Completed [Squire’s Dormitories] Birds of a feather

[Fallon]

It was in the silence that the man, Wrenmae, Egytpus, her brother as fate currently seemed to dictate, paused for thought. There was many paths of fate, many threads that he could have followed. Kill, maim, torture, embrace, they were all numerous and many. But she let him decide. It was not her place to make a choice for him. So she watched, the faint crackle of the flame filling the silence, and the distinct scent of burning oil ensnaring the senses. Fingers twitched to the palpitations, the dulled beat becoming louder in her ears.

She gave a flinch, his sudden hold on her catching the squire by surprise. Touch was always a funny thing for Fallon. More often than not she felt it easier to communicate through such basic methods than that of words. Fingers would trace, snagging, feeling, light touches to mean so much, a gentle embrace to one of a more solid structure. She smelt the musk on him, the strange sweetness of travel. Her eyes clenched shut, fingers curling around as she was lifted by a true force. He did exist, he was no ghost of the mind, no dream of the imagination, no forlorn hope. Lips gave a tremble, the tips of her touch feeling his hair as he buried himself in her.

And it was perhaps only then for a brief tick, that the pair truly accepted each other.

The embrace did not last. As quickly as it came did he pull away once more, retreating across the light, leaving her little more that deep resounding feeling of depravity and vulnerability. She exhaled, sombre eyes briefly turning to him before they hardened once more. She was not sure how to act, what to say or how to answer him. Who was she really.

“Have you not already decided who I am?” she questioned, “You referred to me as squire, so surely that is an answer as to who I am? Or is that not a good enough answer?” There was a pause, a cold, calculating look as she continued to mull over her next chosen words and waiting almost for a response.

“Who am I? I am no one special. That is who I really am. Another face in the crowd. Another whisper on the wind. A simple spark of life within the grand performance of the world in which we all exist. I am a watcher. A waiter. An observer…” there was a laugh, light and fleeting, “And a seeker. Or perhaps we should just keep it simple and say that I am a human being,” her voice dropped down into a purr, eyes glinting in the lantern light, “And what of you, the enigma that stands before me? Or is that a secret that I am not allowed to hear? Tell me, who are you in tonight’s performance… brother?”

[Wrenmae]

"Squire is a designation, as attached as mercenary or bandit. If all you were was 'squire', you wouldn't be worth my time...sister or not. What is a squire but a servant training to be a soldier servant?"

He let it lie between them, his unspoken animosity to the Syliran knights, his disdain of her choices. But could she be blamed? They were brother and sister in blood only, but neither had grown beside the other. Neither knew the other's lives. They were strangers and yet closer than friends, and in the paradox of that connection, neither quite knew how to conduct themselves.

"Sounds boring," Wrenmae commented dryly when Fallon had finished, "Watching, observing, no more than another face in the crowd...do you not aspire to more than commonplace?" Crossing his arms, he stepped into the circle of fire, his eyes melting back brown. He didn't notice the change.

"I am a traveler and a taleweaver. I have stepped on the island of the dead, the bosom of illusion, a city of fallen divines, and the very seat of chaos. I have held audience with four gods and have the blessing of three. I have set monsters loose upon the seas, delved into barrow ruins old as the Valterrian, and once commanded the respect of an entire city. I am many things, Fallon, all of which I offer to you." he paused, almost considering, "Not to brag, of course...simply to lay bare. I am tortured and healed both as well...broken and remended...mage of mastered disciplines and a rogue of some skill. I am called savior by some, monster by many others."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair and stepping out of the lantern light again, his eyes shifting again to a baleful glowing yellow. "I have spent my life in the pursuit of that ancient edict...the Strong Live. The Strong Thrive. The Strong decide the destiny of this world...and perhaps I will continue. All that I am is yours, Fallon, I offer it to you...because if I do not, there will be no one else. I have no other family Fallon, none that do not hesitate to even touch me. Will you become the same, I wonder? Cold and distant, drifting?"

There was a bitterness to his words, and he spat them, "No one remains, Fallon. Few friends and many enemies. What will you be?" He looked up at her, eyes blazing, "There is little I will keep from you, by virtue of our blood...I want there to be peace between us, even love...but I..."

He trailed off and shrugged, "I do not know how to be open any longer."

[Fallon]

Once, perhaps Fallon would have chosen a different style of life to the one that she was now faced with, to have a life of normality. But that was only once.

There was a flinch, followed by a distinct sting. Of course. Boring. How stupid of her. Eyes looked away, her jaw pulling her around. What was the use in looking? Hands hugged at her arms, a gentle squeeze of fingers as she tried to maintain some composure. It was a heavy pressure, deep, resounding, and one that was already causing her own hard thoughts to crumble. The mask had to remain; the mask had to stay strong. She could not let herself falter. Could she? There was a crooked smile, but that quickly dipped into shadow.

That was all she was now. An observer. A watcher. No, no she was none of that. She was less than that. Dull, boring, dirt. Dirt that was far too weak to even fight back. Her nostrils flared, her throat tightened. Was the air getting thicker? Warmer and suffocating? Or was it just her failing to keep calm and a level head?

Here he was, the words flowing freely from his lips without a care in the world. Great tales of adventure that should be sung, for better or for worse. Then there was she, less than a shadow of something she could not match. She turned away fully this time, her back to him and her shoulders slumping almost in a sense of defeat. Why try? Why bother? Her arms hung free and limp, the strong face failing. She could do this no longer.

“You’re making all this sound like a competition,” she managed to let out a croak. She forced a deep inhale, a quiet rattle following it. She could barely lift her chin, “Then allow me to correct myself so we can select the main character clearly.”

She did not turn to face him, she could not. Her mind was far too stressed to even attempt that.

“I am a failure, in every sense of the word,” she gave a wince at her own decided truth, “I have no strength. I have no sense. I am weak. I am dirt. I am a creature who is scared of the dark and fears even her own shadow. I am stripped and I am pushed. Beaten and torn. Ripped and Rap-“ there was a sharp sudden pause then, the memories of the Summer that she so desperately tried to push down bubbled their way upwards, “I cannot fight. I have no pride. No valour or courage. I am a coward. I hide in the night. I keep distance to protect myself. And those few that I do wish for just slip away. I am unworthy of care. I am unworthy of time. The only one thing I am good at doing is putting of a god damned mask and running away!”

And so, finally, the wall she had built broke, with the mask quickly shattering afterwards. Chaos ruled the mind, a flood of emotions fighting for control yet slipping away once more. Her face stung, her mouth having gone dry with her last push. No more. She could not do it any more. The heart gave in, feelings striking and cancelling, leaving little more than a void. She could not cope, not like this.

How pathetic you are. So weak. So useless. Nothing more than a damned husk!

“I don’t know, what I will become. For I cannot see the future,” she managed to mumble, “But as of right now? What does a petching failure with little song to her name have to lose?”

[Wrenmae]

No.

The caves caught her voice and amplified it, carried it down their caverns to whisper horrid truths in secret places. Long after them, lost, one might struggle on her words and wonder who she was, the little broken girl with a soul of thin glass.

No.

Everything he had imagined between them shattered. The strength he'd seen in her once before, amid dreams, there was some unyielding power there, a stubborness perhaps, a grit, a defiance...and now? Now she was a hollow thing that pretended at life. He had spent his time traveling through the rough and the rugged to see a sister worthy of...

And he understood now. He didn't need a sister, the fact their blood was poured from the same absent mother, the same lost father...it meant nothing. What had mattered was her spirit. Stark and brazen it had drawn him, spoken sweetly to rock he'd made his heart, forced it to beat again. Here, he thought, surely here was my family. Kit was family, Alric was family, Fallon was family. Although the last shared his blood, it was just one thing she had over the others.

It was the strength that had brought him, summoned him as surely as if she had painted the sigils and called to him herself. So when her tears fell, her breath in short ragged bursts, she was an impostor rending the image of connection he had nurtured in his heart of hearts.

She was worse than betrayal.

She was weak.

"No..."

She did not turn when he murmured that, and only began when he charged her. He caught her at her side, yanking her to face him as his muscles bulged and reshaped. Terrible force tore and bubbled beneath the skin of his face, snakes that writhed and hissed. He snarled at her and his teeth were sharp as needles.

She met his eyes with her own, flat brown stones, devoid of fear. What fears that does not thrive to live? Infuriated, Wren picked her off the ground, slamming her against the cave wall with a dull thud. His eyes warped, twisting yellow and red, baleful hate-lights that illuminated a face in chaos. There was no order to the transformations, just pure rage that shifted hair into spines and back to hair again.

And when he spoke, it was as though he was shrieking through broken glass.

"NO! NO! You will not be a coward! You will not be weak! Gods, Fallon, GODS! I stood before the GODS and swore I would not abide weakness in this broken world. You are blood, girl, BLOOD. You will not force me to kill you. You will not be a petching craven!"

Half his words were nearly swallowed in feral snarls, his fingers twisted, warped, clawed at her coat, grew together like tentacles, and shifted back to hands again.

He dropped her, stumbling back in horror at the rapid transformation of his body. Rage. Rage had released the tide. He wanted to tear, strangle, maim, protect...confusing thoughts immediately reacted to by his body and then canceled and rethought.

Instinct drove him to lose himself, but the hatred still flowed. Damn it all then. DAMN it all. She HAD to listen.

"I spent an entire season prisoner and tortured in the dark, Fallon, the dark! My family is dead to my hands. Nothing, Fallon. I am faced with the oblivion of nothing and here I stand! I will fix this petching world by purging its weakness, its limitations. Gods! GODS! You cannot be what I have strangled in places before this. You will not be a failure. Gods, your pride? Your petching pride? You live, You breathe, You think, You gods damned fight! Is this not enough for you? Is your life so unbearable with your damned intelligence and able body? ARE YOU SO PETCHING WRETCHED THAT YOU CAN CRUMBLE AND DIE WITHOUT QUALM?!"

Every year. His life since ten years of age. Those who grew close to him withered, dead, dying of disease. Those he came to love...distant, hating, or also buried beneath frost and stone. He sensed no mark of Vayt on her. He sensed no overwhelming burden. Gods, she could live a normal life...have friends, lovers, a husband even. Her life could be what Wren's could not and all because...she had been raped? Taken by force?

A moment. A collection of moments perhaps. Time would heal her scars and revenge would strengthen her body and mind against it.

But there was no peace for him. There was no collection of moments, only the long tired years.

In that moment he hated her and envied her. He loved the woman he met as fiercely as he hated this one before him now.

The transformations subsided some, and Wren drew his long dagger, glinting in the lantern light. "Draw your sword and defend yourself." He commanded her, stalking forward out of the darkness. At first, she did not move, only watched him...only gods accursedly watched him.

"For the gods' sake," he begged her, tears springing like fireflies at the edges of his glowing eyes, "Do not let me petching kill you."

[Fallon]

Teeth clenched tightly, her fingers curling into fists. The face of rage and anger came into view, her jaw forced to face him. Even as chaos ruled and a blood lust ensnared, the girl stared back. Hair rose, lip twitching almost in response a firm distinct scowl having formed on her face whilst he spat his words. Despite the distinct pain that rose from her back, the tightness of the hold that shifted around her frame, she stared back. Without fear.

A distinct under growl formed a rattling noise that grew sharper and angrier. Blood pumped, the chest heaved as she forced down her weaknesses, as she tried to cover them up. Of course, it was too late by then. Her brother gave his piercing cry, his slight retreat whilst he own rage and emotions controlled him. Had she really shattered such faith in him? Had she destroyed his dream in an instant?

It certainly seemed that way.

“No,” came the echo, “No, it is not good enough. Not on their eyes at least.”

Eyes burned and her back straightened. He was right, of course, his word dictated everything it seemed and as far as she was concerned there was no room for argument. That long stare as he found his tears, the emotions flooding upwards. The weight shifted, her feet finding stance and her left hand tucking behind her belt. The right, turned to the hilt of the tulwar. Fingers gave a tremble, a forced resolve lodging in place. He wanted to fight, so she would have to do that. There was little choice in the matter for her now.

Steel vibrated against its scabbard, a faint ring of noise as it was brought forth. Her right foot went forwards, the left back, the mirrored metal catching the glow. Was she angry? Perhaps, but it was in no way directed at him. It was at her own failings. Her own undirected and chaotic energy that lacked an out lit. No. Direction. Now, there was a focus.

And he was going to kill her.

In the back of her mind, she knew she had no chance. A novice against an opponent of unknown strength? Most probably a lot if he could just demand battle at a whim. Yet, she could not runaway. Not anymore. Not now that she was trapped here to face him down. Nostrils flared, that growl still residing there.

Defend yourself, he demanded.

Her skin gave a prickle, the astral of her arm giving a shudder whilst the very threads that held it in place loosened. If she even wanted a chance she would have to give all she could, she would have to throw all possible things at him. Everything.

The tip of the curved blade gave a hover, swaying gently from side to side, whilst the left arm grew heavy and limp in its loose hold.

Rising to the challenge when there was only the other choice of laying down and dying, her lip curled. She did not want that. She knew deep down she did not want that. No she was better than that. She knew that, but it was accepting it that was the issue. The dulled spark of her mind ignited. If she was not a coward then what was she? She knew not what to call herself.

The ethereal hand gave a prickle, the fine wisp coming to life. Digits flexed, the limb readying itself to strike and grab.

Projection… so much easier than auristics.

“So what am I then? If I am not allowed to be a coward or weak?” she gave a gentle step, lips pursing together, “Or will I not match you and the story that you yourself carry? What do you want me to say?” Her chin gave a rise, almost in defiance to him, cheeks puffing out as she prepared to stand her ground. She would not yield, she told herself.

[Wrenmae]

The changes slowed now, the snakes rippling beneath Wren's skin seemed to shudder once and then go still, dying in his muscles and blood steam. Gold-eyed and narrowed, Wren's eyes circled Fallon. His other hand drew his rapier and for the first seconds of their bout, Wren tested her.

Her long blade, curved, and her other arm danging loosely did not go unobserved. It was as if the life had suddenly fallen from her limb, swinging loosely with each movement she made.

But fool that he was, he never considered she had also studied a magical ability. Stepping forward, he brought his rapier forward like the prow of a narrow ship, seeking harbor in her breast. She batted the blade away with her Tulwar, fast, but not as fast as Wren had hoped. Her movement with the blade still held the rusty facets of novice's understanding. It was not still in the air between parries but nodded at him, shook even, undecided on where exactly to point.

It would be too easy, she would die and he would be left alone...again. Vayt be praised, but he had no choi-

And then she punched him in the throat.

It wasn't with her skin, no, but a force caught Wren against his neck with surprising and savage intent. The breath ran from him in an instant, and the dagger went up to his throat, searching for the blow that had come from nowhere.

Another blow, this time his face, shifting his gaze away as Fallon leaped in with the tulwar. It was instinct that raised Wren's rapier, catching and displacing the larger blade so that it only glanced his shoulder, shrieking along the steel-cloth cloak.

Forcing Djed into his eyes, he sought out the djed of her arm, the one that hung loose.

Damn it all. Projection.

The fight had already been shortened significantly, as his bruised throat struggled to draw in rattling breaths. He wouldn't last, not like this, and even as his skin bubbled and shifted to try and create a better avenue for the windpipe to heal, he knew that it was a waste of time.

Fallon came again, grim-faced, determined...the spark of helplessness and empathy driven out with cold efficiency. Wren ducked the blade, swinging up with his long dagger, catching the Tulwar and reversing his grip on the dagger, pushing it far enough aside to let him step into Fallon's left and bring his rapier's hilt down at her head.

Force. Her ethereal arm caught his real one in an attempt to hold back the blow, instead, the back of Wren's hands brushed across her nose and eyes.

In the moment, he attached several invisible Cordas strings to her eyes, backing away from her as she brought the tulwar up again, striving to cut into the murder's side.

Clenching his hands and tugging, he pulled down the lids on both her eyes with the strings, catching the blade with his dagger and sliding around it, and at Fallon's side, he kicked her in the back, knocking her to the cold ground.

Gasping, he backed away, black spots floating in his vision.

No. Not yet. Never yet. There was still more to do.

But his fingers were becoming numb and his world twisted gently.


There wasn't long left in this exchange.

[Fallon]

It was with a mighty force that Fallon hit the ground, knees first shortly followed by the knuckles of her armed hand. The other was useless, limp and lying, devoid of feeling. There was a heave of the chest, the impact absorbed and racing through. But this was not the time to dally.

Wrenmae was not an opponent to be slow about, or to let ones guard down for too long around. He seemed like a master after all. That or he was just plain lucky.

Her previous blows with the ethereal had landed, and throw him off and successfully caught him by surprise. Not that it seemed to help too much, but it did give the novice an edge. She brought a foot up beneath her, toes pressing against the earth, eyes blinking in the gloom. Was it dirt that got in them? A natural impulse created by that?

The squire shook her head, her eye lids being rubbed against her forearm. She pressed herself up, eyes turning round, the head tilting to give him little more than a glare in his direction. He was rasping, she could hear that, his form forced into backing away. Shoulders rolled, the ethereal returning close to her, poised and ready to strike. Like a snake it swayed, digits gently flexing and the wrist contorting. He was aware of it now, though how aware she was not sure.

Brow knitting she closed in, blade forward, the limp arm back the ethereal clenching shut into a fist. Gentle steps, her foot work focusing on keeping light and fast. If she did not, then she would end up simply butchered at his hand.

All because of the will of his god.

Fallon came close, a teasing strike to lure him out. There was the quiver of steel as it struck; a grind of metal as she met the narrow against her broad. Exploit, use, defeat. The oncoming dagger forced her to duck back again out of range and to safety. Hesitant almost in her own ability to protect herself from harm.

When she last checked, men had three weak spots. The first two she had already exploited, the throat and the head, prime locations for damage and disorientation. From there it made it possible to exploit the moment and defeat the opponent. The other weak spot, well, that was more for causing them to drop like a sack.

Wrenmae, in theory, should be no different.

She burned at him, wrist tilting, the tulwar racing round to catch upon the rapier. The ethereal shot forward, a fist intended for punching instead of grappling. But it was to hit lower this time, away from the sensitive area of the throat but to one far to the south. Just because she was a squire and a member of an order built on honour and other like principles, did not mean she was going to play fair.

The ethereal fist went for the crouch, the tulwar reverberating back to her as it was thrown off and to the side.

She had to keep going to the end.

Right?

[Wrenmae]

Air whistled through his bruised throat in a shrieking sort of dirge. Wren ran on instinct now, catching her tulwar and pushing it back. His aura-enhanced site, focusing on her detatched arm, saw the direction it was heading and followed the parry forward and to the side, swinging out of the way from the blow even as he turned Fallon sideways to continue the battle.

There was a moment when he tossed the dagger up, catching it by the blade and hurling it into the darkness behind her. The blade hit the earth and quivered there, stuck, right behind the girl.

He would not draw the other dagger, permanently blessed with Vayt's poison...one mistake would kill her. Instead he pressed in with his rapier, eyes on her and her astral hand.

But it was gone.

He didn't realize where it had gone till it was too late, parrying a blow as something caught his hair and forced his eyes up and neck exposed, giving Fallon time to swing her Tulwar up at him, desperation and pure instinct driving the killing edge of her blade.

Wren reached up with his other hand, forcing his head down as some of his hair tore, catching the Tulwar against and charging forward, pushing her back in a desperate retreat to escape his close combat. But behind her, the dagger tripped her up, sending the squire sprawling backward, Wren atop her.

It was only her training that kept the Tulwar between her body and the rapier, forcing the barrier between them.

But Wren brought up his free hand under her throat, his fingers twisting into sharpened tips that danced along her throat, a gentle reminder of where this battle could go.

Taking in another shuddering gasp, he blinked back stars and black patches, removed his hand, and rolled off her, releasing his rapier and gently massaging his throat in the mud outside the cave.

"Not...bad" he gasped.

She was strong and resourceful...that was good, just momentary weakness brought on by events...that could be forgiven. Gods, at least she wasn't weak.

"Not...so...weak...or...ordinary....are...you?"

[Fallon]

Fallon laid there, back pressed into the mud, her chest heaving her eyes burning up as still she gave a squirm. Even with the reminder of his own hand did she continue to press and leverage. Or at least until he released her. She gave a swallow, the flat of the tulwar resting against her the deep rise and fall of her chest marking her breathing. Left arm still limp she pushed on returning the astral limb back. It was steadily growing heavy after all, and the sooner she got it reattached the better.

Her eyes however remained upon Wrenmae, watching and waiting, or perhaps more correctly searching. She sat herself up, the blade falling to a clatter on the ground but the eyes ever looking. She gave a blink, shoulders hunching in whilst her brother rubbed at his throat. He had revealed much about himself in a few chimes, where as she herself? Well, she tried her hardest to keep it minimal.

“It’s an illusion I like to maintain. Weak and ordinary,” she spoke sharply, her head snapping away, “Less people know the better after all. Less judgemental that way. Besides…” there was a pause, “A good mage knows not to reveal who they are on a whim.”

She gave a shrug, followed by a wince as the first of the threads attached themselves. Eyes turned down to the dagger imbedded into the ground, before she grasped it tightly with her right hand. Her left was still both heavy and numb feeling, there was no use in rushing it along – that would only cause more harm. Nerves gave a crackle, her face creasing as life stabbed through the limb. Pulling out the dagger she gave it a turn in her hand, before offering it back to him, “I believe you dropped this.”

And there she held it, at least until he took it.

Eyes grew sharp, analytical and studying. He spoke so freely about himself, something she did not quite comprehend. Was it a trick? A trap to lead her into a false sense of security? He spoke of torture and pain, of magic and gods at a moment of notice. Almost as if pushing for his own superiority.

Or covering up his own weakness and guilt. Perhaps that was why she was still alive.

Unless of course there was another reason. She turned her head away once more, eyes looking to the warping shadows created by the lantern light, “You have a change of heart on wanting me dead then?” Her brow rose, the expression turning to one of thought, “Or did you just want to hear some truths now?”

[Wrenmae]

For a few moments, the mage said nothing, only massaged his throat. Perhaps he had overdone it a little. The excitement of a new family bond had overridden his ordinarily common sense regarding his magic and nature. Luckily, he had not espoused too much on himself, none of the truly dangerous facts.

Or had he? It was hard to consider...his morphing was certainly not in control anymore. Now that he had calmed, the shifting had subsided, but the fight had taken far more out of him than he would have preferred. When in danger or in extreme duress, his form began morphing...that was an important fact to know for future entanglements.

Fallon stood over him, back to being the cold wall and handing his blade back to him. Sitting up, the mage took it, spun it, and slid it back into its sheath before picking up his rapier and doing the same. Darkness stretched between them like blankets, wrapping them in the mystery of it all.

He could leave now, or step into the city a different man, never speak to her again...but what would that then accomplish?

She was family now, and by their cursed blood, she would remain so.

"I never wanted you dead," he sighed, running a hand through his hair, "Just tested. Weakness isn't something I abide. I needed to see if you'd been hollowed out by sorrow, or simply covered in it." He offered her a shrug, "It is my way, pardon my rough examination." He took a seat by the cave, setting its rough and cold stone to his back. His breath still whistled slightly, a whisper of life with each cautious sigh.

"Would you offer me truths, Fallon?" he asked at last, "I have given so many of mine so quickly...perhaps I should have practiced more caution. Come, if it is your will, tell me your story...tell me about yourself."