[Storm Shrine] Duo (Wrenmae)

[Trente]

10th, Summer, 512

Trente had grown to adore the elegant Shrine, perched upon it's hill. Most foreigners would be hard pressed to find it without direction, he had not so long ago. He believed, when he first set eyes on the building, that it served no purpose, yet now only two seasons in Zeltiva he could recall some of his fondest memories upon it's steps, overseen by it's brilliance. A gust of strong warm wind pulled a smile from deep in his mind to the surface as he thought of this. It amazed him, Zeltiva as a whole, so far north yet the bay delivered forth the heat of the ocean, and unlike the other cities of the south grungy and threatening Trente found it ironic, yet pleasant, how easy it the belief came that the sword by his side had no more purpose as well.

"Well," he thought to himself, looking pleased toward the shine once more, "I suppose worth can not always been seen at first sight, or remembered with absolute ferocity." Still, Trente conspired to treat his swordsmanship as a hobby, and willingly let the memories of blood and sweat flit away in the wind.

Perhaps Zeltiva in its entirety was useless, without purpose. It was a blissful place, however, a place where one was seduced by welcoming ease, deceiving thoughts, and an overall disarming demeanor. What better place to spend the season following the hardest Mizahar had seen since Trente had come to it, and long before?

He would meet a man, newer to the shores than him, he found himself eager to tell his opinion of the place. Has he also found seductive thoughts and disarming safety, or had he come to train for fear of something Trente could not detect?

What drove a man to sword could say much about his nature.

[Wrenmae]

“You’re wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong. We should have taken a left at the Baker’s and a RIGHT at the Library. Now you’re hopelessly lost.” “Shut up, Zan,” Wrenmae muttered to what appeared to be no one in particular, “It’s your fault we’re turned around. You never think, NEVER, how on Mizahar could we turn left at the docks? Left is into the water!” “A problem for you breathers, I gather,” Zan commented with an air of indifference, “I was recommending a shortcut.” “To a shrine in the foothills?!” “There’s an underwater passage.” “That doesn’t make sense!” “But wouldn’t it be amazing if there was one? We should go exploring.” “I have somewhere to be!” “Where?” Zan asked “The Shrine! The Shrine! The Storm Shrine in the foothills!” The familiar was silent for a moment, then, as if realizing something, “Oh, hey, I know a shortcut.” Wrenmae resisted the strong urge to punch himself in the gut. Only the cold, hard, certainty of logic prevented him from an attack that would be blatantly self-destructive. Instead he endeavored to ignore Zan, pausing at the junction of winding Zeltivan streets to look over the skyline. Admittedly he should have done this before, searched for the strange building on the horizon. It had to be high enough to kiss lightning during storms, so it was likely it would be visible. All the while his new rapier bounced against his hip and thigh, clanging lightly. He wasn’t used to the length, admittedly, but found more appeal in the thin blades than the broad ones. Wrenmae wasn’t a soldier, couldn’t swing a longsword like some of the other hardened men. His skills were more focused on being light and fast, moving between his opponent’s blind spots and striking with his long dagger. The cold iron blade lay at his other hip, a more familiar weight than this new sword. Only his most modest clothes had made the cut for practice selection. Trente was a name that carried weight in the Martial Association of Zeltiva, but didn’t seem to resonate anywhere else. They had been in contact with each other in the later parts of Spring, and now the early Summer. Finally, Wrenmae had relented to meeting him for a spar. Had he known the location, he might have asked for more specific directions. Now he was running late with only an unhelpful familiar to talk to. Turning alleys and corners, taking each street with a slightly longer stride, he came to the stairs at the foothills panting. The Shrine was beautiful, set above him it was a regal monument to Zulrav and the majesty of the open sky. It reminded him a little bit of Lhavit, the soaring towers there and the city that lived by night and slept by day. He was perhaps a few chimes late, not nearly a bell, but certainly close. Wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, Wrenmae took the stairs two at a time as he headed for the top. Not the wisest move, however, as by the time he reached the young man at the top, he was panting raggedly and had to take a moment to slide to his knees in order to catch his breath. “I’m…” He gasped, “Sorry, got…” another gasp of air, “Lost.” He offered a smile, nervous, and waited for but a few more moments before standing on already numbed feet. “I’m Wrenmae,” He introduced himself, “Wrenmae Wilmot…I take it you’re Trente?”

[Trente]

Trente maintained proud posture as the rather uncomposed man approached from below. It was unbecoming of him to take to such unhealth in order to hurry himself to the meeting. Trente smiled briefly though, it seemed Wrenmae's reputation for generosity was not unbased. To fatigue himself to avoid being late, on the account of somebody who held no sway over him. It was almost noble. Maria's folk sure had a way of making her look good. Trente wondered what rumours spread about the town about himself. He doubted seriously that Maria spoke very well about him, and his shrewd ways.

"Indeed, Trente Ostentatoire-Criard Eclatante. And, please, do not burden yourself with the impulse to apologize. I have not been here long, and I have found pleasure in the change of pace, indulging in some time to relax.

If you wish to steal a moment to catch your breath, or fetch water from the stream please feel free. I have at least another bell before I must go. In any case I do not intend upon beginning with blades so soon. I know not your current agility with your edge, but philosophy should no doubt be the basis of our lessons.

If you agree, of course. The pleasure should be mine to accept your rulings, of course. Trident Champion Wrenmae Wilmont." Trente felt a tug at the corners of his lips as the titles rolled from them. He envied titles, but was still unsure what this particular title was meant to prove. Still, Trente would offer the man the respect his sacrifices merited. Though personal value had yet to be purchased. That would need to be done with words, and with actions.

What Wrenmae could see was a gleam in Trente's eye. He had not hid his intentions to win Wrenmae as a friend, in their messages between the two. Quite the opposite Trente had hinted that Wrenmae had some significance to his status in Zeltiva. This, however, was the first Wrenmae had heard of his title however, and Trente knew this, and was hungry to see what opinion Wrenmae would take to the title with.

[Wrenmae]

Trident Champion. The words struck the storyteller with curious weight, and he looked up at Trente curiously. His breathing was still ragged, the rise and fall of exhaustion stealing the strength of his resolve. But what was this? At first, Wrenmae assumed it was just some sort of Zeltivan address he had not heard before. The words felt…too long to merely be a term of politeness, however, they seemed almost indicative of a title. What on earth was he doing with a title in Zeltiva? Wracking his brains, Wrenmae couldn’t bring himself to remember an event that would have awarded him such an elusive honor. What did Trident Champion mean anyways? He knew what a Trident was, the tined weapon popular among some sailors and sea going folk…but what did that have to do with him? Wrenmae chuckled, shrugging his shoulders helplessly before sitting back on his hands. “Trident Champion? I’m not sure what you’re talking about. What’s a Trident Champion?”

[Trente]

Trente couldn't help a smile at Wrenmae's humility. Trente suspected more ignorance than that. Still, he gave the answer, or the little answer he had, quite quickly.

"The term denotes favor with the Lord of Counsel. Trident Champion is the first of four rankings. Trident Knight, Trident Baron, and Trident Lord, reach respectively more prestigious than the last. Any citizen or associate of Zeltiva should be honored to have such a thing bestowed upon them.

It means, quite simply, that the Lord of Counsel herself knows of your existence in Zeltiva, and looks favorably upon it. Through the vines of society, first high then low your name will flow. Rather, has been flowing. All originating with the Lord of Counsel's words." Trente smiled, it was to be good news for Wrenmae, and even better for the Martial Association. And Trente, none the less, had the opportunity to be the first to catch wind of Wrenmae's new title.

He knew vaguely the nature of the first title, and could guess what the next question might be. He offered a short moment for Wrenmae to ask for himself, but if not taken he continued without prompt. "I know not what you did to catch the Lord of Counsel's eye. I somehow doubt it was your looks alone. However, whatever act you performed, or deed you did allowed for Lord of Counsel's favor. This is nothing to take lightly. I can only think of a handful of others in the city with such an honor. So, congratulations on your absolute proof of Zeltiva citizenry. May you find yourself a new title soon, and perhaps even a personal audience with Maria herself."

Trente had, of course, met with Maria on several occasions before, and the prospect of being in a room with her, though appealing from an aesthetic point of view, for she was a striking women, settled uncomfortably upon him and his developing business sense more and more each time. Still, he had not gathered much, if any, favor from the Lord of Counsel at all. He figured it may be a political move, to separate the Martial Association from her own subtle campaign. But, he still wondered, likely as much as Wrenmae, what he had done to court her Ladyship's favor.

With a curious express he looked upon Wrenmae, and he slowly caught his breath, sweat still permeating his clothes. Without insult, but sincere curiosity he asked,"What do you believe you did to catch the eye of the Lord of Counsel?"

[Wrenmae]

Trente’s words weighed heavily on Wrenmae’s shoulders. Unintentional though they were, the mage’s first expression was one of terror rather than surprise. To be noticed, to be lauded, what had he done to deserve it? All he brought to this city was death and decay, the slow wasting of lives. Even this man before him would wither in sickness for even being near to him. Unintentional, Unintentional, gods, why was Vayt so cruel? He seemed to feel the eyes of the swordsman and buried the terror beneath an avalanche of other emotions. Surprise, feigned joy, but everything fell into a quiet lethargy of dismal confusion. “Trident Champion, eh?” The title didn’t hit him with the force he felt it should. He felt no better, felt no stronger, felt no more honorary than when he was sprinting up the stairs. Instead, a weight plummeted into the pit of his stomach and sizzled there, mired in his conscience. Rewarded for damnation…a fitting role for the poisoner. “I…” But Trente had already posed the answer to the question Wrenmae was about to ask. He fell silent, listening to his words and trying to remember what he had done, what service he could have possibly rendered. It came back to him as he thought, the sudden realization paling his face again, a shade whiter than it already was at the end of his arduous journey. “The cemetery,” Wrenmae said at once, looking down at his hands, “I…I donated when the Lady spoke…one hundred gold mizas on two fish for the pond.” Two dead fish, likely. He shook his head, “Certainly I couldn’t buy my title though, right? I was moved by her speech and I…” He swallowed the instinct to reveal he had no idea where he got those coins from, that some of them were stained with blood, instead he breathed explosively through his nose and shook his head again, “I wanted to make a difference, I suppose, just to help the city after it was ravaged by the storm last season.” A smile, helpless, and with a shrug, Wrenmae got back to his feet and stretched. He was feeling a little better physically, even with the heavy knot growing in his chest. He was eager to change the topic. “So. Erm, what sort of philosophy would you prefer speaking about?”

[Trente]

Trente watched, rather sternly, as the man spoke. He paid for the title. Trente could hardly believe it, but it made enough sense. Wrenmae could not have known of Maria's recent moves for power. But, Trente knew all too well she had plans for the city, ones he likely could never knew before they were set in full motion. However, whatever plans surround a city of Zeltiva's proportion money would be needed. He thought on the construction she had been founding, the copious public announcements she had been making. The whole city was alive not just with rebuilding efforts, but new construction. From even before the storm. This knowledge and Wrenmae's words settled uncomfortably within his mind, unsettled.

Just the same, Maria has surprised him before. She may be an evil heartless and stern leader, but if so she was a brilliant actress as well, for she shown with a kindness that Trente could never place in another his entire life. He would call it softness, if her title did not hold such strength for her. He decided to defend her name, and her honor. For no other reason than her close patronage of the Martial Association itself.

"Money drives politics in this city. Without it there is no progression, and no security. But," he paused a moment pondering his next words, ernestly surprised at himself to standing up for the women he had publicly spoke against just a season before. "The Lord of Counsel is a women, in every sense of the word. Her mind is driven utterly by her heart, and I doubt she has an eye for coin. How could a women who does not understand the worth of a coin crave one above the seed of her power, loyalty. Loyalty if all the wealth that women needs.

I suspect you stirred something in her." Trente looked him over, his rugged yet unblemished, healthy features. He was handsome, handsome enough perhaps for the unmarried Maria. She had never turned even the slightest blushed gaze to Trente, but perhaps she saw in Wrenmae a vagrant from her naughty past, or something of the sort. Perhaps he could spur fantasies in her, or just maybe she actually saw some noble heart in him.

"Perhaps these fish of yours meant something to her. I heard that they all were found dead the next day, some infection in the water. In any case, I doubt she cares for one hundred gold mizas. Poultry compared to the investments she is exhausting her family money on currently." He doubt his own words slightly. He supposed he would watch as those of the city raised in rank. If only the wealthy donators found comfy seats at her table all would know the answer to Maria's true nature as a ruler, and Trente would desperately need a new patron.

"Regardless, for the time being she is watching over the Association. Only a few know this, but she directly helps mediate a relationship between the Martial Association and the craftsmen of East Street. Without her patronage we would have no access to weapon, or armor. So, it would be unwise of us to speculate too openly on any questionable decisions she makes. Though," he looked out over Zeltiva, a gust of wind wrapping around them both, a sudden chill piercing to his bone, the sensation he often got before catching a cold. He bristled, but ignored it, it would pass in time. "I suppose speculation upon Zeltiva it rather the point of our association. I wonder sometimes how well that concept will remain within our Association. That is up to the members, though."

He then faced away from the wind, ignoring the sensation of sickness worming its way into him, and looked Wrenmae in the eye. "I can assure you if Maria finds herself so corruptible that she hands her family's praise our for coin that the Martial Association will find another patron. This association is not founded on coin, but on the willful nature of the Zeltivan Citizens." Perhaps some day he would learn his lesson of delivering promises, even in private, that he had no garnatee of effectively initiating.

Wrenmae's question came suddenly, and Trente appreciated the distraction from politics. "As you know I have no compulsory obligation to impart my training onto you, and I won't teach a foolish man to wield a blade. So I am morally obligated to demand an explanation of you. Tell me, Tridant Champion, what is a weapon to you? And what is murder, and death? When is it ok to take another's life for your own agenda?"

[Wrenmae]

Wrenmae unconsciously quailed in Trente’s presence. Although no words were directed to frighten, insult, or cajole, the hard edge they took lacerated his confidence as easy as a blade frays skin. Money, by the power of the miza he had somehow been given this title. Trident Champion. What was it to him anyways? Eyes would look upon him, but did they not already before? He was an attractive man, not even his worst opinions of self could deny that. Vayt made him handsome, made him desirable to those around him. Subconsciously, strangers became friends quicker, lovers came of one night stands, and brothers were born of months rather than years. The manacle on his right wrist, the band of metal none but himself could see, thrummed quietly. A thought entered his mind, unbidden, repulsive as it was blinding. What could this title do for him? If the people of Zeltiva opened their hearts to cascading gold rimmed circles, could he not take advantage of this flaw? Horror wrote a doctrine across his face, and the young man shook the thought from his head vigorously, roughly. Where had it come from? Like hypnotism it had spoken in his own voice and now, gone, but the notion remained, uncomfortably attractive despite Wrenmae’s initial revulsion. He followed Trente as best he could, almost unsettled with the young man’s conviction and heavy handed words. It was spoken with an authority Wrenmae had no confidence to give himself, and with the control of someone older. The storyteller found himself nodding along with the notions, not quite sure how he felt about Trente’s views on those of the female persuasion. His coin had been swindled from him most often by females, mischievous laughing creatures that knew money better than he knew himself. Perhaps in Zeltiva, the women were less wild than Alvadas. Honestly he hadn’t noticed. Maria. He remembered the woman from the cemetery. She spoke with such passion and ardor it was difficult not to have her emblazoned. In her he’d seen none of Trente’s suspicions, his unsaid accusations and ponderings. Another thought crept past Wrenmae’s defenses into his mind. Control the people, not with coin, but with immortality. Those remembered will never die. No better way to manipulate a city. No! Frustrated, Wrenmae massaged the bridge of his nose. Was Trente hypnotizing him? Was he being manipulated even now? If so, the fool had chosen the wrong opponent. Even that anger though, was alien in Wrenmae’s mind and with revulsion he cast it away. The manacle thrummed again, a chuckle of metal and bone. “A weapon is a tool for murder,” he snapped, pausing, wide eyed and shaking his head, “I’m sorry. No, that’s not what I meant. I mean…” he floundered, growing angry, alien thoughts had intruded on his mind and he couldn’t banish them. What was wrong with him? “A plow and tiller for the field, to prepare the ground for planting, the chisel and hammer to shape stone. A weapon is made to inflict harm on another, no matter how people dress it up.” Did he really believe that? Part of him wanted to elaborate on the necessity of weapons. The rest of him pushed that part down. Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve taken life before, but only when it’s necessary.” He felt the wrongness of that statement. It was a lie, he just didn’t remember why. “A blade should be drawn for defense, and a life taken only if necessary. Defense can be as specific as to save one’s life, to save another, or to protect and pursue ideals. In any case, taking a life should never be callous, but considered at every turn.” He looked down and tapped the long blade at his side. “At least that’s what I believe.”

[Trente]

Sternly Trente watched on as the man seemed to churn uncomfortably under his own words and opinions. It seemed somehow wrong that a Trident Champion would speak so abashed of morality. But, Trente didn't whole heartedly disagree with the man's thoughts.

"Yes, weapons are tools for murder. Only fools believe that they can build, or bring enlightenment. But, under no circumstances does one have to murder another. It is inherently a choice of selfishness, under any circumstance. Even to protect those you value, or even love.

So, if you wish to learn from me the first thing you must know is to never, under any circumstances, point your blade toward another unless you are willing for them to die, to be gone forever." Then with a paused he seemed to reflect upon something, a flash of uncertainty, in his eyes, then a hard shell pulled over himself. "Or, to return in an ethereal form, possibly becoming even more of a threat.

Know what you are willing to murder for before the situation arises. The last thing Zeltiva needs is for our esteemed Champions running about and impaling without deliverance." His eyes remained fixed on Wrenmae's as he spoke, not searching or seeking for anything, but instilling his own point. He wanted to impress the importance of the Association's integrity upon the Trident Champion, but was wholly unaware of his own seeming. The impression he offered of himself, nor did he care much for judging the Trident Champion himself.

Quietly he waited for his words to sink in. "If you know this then I can confidently teach you all that I know." Trente felt no ownership over his knowledge, or technique.

[Wrenmae]

Wrenmae sighed, nodding along as Trente delivered his philosophy. The youth wasn't far off of the fact, but his ideals rang of naive justice. He had seen the streets of Sunberth, but had Trente? It was madness there, utter madness. Could such morals hold long midst that onslaught of human misery? His had not. Somewhere along the line he'd lost sight of himself and who he was, somewhere he'd lost his mind and had yet to find it. This strange manacle on his wrist, what was it? What was he? This sense of foreboding and the headaches, the agony of convergence...convergence? The word settled in his head like sediment, sticking to the crevasse of his thoughts. He didn't know where it had come from, but somehow the word carried with it fear, some sort of basic fright. A sigh. "I understand," Wrenmae relinquished, avoiding Trente's eyes for a moment before locking them and smiling nervously, "I mean...I know, I just...I came from Sunberth where one holds a sword to dole out violence. That sort of madness is hard to shake. I'll keep a mind that I need to know what I'm drawing my blade for, and I'd be honored if you showed me how." Why did he need to fight? Was it even protection anymore? "I'm ready to learn."