he released another throwing dagger upon the dummy. This one missed as well.
Roaring in frustration, Vaylen rifled another at the dummy, again missing. Almost on the brink of explosion, the mercenary finally began to settle his tones, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. He could feel every muscle in his articulation. Every muscle wept from the turmoil of the day. But, again, he pushed on. The fourth dagger came forth from its scabbard, flying through the air as it made contact with the center of the dummy. The sound of the straight-edged, piercing dagger striking the wood was perfect. It rebounded off the mercenary’s ear drums and made a smile cross his face.
With one dagger left, Vaylen let it loose, but a severe turn only allowed him to catch the dummy in the thigh region. The awkward twist, not at all shocking, caused Vaylen to pull a muscle underneath his right arm. He winced in slight pain, clutching the muscle as he fell to his knees. His body had decided for him, finally. It was finished.
With day turning to dusk, Vaylen found himself sitting with his back to the trunk of a tree, enjoying the meal he had made for himself before venturing out that morning. He sipped water from his waterskin, and let his gray eyes wander to the cloudless sky above. Stars glittered like a thousand diamonds, lighting the night aglow.
Underneath those stars, like so many before him, Vaylen felt small. He felt insignificant to the world. The fatigue of his body only brought on the rare thoughts of melancholy to a man known for blocking such emotions from his mind. As the final bits of his meal disappeared behind his tired lips, his heavy eyes couldn’t even stop to blink as they became entranced in the silver of the moon and its starry minions.
The night when he murdered his parents rushed back to him in a series of gruesome images. While he had never felt regret or guilt before, these feelings seeped into his mental state like never before. He remembered feeling chained down, forever to follow in his father’s footsteps at that young age. He remembered feeling the hatred in his mother’s eyes whenever she looked at him. He remembered feeling unwanted, uncared for, with no reason to live other than to please his father and to keep from his mother’s presence. He was a pawn of both their lives, their eternal struggle to rise the ranks of the society in which they thought they thrived.
And for a tick, the Wraith vanished from Vaylen, leaving him alone in the woods as the gloom settled around him. Wetness appeared in those gray eyes, his eyelashes catching hold of the tiny droplets as they began to stream down his cheeks. He didn’t sob. He didn’t let himself leave the visage of that sky. Every day he walked the streets of Sunberth, Vaylen knew he lied to himself. Killing was not his utter most pleasure; killing was his way of coping with a corrupted world that he had come to know. Killing was a way to fit into the anarchical society that he had seen as a child. Killing was a way to strengthen himself, physically and mentally for what his life had in store for him.
His mentality came back to him then, and the guilt and regret flushed forth from his body like a disease. He lost the stare upon the stars and wiped the liquid from his eyes. And then his lips grew thin, and the Wraith returned.
.
It was one of the few days of the season where no employers contacted him for mercenary work, and a day where no one really irritated him to the point of his usual killings. As the morning dawned, and Vaylen found himself sitting on the edge of his bed with his feet settled upon the wooden floorboards below, his gray eyes wandered to the left—toward the disassembled, simple practice dummy that he bought not too long ago. He had meant to use it to train with his kukris and his abilities to dual wield the weapons, but he had never gotten around to it. Maybe today would be that day.
Fitting himself in his normal battle gear save his mask, his waterskin, and food for the day, Vaylen picked up the loose equipment of the practice dummy and exited his quarters, heading for the northwestern outskirts of Sunberth. He passed through the twisting streets, not bothering to look at anyone in particular as he reached the boundaries of the city.
His boots soon stepped through lush grass as he made his way to the northern wilds northwest of Sunberth. Patches of woodland areas came into view as the mercenary trudged along, his narrow eyes attempting to scan everything. The gray orbs that were so accustomed to the tight alleyways of Sunberth found themselves relatively unfamiliar with the natural environments of the world, but after several chimes of looking, Vaylen came upon a copse of trees.
The large cluster of trees was thick on the outer boundaries, but loosened as Vaylen ventured deeper into the shade-covered location. Where the trees finally parted and the sunlight shone through onto tall grass, the mercenary began to set up the practice dummy, sticking the wooden posts into the soil.
Once he was finished assembling the dummy, Vaylen unhooked all of the scabbards, both for his kukris and throwing daggers, and set them upon the grass at the base of the wooden posts along with his waterskin and his lunch-containing bag. Backing up a few feet, Vaylen breathed in a deep breath and shift his body downward, placing his toes against the sediment along with the gloved palms of his hands. The long grass tickled Vaylen’s nose as he began to perform push-ups, his elbows angling at a ninety degree angle and then back to perfectly straight. Sweat began to form on his brow, and his face began to flush as he continued the exercise. He hadn’t trained his body, other than fighting, in a very long time, and it was about time he got back into a routine. He needed to be stronger.
After about thirty or so push-ups, Vaylen already felt the tightness in his muscles. They ached, but the mercenary did his best to fight through it. Standing afoot once more, Vaylen made his way to one of the many trees surrounding the clearing of the copse of woodland. His eyes examining many of the woody perennials, they finally came upon a firm branch twisting forth from the boughs of a tree, about ten feet above the ground.
The ambition of Vaylen’s mind drove him to attempt and climb the three, though he little skill in the field whatsoever. His fingers clawed at the bark as he attempted to ascend, causing the tips to bleed. His feet chipped away the tree’s outer bark, and the first time up, he found himself unable to complete the process. His body slid down the base of the trunk, the wooden chips slicing his bare arms and fingers.
“Petch,” the mercenary cursed, his eyes locking onto the branch above as he tried again. His fingers aching, Vaylen roughly climbed the tree and leapt to the ten foot high branch, barely hanging on. His body already tired, the Wraith began to perform pull-ups, his entire body quivering and trembling as his arms raised his chin above the branch. As he lowered, he found himself breathing heavily, his arms resembling loose noodles. The tenacity, if there ever was any, was leaving his entire anatomy. But he struggled through, doing another pull-up, and then another, pushing his body to the brink until he reached about twelve and his hands slipped from the branch.
Vaylen landed to the ground with a thud, instantly feeling agony course through his back muscles and those beneath his arms. “Petching shyke…” The mercenary murmured, sweat lathering his body. He laid there for about fifteen chimes before he shakily stood to his feet.
Wobbling over to the wooden posts and his gear that rested at its base, Vaylen took up his waterskin and drank until the burning his throat cleared. Due to his lack of knowledge of his own body, the ensuing cramps were not on his mind. Tossing the waterskin to his left, along with the bag of food, Vaylen picked up his kukris and throwing daggers and refigured them to his physique. After he was finally ready, the mercenary stood before the dummy and unsheathed his kukris.
Circling the unarmored practice target, Vaylen sliced away, but not simultaneously. While his dual wielding capabilities were much improved since his younger days, he still had not reached a level where he could coordinate separate attacks at the same time from either hand. He felt so close to that barrier, however. His curved kukris sliced at the wood, spewing splinters through the air as Vaylen’s weary legs nearly buckled two or three times during the battle routine.
Fifteen or twenty chimes passed before Vaylen returned his kukris to their scabbards and took several paces backward, until he was about fifteen yards from the dummy. Quickly unsheathing one of his throwing daggers, he whipped one at the wooden posts, but alas, missed his mark. Gritting through his teeth, his body wracked with pain from the exercise, he released another throwing dagger upon the dummy. This one missed as well.
Roaring in frustration, Vaylen rifled another at the dummy, again missing. Almost on the brink of explosion, the mercenary finally began to settle his tones, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. He could feel every muscle in his articulation. Every muscle wept from the turmoil of the day. But, again, he pushed on. The fourth dagger came forth from its scabbard, flying through the air as it made contact with the center of the dummy. The sound of the straight-edged, piercing dagger striking the wood was perfect. It rebounded off the mercenary’s ear drums and made a smile cross his face.
With one dagger left, Vaylen let it loose, but a severe turn only allowed him to catch the dummy in the thigh region. The awkward twist, not at all shocking, caused Vaylen to pull a muscle underneath his right arm. He winced in slight pain, clutching the muscle as he fell to his knees. His body had decided for him, finally. It was finished.
With day turning to dusk, Vaylen found himself sitting with his back to the trunk of a tree, enjoying the meal he had made for himself before venturing out that morning. He sipped water from his waterskin, and let his gray eyes wander to the cloudless sky above. Stars glittered like a thousand diamonds, lighting the night aglow.
Underneath those stars, like so many before him, Vaylen felt small. He felt insignificant to the world. The fatigue of his body only brought on the rare thoughts of melancholy to a man known for blocking such emotions from his mind. As the final bits of his meal disappeared behind his tired lips, his heavy eyes couldn’t even stop to blink as they became entranced in the silver of the moon and its starry minions.
The night when he murdered his parents rushed back to him in a series of gruesome images. While he had never felt regret or guilt before, these feelings seeped into his mental state like never before. He remembered feeling chained down, forever to follow in his father’s footsteps at that young age. He remembered feeling the hatred in his mother’s eyes whenever she looked at him. He remembered feeling unwanted, uncared for, with no reason to live other than to please his father and to keep from his mother’s presence. He was a pawn of both their lives, their eternal struggle to rise the ranks of the society in which they thought they thrived.
And for a tick, the Wraith vanished from Vaylen, leaving him alone in the woods as the gloom settled around him. Wetness appeared in those gray eyes, his eyelashes catching hold of the tiny droplets as they began to stream down his cheeks. He didn’t sob. He didn’t let himself leave the visage of that sky. Every day he walked the streets of Sunberth, Vaylen knew he lied to himself. Killing was not his utter most pleasure; killing was his way of coping with a corrupted world that he had come to know. Killing was a way to fit into the anarchical society that he had seen as a child. Killing was a way to strengthen himself, physically and mentally for what his life had in store for him.
His mentality came back to him then, and the guilt and regret flushed forth from his body like a disease. He lost the stare upon the stars and wiped the liquid from his eyes. And then his lips grew thin, and the Wraith returned.
.
(Keep in mind I can be slow with replies sometimes due to my offspring still being such a young one.)
