#sabre is actually the superior blade

[shilohta]

Afghgfd deepest apologies you are so cool and so brave for risking having people bonk you on the head with a sword

"And they were foils!"

"Oh my god they were foils"

[mypoisonedvine]

Hii!! First, thank you for letting us enjoy your writing, I absolutely love it!. And for tonight's sleepover (sorry if it seems a bit off, I'll understand if you dont want to write it) but... What about one of Daniel's characters discovering a knife kink, like they love the way reader can defend by themselves, he admires that and can't help but thinking about reader being so dominant, slashing his clothes or their own clothes teasing him. How would they react once reader notices that?

this just SCREAMS sub!zemo at me and hhnng you know I can't say no to that! knife kink obviously but no blood, oral m receiving, premature ejaculation, mention of anal, and lots of teasing c:

Say what you will about EKO Scorpion, but you were a dedicated unit of soldiers. Maybe it was because most of the squadron came from intelligence first, but there was a discipline a lot of other boots-on-the-ground seemed to lack. While they spent their leave in bars and brothels, you were working; all of you were. Training, specifically. Some of the others were training with weights, a few more with guns; but you and the Colonel were on the other side of the barracks, running drills with a much more ancient weapon.

He was there first, you saw him sparring against a dummy with his sabre and you stopped to admire his form for a moment before he caught you watching.

"What a sad little blade you've got there, Lieutenant," he smirked, "it's nothing compared to my broadsword." He waved the weapon in question just for emphasis, and you had to admit he looked pretty good holding it like that.

"It is little, isn't it?" you admitted as you observed the dagger in your hands. "I'm just using it to compensate for my huge dick."

He scoffed but you knew the comment threw him off a little bit. He did a better job than the other men in the unit at ignoring your female-ness, but apparently thinking about whatever was in your pants-- huge dick or otherwise-- wasn't how he expected this conversation to go.

"Spar me?" you suggested.

"Sure, where's your sabre?" he asked.

"No, I'll use this," you clarified, and he seemed both shocked and amused (again).

"Against this?" He waved the sword again.

"Yes! Now will you just get back into form? And try not to stab me too hard?"

He cleared his throat quickly and squared himself up. "No promises," he mumbled.

You made the first move, and though his sword started to come down over you, you were able to catch it in the divot of your dagger's hilt, blocking him so swiftly that he never had a chance to stop you from twisting around and pointing your weapon at his neck, just under his jaw.

He dropped the sword and raised his hands, taking a step back and pressing himself against the wall as you followed him with a raised brow. "Well, that was a bit anti-climactic, huh?" you smirked.

His wide-eyed expression made your heart swell for no good reason at all: here was your Colonel, your commander, someone you looked up to and obeyed without question, looking uncharacteristically submissive-- and not just in general, but to you. The thought hadn't even crossed your mind before, but you liked the rush it gave you.

His gaze glanced down for a second, at himself, and you instinctively followed it; you weren't sure what you were expecting, but it definitely wasn't an obvious boner pressing up against the inside of his uniform trousers. That's what it had to be, right? What else would have that shape, with the ridge of his head visible through the dark green fabric? It looked thick, too... were you drooling already?

"Okay, maybe not anti-climactic for all of us..." you mumbled.

"Exciting, sure," he awkwardly countered, "but I wouldn't quite call it 'climactic'... yet..."

You grinned and stepped even closer, delicately running the blade over his jaw; he had just enough stubble that you were more likely to give him a sudden shave than to actually cut him. Not that you'd ever want him to shave the stubble, because you secretly loved it. "I can fix that," you whispered. "What was it that got you excited, then, Colonel? The blade, the fight, the way I casually walked in here and kicked your ass?"

"A little bit of everything," he decided after swallowing thickly. "H-how sharp is that, anyway?"

"Really sharp," you promised, moving the blade down lower to run over where his neck met his shoulder. "I could cut you. I should stop then, right? You don't want me to cut you."

"Don't stop," he whispered.

You moved the dagger lower again, this time to the collar of his shirt where you slipped it underneath and started to slowly slice your way down, right through the standard-issue cotton fabric. You mainly just focused on your work but caught a glimpse of his mouth falling slack above you.

You'd seen him shirtless before, you end up seeing your comrades in various states of undress when you're in the field together this long, but it looked different with his chest rising and falling every time he panted, with a thin layer of sweat over the highest point of where his pecs were dusted with blonde-ish-brown-ish hair.

You dropped to your knees in front of him, ghosting the side of the cool metal over his fly and watching him tense up. "Y-you're not gonna cut me there, right?"

"No," you answered, suddenly sliding the shining tip of it right between his legs, where his balls must've been turning blue waiting for you to stop teasing him; he started to creep up onto his tiptoes to avoid getting pricked as you continued, "not if you behave."

You looked up at him expectantly.

"You're going to behave, right?"

"Yes, Lieutenant," he nodded quickly, and it was so odd to hear him say that as if you were his superior. You liked the feeling, though, it made you want this more than ever.

You sliced the button of his fly clean off; you hooked the tip of the blade into the end of his zipper and carefully pulled it down.

"Fuck," you heard him mumble as his cock was freed, looking so lonely and achingly hard. You couldn't even stop yourself from leaning forward and swallowing up the tip of it, hearing him moan and feeling his hands grab at your hair right away.

"Hands to yourself, Colonel," you stopped to correct him quickly, and he slammed his hands back against the wall with all the desperation of a man who would do anything to get you to keep sucking his cock. Thankfully for him you did, running your tongue up under the base of it before suckling at the head once more, going just a bit deeper with each bob of your head.

"Oh god," he groaned, "s-so good, it's so good... please don't stop."

It was the sadist in you that had to stop right then, though you gave him a little mercy by stroking his cock slowly with your free hand while twirling the knife with the other. "How long has it been since somebody got you off, Colonel? Other than yourself."

"Can't even remember," he admitted with a sigh, "even just by myself. You know we can hardly ever get a moment alone in a unit like this. But I know the last time I got off, I was thinking about this."

"This?" you repeated, bewildered.

"Exactly this," he confirmed.

"That's funny, cause the last time I got off, I was thinking about you, too," you grinned.

"Really? You thought about me when you touched yourself?" he smiled.

"I never said I was alone the last time I got off, Colonel," you reminded him. "No, I was with somebody... and while he was fucking me I was imagining how much better you would do it."

"Oh, fuck," he sighed as his head fell back against the wall; you kept stroking him as you started sucking again, bringing the side of the blade up against the crotch of his pants again just to see how he squirmed with his cock still in your mouth. "I'd fuck you so much better, Lieutenant, you know I would... let me show you."

You had to pull off of him before you smiled too hard to keep going. "Oh, Colonel, I don't think that's a good idea. I think I should just keep sucking you off until you come-- shouldn't take you very long, you're already trying not to come all over my face as we speak-- and then leave you be. Keep it simple, you know."

"N-no, I need more, fuck," he hissed.

"No, you definitely don't," you chuckled, "you can come right now, just from this. Is that what you wanna do? You wanna come down my throat right now?"

"No, I wanna see you," he explained, "wanna touch you-- I need to make you come, Lieutenant, it's all I've been thinking about for months."

"Okay, let's make a deal then," you offered. "I'm going to keep sucking your cock and if you can keep from coming for fifteen seconds, you can do whatever you want to me. You can fuck me right here on this floor, you can eat my pussy until I pass out-- you can put it in my ass, if you really want. Whatever you're into, whatever you've been thinking about when you get yourself off."

His eyes were so wide as you said that, you worried they'd just fall out onto the floor.

"But if you come, all you're getting is the memory of this afternoon as material for your pathetic little spank bank of fantasies. Deal?"

He could only nod weakly as he stared down at you.

"Count for me, Colonel," you demanded, hearing him start with 'one' the moment you wrapped your lips around him again.

He almost lost count right away, because clearly he hadn't been expecting you to pull out all the stops-- you sucked hard, you bobbed your head and twisted your hand over his spit-slicked length, you trailed the blade slowly down his thigh through his trousers. "Two, th-three, four, five..." he breathed, whimpering a little when you looked up at him and made a moment of eye contact. "Fuck, uh, six, seven..."

You pressed your tongue against his slit and felt his hand jump up to grab your hair instinctively. You kept sucking and stroking as you circled it with the tip of your tongue, moaning around him even though you hadn't even really meant to.

"Eight, f-fuck... ni-- oh, god!" he groaned, and even you were surprised as you tasted salty, warm come beginning to coat your tongue. He held you down with his grip on the back of your head, cock twitching as streams of come shot to the back of your throat. You almost gagged, but managed to keep it together until he was done, at which point you pulled back and showed him your full mouth before closing and swallowing it in one go.

"Not even ten seconds, Colonel, that's a shame," you grinned, loving how embarrassed and flustered and exhausted he looked, "I was really looking forward to being all yours, however and whenever you wanted me... oh well."

You shrugged and stood up, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

"You don't last very long in a sparring match, huh?" you chuckled, tossing the blade to him and seeing him fumble but managed still to catch it. "Better luck next time."

You left without another word, though his dumbfounded expression proved he had plenty to say, just no wherewithal to do so. You could only hope that he'd find a chance sometime soon to get his revenge on you, because you were really looking forward to losing your next bet with him.

[workingforitallthetime]

fictional 🥺 kingsguard 🥺 fic 🥺🥺🥺 your mind!!!!!!!

“Again.” The command is out of the prince’s mouth before his sabre finishes rattling against the flagstones. Owen’s just disarmed him, but Brendan’s grinning as he shakes out his hand and snatches up his weapon. He dances back a pace and takes a sparring stance.

Matty thought it was an honor when he and Owen were hand-picked out of their regiment to join the kingsguard as the youngest of its members. He thought they were assigned to the crown prince’s personal detail because they were the most promising, the best of the recruits in their training class at the northern military outpost in Ann Arbor.

But he understands now, well into his third season at the palace, that they were just the only ones who could keep up with Brendan.

Owen has Brendan on his heels, as usual. Brendan, undeterred, keeps up a steady stream of taunting as Owen backs him around the courtyard. The silvery clash of their sabres echoes off the stone walls. Matty’s never understood why the both of them are so dedicated to learning such a useless weapon. Brendan, he suspects, appreciates its flair, but the curved sabre looks like a toy in Owen’s big hand. They’re both better with broadswords, anyway. Brendan’s heavy strike is his best advantage.

Not that he’ll have much need for it. The prince’s swordsmanship is limited to courtyard training sessions with his guard, as Matty and Owen try to exhaust him enough to sit still through whatever duties of statecraft King Patrice has entrusted him with this week.

It would be disloyal to wonder exactly how fit Brendan will be to lead the country when he ascends to the throne someday, so Matty doesn’t. It doesn’t matter if the prince isn’t the best at keeping track of things, or making good decisions. He’ll have the hearts of the people, anyway. The kingdom loves Brendan. Everybody does. Brendan’s easy to love.

“The Big Dog’s got this one,” Nick says, striding into the courtyard and joining Matty on the bench as Owen lands what would be a slicing cut on the protective cuff of Brendan’s leather glove.

“Wait for it.” Matty anticipates Brendan’s next move, the scrape of their blades together as Brendan twists through his backhand and ends up with the tip of his blade at Owen’s collar.

Brendan throws his arms out wide in victory. Owen taps him once on his shinguards with the flat of his sabre, toeing the line between the camaraderie the prince wants and the reserve their superior officer expects.

“Well done.” Nick claps, slow and only a little bit sarcastic. 

“Captain Blankenburg.” Brendan ambles toward them, pretending he’s only just noticed the audience. He takes a cloth from the bag that rests on the bench and wipes down his blade. “What’s my father want?”

“I’m here for your lieutenant, actually.” Nick kicks at the side of Matty’s boot. “The king wants to see you in his study.”

Matty tries to swallow the reflexive dread that still creeps into his throat when he’s notified of an audience with the king. The seasons have passed without King Patrice or his underlings speaking to Matty about the events in Terrebonne last summer, but Matty can’t shake the fear that he could be relieved of his duties at any moment. Exiled from the palace and assigned to guard the stables in Plymouth. Or stripped of his commission entirely, sent home to the opposite coast with no choice but to be the scholar his parents always expected him to become.

“But Matty was next,” Brendan objects, already pulling two wooden practice swords from the rack.

“I think I can fill in.” Nick’s grinning already. The prince’s detail lacks the cachet of direct service to the king, but it is, inarguably, more enjoyable.

As Brendan and Nick start to spar, Matty tucks in his shirt and trades his practice leathers for his stiff maize and blue uniform jacket. He straps on his sword belt and takes a moment to polish the hilt with the cloth Brendan dropped. Licking his thumb, he props his boot on the bench and scrubs a spot off the toe. He straightens his shoulders. “Everything in order?”

Owen looks him over. He stands up to briskly smooth down Matty’s sleeves. “You’re fine.”

Matty can’t tell if it’s an assessment of his uniform, or if it’s meant to be reassuring. Owen was in Terrebonne too, but he doesn’t blame himself like Matty does. Nor should he.

The route from the prince’s quarters to the king’s study takes him through the airy central corridor of the palace. It’s quiet today, with only a small crew of palace staff working to trim browning fronds from the palms and skim imperfections from the surface of the fountains. The empty throne room is open to the sea, canopied from the spring sunshine. The two members of the kingsguard who flank the doorway at the side of the dais let Matty through without comment.

Down the hallway, two more of the king’s men wait at either side of the door to his study, one of them unexpected. Matty tips his head in acknowledgment. “Lieutenant Larkin.” He’d heard of the new addition to the kingsguard, who had his own reputation in Ann Arbor, but hadn’t yet encountered him.

“Beniers.” Larkin knocks twice on the king’s door with the back of his hand. “Go on in.”

The heavy wooden door closes behind Matty with an echoing thud. He approaches the king’s desk at the far end of the long narrow study, past shelves lined with trophies and tributes and a wide table spread with military maps that ripple in the light breeze from the broad windows. Sunlight glints on the ocean in the distance and silhouettes the king at his desk, making Matty squint and blink as he stands at attention.

“Lieutenant Beniers.” King Patrice looks up from his papers. “You won’t be accompanying the prince to Terrebonne this summer.”

Matty swallows. “Yes, your grace.” Of course he won’t. That’s only fair. Who’ll go in his place, though? Who else can keep Brendan safe, Matty wonders, even as he knows he failed miserably at the task last year.

“I had expected that Prince Thomas would be a suitable match, but it appears after last summer that will not be the case.” The king’s blue eyes pierce Matty.

“Yes, your grace.” Matty can’t hide the hint of uncertainty in his voice. Prince Brendan and Prince Thomas were comrades since boyhood, with Brendan’s summers in Terrebonne remaining the king’s strongest tie to his own homeland. It was understood the alliance would be strengthened through marriage someday. There was no reason for last summer to change that. Nothing about the debacle last summer was Prince Thomas’s fault.

“My son will be spending the summer in Nova Scotia instead.”

“Nova Scotia?” Matty blurts, before remembering to tack on “...your grace.”

The king considers him for a moment before responding. “Sidney of Crosby has done well to develop the strength of his nation’s fleet.” 

Matty has never encountered King Patrice’s protegee, who ascended to the throne of his home country before Matty came to the king’s service. He’s only heard Prince Brendan speak of him, often with the fondness of childhood memories, but once, bitterly, as “the son my father wanted.”

“It would be of use,” the king continues, “if the prince’s time in Nova Scotia facilitated an alliance by marriage.”

The king’s face is shadowed in the blinding sunlight behind him. All Matty can see are his eyes, pinning Matty in place, communicating an expectation Matty doesn’t understand. “A marriage?” 

“My son would be an asset to Sidney.”

“An asset,” Matty says slowly, aware that he’s repeating things.

“Sidney’s stewardship of the realm is skilled, but it is not…” The king pauses, choosing his words carefully. “Compelling.”

Matty nods, once. So that’s it. The king would give Brendan to another country to love, because its people don’t love Sidney of Crosby enough. He forces his fingers to relax their over-tight grip on his sword hilt. King Patrice did not have to favor him with an explanation, and Matty’s tempting a rebuke by asking further, but he can’t help it. “Are our own defenses so weak?”

The king’s chair scrapes across the stone floor as he stands from his desk. He paces over to the map table. Away from the direct sunshine, Matty can see the lines of worry on his face. “The Golden Knights are not a threat to be underestimated.”

[teletraan-meets-jarvis]

A Girl Like You

AO3 Link

Pairing: Little bit of Wolffe x fem!Jedi Reader

Summary: You end up having a lightsaber sparring match with Anakin and the clones watch on from the sidelines. Wolffe admires the view.

Warnings: 13+, Wolffe eyeing up the reader.

Word Count: 2k

Author's Notes: This is my first attempt at writing some sort of battle scene, I hope I pulled it off alright. This is mostly a fic about the Dathomiri/Mandalorian reader in order to help me practice writing battles, but I have thrown in Wolffe being cheeky because I couldn't resist. Any feedback is always appreciated, as are reblogs! Fic is below the cutoff, thanks very much for reading x

You’re not entirely sure how you got yourself into this situation. You’d been sitting among a few members of your battalion, the 104th, along with General Skywalker, Commander Tano, the usual suspects from the 501st and a few of the Coruscant Guard commanders, getting yourselves ready to head out for a night out among the lower levels of Coruscant. While you’d been waiting for the last few stragglers to get some fresh armour on before heading out, Anakin had somehow dragged you into some pissing contest about lightsaber designs and which were the most effective in combat. You carried a double bladed weapon, and Anakin had been poking you about how ineffective he’d found them to be in battle. You know he was just trying to get a rise out of you and you hated that it worked.

So that’s how you ended up here, with the challenge of a sparring match presented to you by Anakin. He wanted to test his theory as to what weapon was superior in battle.

“Loser buys the first round at 79’s for everyone” The General suggested. You looked around, there must be at least twenty of you heading out tonight, would your credits even cover that?

“You’re on.” Guess you could always get a few waters and lie to the men. Fox could probably do with a slow start to the drinking anyways.

The three Jedis present used the force to clear some tables out the way, creating a space for the fight. Ahsoka outlined some rules before the event began, which were; no force use on each other, no dirty tricks and please don’t actually hurt each other. Should the latter happen, at least they had Kix there ready to fix them up, even if he was supposed to be off duty.

Once the space was cleared, you got up from your spot amongst the Wolfpack who were hyping you up like you were some pay-per-view sports person about to head into the ring. The 501st boys were cheering for Anakin as Rex gave him a pep talk before sending him off into their makeshift battle arena.

The two of you took your spots opposite each other. You were both still wearing your usual battle clothes, just clean alternatives. Anakin’s fresh, dark coloured robes were neatly wrapped around him, his growing hair hanging just above his eyes as he readied himself for the fight.

You yourself were in a form fitting grey and white jumpsuit which flared slightly at the leg. The sleeves were short, showing off the grey Dathomiri markings on your arms which were dotted across your fair Mandalorian skin. Your whole ensemble was finished off with a single, battle-worn shoulder piece which carried the Wolfpack insignia. Your short blonde hair was in it’s signature half up, half down look, keeping it out of your way.

You both readied yourselves and your eyes met. You could feel the confidence radiating off of him and you knew exactly why. Despite being the same age as Anakin, you were still a Padawan under Master Plo. However, from your Master’s recent suggestions, that wouldn’t be the case for long.

You took a moment to calm yourself. Remembering your training, you let the audience disappear until it was just the two of you. You opened your eyes and readied your lightsaber. You took the handle and held it out in front of you, the space for the two blades coming out either side of your grip. You clicked the weapon on and it buzzed to life. Two green blades in perfect unison. You twirled the weapon around your fingers, pulling it to your side as you got into your initial stance. Leaning back on your right bent leg, your left outstretched in front of you, one half of your weapon inches away from the right side of your head, ready to go.

Anakin had done the same and with some flare, had gotten into his stance. You were both ready.

“After you, Skyguy” and with that, Anakin took the first lunge. You brought your lightsaber up just below your chin, holding it sideways to block his straight swipe down across your head. Your faces inches apart before you both pushed off of each other and started stalking around in a circle, waiting for who would make the next move.

An unspoken understanding in the air between you both, the knowledge that you could push each other to your limits, in a way the Jedi wouldn’t normally encourage in training. The thought sent a slight thrill through your body, you always went into every battle with utmost control, always trying to be a model Commander. You always had to prove to the council that you weren’t a threat, that you could the resist the dark side that came so naturally to your kind. But right now, for the first time, you could really let loose and trial your power with Anakin as you knew he’d be doing the exact same.

The tension in the room was thick, the focused stares between the Jedi entrancing everyone present as they danced around one another.

You both rushed to the centre of the space, sabres clashing right in front of your faces. A cyan glow lit up your features, both sporting wicked grins. The power you both held evident among the spectators. You thought you heard a few gasps from the crowd, but all your focus was directed at the Knight in front of you. His feral smirk held as he spoke from behind the clash of your weapons. “Don’t get too flustered now, I know I look great under blue light”

“Don’t flatter yourself, General” You chuckled as you pushed off each other. Stalking once more.

When you clashed again, it was all a blur. Hit after hit. He was relentless. Your weapons created a bright light show as you kept up with Anakin’s offensive. He pushed you further back, the wall behind you growing closer. You blocked his next hit and took a moment to plan. He was getting confident, too confident. You could use that to your advantage.

You ducked below his next swing and went for his legs, causing him to do a backflip back to the centre. Finally, some breathing room. Now it was your turn to go on the offensive. You charged forward and restarted the fast pace. Delivering blow after blow to Anakin’s defence. Your double blades keeping him on his toes as you made sure to never favour one side of your weapon.

You were both high from the strength you put on display, you don’t remember the last time you let loose like this. You were both sweating slightly, grinning at the enjoyment of such a challenging fight. One strike from Anakin had you swinging your lightsaber over you shoulder to guard your back, as you blocked a particularly dirty move from the General. From the sidelines, you heard Ahsoka reprimanding her Master and reminding him that this was only a sparring match. You raised your eyebrow at the General who just shrugged, still sporting a confident smirk on his face. It was on.

—————

The clones were mesmerised. Of course they’d seen their Jedis fight hundreds of times in battle, but they never had the time to just watch and appreciate. The pair were so different, where Anakin was like a controlled tornado, skill and strength on the brink of being unleashed. Your approach was measured, plotting, more like a slow song building up. Every move you made was calculated, as if you were playing a game of chess.

Wolffe couldn’t help but appreciate the view as you lunged an attack at Anakin. You and Wolffe had been fighting alongside each other for years now but he’d never really seen you like this. Your orange eyes sharp, body tense, feet light as you danced with Anakin. Green and blue clashing. Your moves so smooth and flowing into one another yet contrasted by displays of dangerous power, reminding him of the waters back on Kamino. You looked incredible and he couldn’t help getting pulled into the atmosphere, cheering alongside the rest of his brothers. There was a new feeling in his chest as he watched you battle. Their Jedi. His Jedi.

He continued to stare as the fight raged on. He bloomed with pride when his eyes found your Wolfpack insignia on your shoulder, which perfectly matched your battalion colour-scheme outfit. Speaking of, his eyes couldn’t help themselves as they drifted along your body, finding all the places where that jumpsuit hugged your small curves just right. The way your toned arms strained as you swung your weapon. The way your skin markings lead beneath the v-neckline you’d left at the front of your jumpsuit from the zipper, teasing almost. You were a vision. Maker get ahold of yourself. He shook his head, as if it would clear the racy thoughts from his mind. It didn’t.

Back at the event, there were lulls and peaks in the fight, moments where you were studying each other and others where your lightsabers were in near constant contact as you fought to keep up with the other’s moves.

“You’ve got this General, take her down” Jesse shouted from his position in the sidelines.

“Commander, kick his ass!” Boost piped up in your support.

———————

The crowd getting involved seemed to spur Anakin on further, your next clash resulted in him being able to swing your lightsaber from your grasp. Kriff. Suddenly you felt the tell-tale heat radiating off his weapon onto your throat, only a few millimetres separating them. The 501st were cheering in support of their General while Anakin looked over to his adoring fans, soaking up the praise. You just smirked from your defenceless position.

“You shouldn’t get so cocky, General” you stated casually, pulling him out of his moment.

“What?” Before he could react, you knocked his weapon away from your chin as your right leg hooked around the back of his and sent him sprawling onto his back. You used the force to grab his weapon as you went to kneel on his chest, his own lightsaber now readied towards his throat.

The crowd watched on in shock for a few seconds before the Wolfpack jumped out their seats and started cheering. You’d officially just defeated The Chosen One in a sparring match.

You chuckled at their reactions and Anakin’s pout before helping the General up. You returned his weapon and watched as he stalked back over to his battalion, his pride in tatters. Looking over at your own squad, Comet and Boost were winding up Jesse and Fives over how their Jedi was superior.

As you made your way back over the 104th troopers jumped on you chanting “Wolfpack! Wolfpack! Wolfpack!” some of them even started howling. You just laughed and pushed them off you.

“You’re such dorks” you chuckled, ruffling Sinker’s hair as he walked back to his seat.

“I believe you dropped this sir” Wolffe came over and extended your weapon out to you. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to retrieve your weapon from wherever it’d be thrown in a fight.

“Thank you, Commander” you said with a smile. You were both standing slightly away from the others who were still teasing the 501st, with help from Commander Thorn. Wolffe had a strange look on his face, like he was contemplating something.

“You looked good out there” he piped up, his usual bravado replaced with something more unsure. However, his walls were back up before you could tell what it was.

“You telling me I look good, Wolffe?” You teased, hoping to wind him up a little bit.

“Maybe I am” he replied with a smirk, his eyes giving you a once over boldly in front of you. You blushed at the sudden attention. Well this was new.

“You two Commanders done flirting or can we go now? There’s a free round waiting for us!” Ahsoka shouted from across the way.

You and Wolffe looked at each other for a moment longer before you chuckled and nodded your head in the direction of the exit. “We should head off”.

As you walked side by side with the clone Commander, you thought back to the way he looked at you. There was something in his eyes, admiration, maybe even want? You couldn’t tell, but you definitely wanted to find out. Maybe a few drinks would loosen him up enough to see what was going on in that handsome head of his.

Back to Masterlist

[greatworldwar2]

• Chinese Dadao War Sword

The dadao was a purpose built chopper used by some Chinese militia units against Japanese invaders in the Second Sino-Japanese War, occasioning "The Sword March".

The dadao war sword is a symbol of martial valor, exemplified by the bravery of the Chinese WWII soldier who fought with swords against the technologically superior Japanese forces. Dadao or dao are single-edged Chinese swords, primarily used for slashing and chopping. The most common form is also known as the Chinese sabre, although those with wider blades are sometimes referred to as Chinese broadswords. The Dadao soldier made up for his inferior fighting equipment, with his fighting spirit and martial skills. Both the Nationalist (GMD) “Guoshu” program and the later Communist (CCP) “Wushu” movement sought to use the martial arts to strengthen the people, improve public health and build a sense of nationalism. However, these movements have also had a darker side. In times of conflict both national and local leaders have used them to militarize the population, supporting paramilitary organizations and guerrilla forces. In order to wield the sword, one needs to be of a certain fitness level. The harsh training and strict selection of the Chinese Northwest Army ensured that.

Due to a shortage of firearms in the Chinese military. In order to effectively use the dadao, ambushes on Japanese troops were done by the Chinese military and patriotic resistance groups when ammunition was low or when the element of surprise was available. The dadao realistically speaking were obsolete before they were issued. There really wasn’t a realistic use of dadaos charging against machine guns and artillery. However, the dadao even though obsolete were used bravely and courageously by the Chinese troops charging into the fray of attacks and sometimes were successful in stymie or repelling attacks, especially when used in close in hand to hand melee situations. Generally speaking the Dadaos were issued to enlisted men in the Chinese troops while guntos were issued to Japanese officers. Training with Dadaos was very basic and not a life long regiment. Training with the gunto for Japanese officers usually is a life long training for the Japanese officer. However use of the dadao against rifle/bayonets were quite common and in these instances, the dadao held its own.

The dadao is a heavy sword running between 4 to 4–1/2 pounds, so it is really effective in blocking/deflecting heavy weapons such as the rifle/bayonet. The dadao is also a very effective slashing/chopping weapon, actually a much better chopper than a katana. The long handle allows for one handed use as well as two handed use when needed. The signature ringed pommel on a dadao allows for a ring grip swing thus increasing the sword’s effective reach by about 10 inches. Do to it's impressive weight and length of the blade. During the Second Sino-Japanese War the Chinese claim that whenever they had a chance for close engagement, the dadao was so deadly that they could cut off the heads of Japanese soldiers with ease. The weapon captured the public’s imagination, becoming the defacto symbol of the paramilitary organization during this period. This blade caught the mood of the country for many reasons. It harkened back to a romanticized view of the past, and it advertised the “martial skill” and attainment of the one who could wield it. It was a visually impressive weapon and had a long association with the less pleasant aspects of Chinese law enforcement.

The weapon had another advantage as well. It could be produced very cheaply in almost any small shop or forge in the country. China was certainly capable of producing modern weapons though their quality was variable. But it was still cheaper to arm the home guards, militias and second line troops with traditional weapons such as the spear and the dadao. The average Dadao from the 1920s-1940s had a heavy blade with a V-shaped profile that descends from a thick spine. The body of the blade is usually mono-steel, though variations did occur.

[petermorwood]

I saw a post of yours where you talk about flamberge blades, and how they existed for the twin purposes of looking cool and of making parries parties uncomfortable, but you left out one thing (albeit something most people leave out): they can simply have more stopping power than a normal blade. As it goes in on the thrust, the waves slice up and down through the flesh (especially if the hand rotates), causing internal lacerations and, thus, a fair deal more bleeding and/or muscular damage.

The reason why “flamberge blade = increased stopping power” isn’t usually mentioned is because it’s not given much credence except on the internet.

I’ve just looked through a baker’s dozen of my books, and only one - “Swords and Daggers” (Frederick Wilkinson © 1967) - says anything about flamberge blades causing extra damage. Even then Wilkinson goes no further than speculating “was believed to” with reference to cut, not thrust. The other books don’t say a word about it.

”Flamboyant blade” is a correct alternative to “flamberge blade” and a lot of historians seem to prefer it. There’s fair reason: in the 17th century “flamberge / flambard” meant a particular style of rapier with a dish hilt, and for extra confusion these rapiers usually had straight blades.

Despite all the on-line forensic descriptions of “more damage this / harder to stitch that / internal lacerations the other”, none ever go on to explain why, if flamberge blades were so much better, so few weapons in the whole of history were shaped that way.

Khopesh; gladius; Viking sword; Knightly sword; claymore two-hand; claymore basket-hilt; katana; 1796 Light Cavalry sabre; Bowie knife; Ka-Bar fighting knife; Fairbairn-Sykes Commando dagger - all famously good at cutting or thrusting, yet not one with a flamberge blade.

In three centuries of bayonets-of-all-nations, a few 17th-century plug bayonets like these are the only ones I know of, and they all seem private-purchase, not issue, and some historians think they were for hunting, not war…

The hunting theory may be based on boar-swords like this…

…though yet again, an image search turned up far more plain blades.

The single historical popularity-blip was the Zweihänder, a sword which seems to have a flamberge blade more often than any other kind of sword. Were there more flamberge Zweihänders than straight ones? I don’t know; but I doubt it. Modern survival doesn’t mean period popularity.

Maybe in-period they were “believed to be” more effective at chopping pike-shafts, or maybe the Landsknecht and Reislaufer mercenaries who wielded them just liked a flamboyant weapon to go with their flamboyant clothing.

As another of my books (”European Swords and Daggers in the Tower of London” - Arthur R. Dufty, Master of the Armouries © 1974) puts it:

With the increased use of water-power, grinding wavy edges onto a straight blade became a lot easier to do than by hand, and far easier than actually forging them that way. I’ve mentioned before, how to tell one from the other is to look at the centreline - is it straight or undulating? Except for one bayonet and one boar-sword, every blade pictured here originally had plain edges.

It’s more likely that so many flamberges survive because they looked different and imposing, going from use on the battlefield to being carried in parades and processions, then - instead of being cut down into something smaller - onto mansion or chateau walls alongside swords made of sawfish snouts and other curiosities, and ultimately into museums.

Some are even more imposing, like this Grossmesser / Zweihänder cross…

Conspicuous consumption is another matter entirely. It’s no accident that most  non-Zweihänder flamberge swords look one-off, expensive and impressive.

But not superior in either cut or thrust, or everybody would have wanted and tried to have one.

[apieters]

The clash of steel rang on the streets of the Magic Kingdom as a furious duel erupted in New Orleans Square. In the midst of a band of soldiers all the way from Agrabah, lead by Captain Razoul, two swordsman stood their ground, slashing and thrusting back-to-back against superior odds—in other words, it was a fairly average Friday afternoon for Christopher “Chris” Carnovo and André Caron, the Swashbucklers of the Magic Kingdom.

A stranger duo couldn’t be found from the Frozen lands of Arendelle to the Primeval World. Chris was a young, greyish-blue tyrannosaur, dressed in a blue pirate’s coat belted with a white sash, wielding a rapier with lightning-fast thrusts. André was a young man with shaggy brown hair and a black padded jacket, slashing violently at his foes with a sabre. The soldiers of Agrabah pressed hard on every side, but the odd pair had two things in their favor—they were both masters in the art of swordsmanship, and they had been fighting together since childhood.

Chris and André had a long and colorful career—starting as privateers in their youth, the two had almost single-handedly cleared the seas of pirates such as the notorious Captains Nathaniel Flint, Henry Morgan and “Black Bart” Roberts, before taking up service as fight choreographers in their young adult years. The two friends had choreographed almost every fight scene in almost every movie made in the Magic Kingdom, a land of princes and princesses, wizards and witches, pirates and knights, talking animals and other motley characters. Under the leadership of Mickey Mouse, the protégé of the late Good King Walt, the Magic Kingdom was a land of art, culture, and storytelling, producing some of the finest movies in the world. But while some made their names on the silver screen as actors or served the Kingdom as statesmen and captains of industry (often all three), others made their names behind the scenes. Chris and André belonged to the latter category, but their work had made them many friends all over the Magic Kingdom—friends that sometimes had need of their special set of skills.

“Just once, I’d like to be called in for a favor that doesn’t involve the risk of getting stabbed!” André Caron snapped at the tyrannosaur as he slashed up, knocking a sword out of a soldier’s hand.

“We’re professional swordsmen, André,” Chris shot back as he spiraled his rapier, sending another scimitar flying out of a soldier’s grip. “What kinds of favors do you expect people need from us?” He lunged to the side just as a soldier was trying to flank his friend, arresting the attack. The two shifted positions effortlessly, their efforts coordinated like a dance. “Besides,” he smirked, parrying a wild cut from another soldier, “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“I left it at home with the good book I was reading!” André shouted. A soldier rushed him and he grabbed the soldier’s wrist, wrenching his arm back before kicking him into his comrades.

“So, you don’t think we should be out here rescuing our friend?” Chris asked, spiraling his blade to intercept a cut and slashing at a second swordsman before thrusting over his shoulder at the first.

“I never said we shouldn’t be here,” André said, smashing his guard into a soldier’s forehead before parrying another incoming strike. “Just don’t expect me to be happy about it!” He swiped wide, left and right, whirling his sword in a dangerous dance of steel. He plowed through the soldiers, knocking them this way and that, clearing a way for the tyrannosaur. “Alright, Chris, I’m holding off as many as I can. Find Razoul and work your magic.”

This is the opening scene of a Disney fan-fiction story I’m rewriting. I started writing it for a couple reasons:

1) Chris needed a home. I’ve been drawing this swashbuckling tyrannosaur and his human companion (yes, André is named after me—there aren’t enough characters with my name, and that needs to be fixed) for just about 20 years now, and figured he needed a proper story. But what kind? Well, as I looked back, I realized that he was always sort of inserting himself into whatever I was interested in or reading at the time—piracy, Disney movies, books, etc. He was always a fan-fic character. So he needed to be in a fanfiction story. And as I tend to prefer a Disney-esque/traditional Western cartoon style, I decided he needed to be a Disney character—just one who works off-screen.

2) I really want to write original stories. I have at least 3 or 4 solid concepts, but when I decided in college that I wanted to write, I figured out I SUCKED at dialogue. And pretty much everything else. I had some raw talent, but of course that’s never enough—and being a perfectionist, I wasn’t going to waste an original story as my first attempt at learning the craft of writing. So I started exploring blogs about writing fantasy and credible, published authors all said the same thing: they started by writing fan-fiction. The reason they gave was that it was motivating because you already love the characters, and the world building and character creation is done for you (you can learn those skills later), leaving you free to focus on more fundamental aspects of writing craft—things like dialogue, pacing, plotting, planning, description, active vs. passive voice, all that jazz. So I decided to follow their advice.

I said earlier I was rewriting it—well, I got a little more than halfway through and the story just ran out of gas. The characters, I realized, would never and could never do the things necessary to advance the plot without breaking character, getting themselves killed, or using a dues ex machina. There were too many dangling plot threads, too many unnecessary characters, and after five years of intermittent drafting (I was in college, then I’ve had a day job or been job hunting ever since—I’m busy) I had gotten to know my characters (or my interpretations of several preexisting Disney characters) well enough that I could see major inconsistencies across the 200+ pages I had written. So I decided to go back to the beginning and rework the plot, making it a lot more consistent and focusing on a tighter core of characters. This scene was not in the original draft, and I think it establishes my characters far better than what I’d written before (which was essentially an info-dump of exposition—classic mistake).

Artist Behind the Scenes

Illustrating the picture presented several difficulties—one, I absolutely loathe myself for constantly choosing ground like grass or—in this case—cobblestones, which require a lot of repetitive, regular shapes. But that’s what the picture required, so I decided to make the cobblestones a little scribbled and blurry, and made the background lines thicker and fuzzier too. The biggest challenge was drawing multiple opponents—each guardsman is a unique person and requires individual attention to meet my minimum visual quality standards, and I can’t get away with vaguely soldier-looking blobs (as I’ve done in other pictures) since they are an integral part of the action that is the main focus of the piece.

The solution was to remember the adage, “the essence of the picture is the frame.” By positioning Chris and André just right in the frame and filling up as much space as I could using them, I could get away with only drawing parts of most of the guardsmen to give the effect of an outnumbered, chaotic street duel. I ended up framing the two characters with a ring of enemies, with Razoul appearing in the back to round out the impression of being surrounded on all sides.

The scimitar sabres (“scimitar” is a European butchering of the Persian shamshir) were a compromise between the way the Agrabah guards’ weapons appear in the movie Aladdin (where they are comically short and fat and have a clipped point) and real weapons. No actual Middle Eastern sword, to my knowledge, ever had a clipped point, which was actually a common feature of European single-edged swords like falchions and messers (which probably were the real inspiration behind Western artwork’s depictions of Eastern sabres); few sabres were ever as fat as the cartoons make them out to be; and most Middle Eastern sabres have straight, not recurved quillons. Most real sabres were relatively narrow, light swords meant for slashing/draw-cutting from horseback, not percussive chopping, and instead of a clipped point Turkish sabres often had a flared, double-edged tip called a yelman. I was thus faced with an artistic dilemma: integrity to reality or integrity to the source I was emulating. These are supposed to be the same guards as appeared in the “One Jump Ahead of the Breadline” musical number in Aladdin, armed with the same weapons; yet the action is taking place in “real life,” off-camera. I ultimately decided on a compromise: the scimitars would retain the same shape and features as in the movie, but I edited the dimensions to look a little more like real swords instead of meat cleavers.

(Disclaimer: Chris and André belong to me—everything else belongs to Disney).

[therealvagabird]

A Squire’s Journey

The tale of a girl in search of glory, by C. Christiansen.

Oh, gentle mother, righteous protector

Steady my hands, kindle my heart

Let me see my fate through your eyes

Reassured of its inevitable purity

           Susannah prostrated herself before the shrine, alone, murmuring her prayer to herself. In the light of the young hours, the multi-colored walls of the chapel took on pale, pastel hues, their mosaic beauty washed out in the blue light. It was cold, but Susannah didn’t care. She could feel the warm embrace of the Goddess stilling her heart, shielding her body. Just as well, as she was dressed in little more than her nightgown, and her legs just protected from the hard, stone floor by a prayer mat she’d taken the time to lay out. Her pale, blonde hair cascaded down around her arms as she bowed, arms outstretched before the altar—her own shades; golden hair, rosy skin, sky-blue gown, now also washed to paleness in the morning light. The point to which she prayed was the sole aspect of the temple lacking in intricate décor. No idol could capture Her Holiness’ beauty, and so her prayers were directed at a simple effigy of wood, carved in the shape of an elegant tree trunk, whose outstretched branches cradled the holy text which it supported—the Vag’Yahmi, thick-bound and adorned with little more than the gold lettering that told its name, written in the holy tongue. Upon the front of the carven trunk was set a hand-sized disk of brass, which was polished so bright as to almost carry a warm sunlight of its own, reflecting those cold, ambient rays that filtered in through the narrow-slit windows of the chapel’s fortress walls. An unfortunate side effect of Castle Sarie’s nature as a martial base meant that the Order’s temple had to do without the elaborate stained glass of the inland cathedrals. Susannah didn’t mind. As a knight—well, aspiring knight—her faith was not founded on trappings of gold and silk. She could feel the light of the Goddess in any place under her loving gaze.

           The warrior heard the creak of heavy doors, and concluded her final prayer, sitting back up to have one final look at the altar. She was ready.

           “Ah, mademoiselle Deschamps.” The servant confirmed with faint relief in his voice, turning his head back around the door, “As I said she would be.”

           The elder man was followed in by someone Susannah knew to be his younger, but looked all the world more worn. Knight-Katib Bellamy, one warrior whose face bore the injuries of administration as much as they did the scars of battle; the horrors of the battlefields of war, and of mountainous paperwork.

           Susannah rose at once, placing her hand over her heart in respect for the master knight, the standard salute of the Empire of New Yahmi. She was somewhat embarrassed that her prayer had taken so much longer than she’d anticipated—she would have never kept her superiors waiting, and now here she was, dressed in her nightgown with her hair undone, stood in front of the shadow-faced Bellamy in his full regalia.

           “Good to see you’re already up and… well, ready in mind, if not in dress.” The katib’s voice was soft even though his face was as stern as always. Composure was a high virtue within their Order, though it was never supported by sour moods—the countryside that birthed the stock of Sarie was far too golden to give rise to foul tempers.

           Susannah nodded, “I was just preparing with morning worship, m’lord. I thought the hour was earlier than it was, I’m sorry to have thrown you off.” Though she was clad in casual wear, her stance was as rigid as would be expected of a soldier.

           His wave was unconcerned, the gold trim on his cuffs ever so glinting, and his cream-white suit sharp and austere, as suited his office. “It was no issue. Many warriors will seek a morning prayer before a long mission.”

           Her eyes lit up, “Is it time, then?”

           He nodded, “You’ve been selected as our emissary and champion. Bureaucracy and unwarranted secrecy has done nothing to expedite the process, but the Order on Sarie is never hesitant to jump at the call of duty.” He looked her over, “If you would prepare yourself, I shall see you in the chambers of the Lord-Paladin, where you might learn of the details of your assigned task.”

           Susannah held up both of her hands and crossed them over her chest. “Thank you, Knight-Katib. I shall prepare at once. I apologize again for my absentmindedness.”

           “You’ve no need for apology, I tell you.” Bellamy almost smiled as he turned back to the door where his assistant waited, “Action. Action shall see you stand in glory when all is said and done. Leave apologies to me and the myriad bleating souls I must write to.”

           With his biting sarcasm concluded, the katib left, and Susannah Deschamps breathed a sigh of exhilaration and relief. She rolled up her prayer mat, and gave one final bow to the alter, before walking at as brisk a pace as was decent back to her room, gate swift and unyielding.

           At the age of twenty-one years, the time of the prodigal squire’s accolade was no doubt imminent. Under all of her tutors Susannah had excelled—swordplay, riding, athletics, all fields of etiquette. The nickname of “Statue Susannah” that had been bestowed upon her by her fellow squires betrayed little of the fire that burned inside of her in the name of improvement.

           So it was that the day when her mentor, Knight Clement, had told her of an impending opportunity to prove herself worthy of knighting, she’d been crippled by her inability to think of anything else for the past month. In truth, as many of her morning prayers had been dedicated to tempering her own excitement as there were towards simple blessings, lest she make a nuisance of herself and destroy her chances.

           “You know; you might think of what kind of tea you’re drinking on the day-to-day.” Squire Richemond had approached her one day during form-practice in the yard, when they’d concluded with a rigorous fencing session. She’d been puzzled at the statement.

           “Excuse me?”

           “Your eyes—you look fit to kill somebody just practicing. Your face is like a relief, while your eyes dart around like fire. Maybe try a more herbal tea, less sweet?” she couldn’t quite tell if he was joking or not, “Less energy?”

           “I’m fine!” She’d assured, perhaps with a hypocritical amount of force. “Just focusing, staying attentive.” He hadn’t seemed convinced.

           She hurried back to her cell, which was no great distance from the chapel—in the same wing of the fortress, in fact, and threw on her proper attire; one of her nicer traveling sets, in beige and ultramarine, with black leather affects. Hose, boots, a tunic, and protective shawl long enough to wrap around her head in the most inclement weather was the total outfit, with Hair was done up in a tight ponytail, to her liking. Her main bag was already packed with what clothes she could manage, along with her own Vag’Yahmi and Guide Chevalerie, while leaving room for whatever the quartermaster saw fit to send her off with. Her sword was her own, though, the sabre’s austere hilt gleaming from the top of its black-leather sheath. Strapping the blade to her hip, and content that she had everything she could take, Susannah sped down to the courtyard with as much haste as she could muster. Perhaps she was overzealous; preparations for any travel, especially long-distance, required a wait of a good day or so just for the affairs of the fort to be seen to—supplies to be issued, rolls to be exempt—but she would much rather seem over-prepared at the very start, than prove herself wanting.

           The day was beautiful, now that the rising sun had cut through the morning fog, and the castle had begun to come alive with the morning awakening. She hoped her peers wouldn’t think less of her for not appearing at morning worship, but she figured they’d realize the importance of her duty once they noticed she was gone from the whole of the fort. She wished them well on their own trials; it wasn’t ignoble to remain a squire—her times serving by Clement had been among the most glorious memories she had made—but the life was not for her, not when the chance of Knighthood rose ahead. Perhaps even (dare she abandon humility for the thought?) the title of Paladin?

           Her boots plodded across the hard-packed dirt of the courtyard. Those knights who slept in the wings apart from the squires nodded to her as they passed en route to the chapel, and she saluted in turn. So early, most of the traffic was servants prepping for the day—preparing provisions for morning meal, tending horses, and the like. Some of weaker gut and limb might’ve found the smell of the castle courtyard in the morning unpleasant, but Susannah relished it—the fresh wind off the near sea, the smell of horses (their musk—the stable-hands were quite diligent in cleaning up after the beasts), and the smoke of the great fires in the common rooms and kitchens being stoked to new life. People donned the rich blue of the Order on Sarie on myriad parts of their clothing, complemented by cream, gold, and other vibrant hues of the morning. She waved across to the smith, the farrier out and working the bellows to get the forge ready for the day. The faint smell of baking bread also emanated from the bakery hut, though Susannah’s nose had to pine for the wisps of sweet perfume under the earthy scents of the rest of the castle—perhaps she should have left time to get breakfast first as well; it would be unseemly to have her stomach growl while conversing with the lord of the Order.

           Its pale stone height illuminated by the rising sun, the tower of the lord-paladin rose from the sea-side walls of the fortress. Its doors were flanked by banners bearing the coat of Sarie—be-antlered hippogriffs flanking a stylized ship upon an azure sea under a golden plain. From the tops of the poles holding up the banners hung the heads of threshing-flails, carved for ceremony rather than actual use.

           A polite knock on the door and a moment later a meek young girl saw her in—Giselle, who had the odd privilege of almost always working within the high tower despite nary speaking a word to anyone. The stairs to the lord’s office spiraled upwards at the side of the room, tucked away in their own well. The ground floor of the tower was little more than a waystation along the wall, but still decorated with all the trappings befitting her nobleness’ dwelling, or in fact any house of the holy. The Empire was not one to shirk on ornamentation when there were exalted deeds to be praised.

           Giselle just nodded to the steps with a faint smile. It was difficult not to envy the office of the lord-paladin, for its view alone! Status was one thing, but the vantage also made speeches easy to give, and provided a point of overseeing in times of siege—though Susannah had never once seen the fort beset by attackers in all her years of training. The only structures higher than the tower of the Lord-Paladin were the topping spire of the chapel, which was but ornamentation, and the aviary, which reeked of messenger birds.

           Susannah focused on remaining calm as she clipped up the spiral steps, making sure along the way that her clothes were neat and her hair ruly. She adopted the stone-faced demeanor of respect and reverence she had spent so long cultivating, so as to be fully prepared. What if there was a change of plans at the very last minute? She fretted through knitted brow. Impossible; the Knights of Sarie did not go back on their word once given, and would not cease a task once it had been assigned. In the year 1007 of the current age, it was said that three warriors of the Order had travelled all the way to Sibahl, in the far east, on a private crusade of avengeance even when the foes who had slighted them had already been slain at the hands of another kingdom. Susannah kept faith that this would be her moment.

           The stairwell let out onto a small terrace that held some additional finery of station upon a separating wall; the lord having a room, as well as a floor, all to her own.

           Taking a deep breath, the squire knocked.

           “Enter.” A woman’s voice came—the resounding timbre of Lord-Paladin Imogene. Susannah pushed open the heavy pine doors, so thick and deep-lacquered that the girl had to put in a bit of extra effort to get in the room, lacking the momentum to swing the dark hinges inward. As she stepped inside, the squire looked every bit like a stone sculpture given life through fine paintwork, so stoic she became in determination to maintain dignity, though perhaps a faint amount of sweat on her forehead might have given away the effort and imbalance of pushing in that blasted door.

           “Susannah.” Knight Clement nodded, his face matching the stolid composure of his apprentice’s, though his eyes were wrinkled into a hidden smile—he was by far the least decorated thing in the whole room, as his status as a senior warrior and friend of the paladin granted him the leniencies of a wild crop of hair, and plainclothes dress. Katib Bellamy sat apart at his own desk, laden high with scrolls and letters, sitting with the attentive stance to be expected of his station. The whole of the office was bedecked in sigils of the Order, the Empire, and small trinkets, mounted scrolls, and the like marked with the coats of kingdoms and factions those upon Sarie had helped in the past.

           And dominating the room in terms of sheer presence was Imogene Soucia, Lord-Paladin of the Order on Sarie. She was an older woman, but far from her dwindling years, as her sharp face was still rosy and comported into the most elegant of defaulted expressions, so graceful one might think it would be a great exertion of her’s to keep it so. She was dressed in a deep navy-blue dress of simple cut—for warriors, not nobles—though laced with gold thread and turquois, while her black hair was held back into twin-tails that joined into one braid at a brass ringlet. Were it not for Susannah’s deep and long-built faith in her leader’s legacy of compassion, she would have made for a terrific and intimidating sight. And perhaps she still did, for the sheer grandeur she gathered around herself.

           “Ah, mademoiselle Deschamps.” She smiled through thin and smirking lips, “Wonderful, wonderful.” Susannah counted a small victory in her head when she saw one of the Paladin’s hands close a small book and place it to the side, knowing her Lordship hadn’t just been waiting, staring at the door in impatience for her arrival.

           “Lord-Paladin.” Susannah crossed her arms over her chest with military vigor, “Thank you for seeing me.”

           “Thank you for rising to the occasion. Sit.” Imogene instructed, offering the chair across from her massive desk. As the young girl seated herself, the Paladin took a long sip from a copper-colored cup, from which the faint tinge of cold, sweet tea could be caught.

           “To it, then?” Clement asked, at a might too high a volume. Despite looking nary over forty, Susannah’s mentor was more battered than he appeared, and had the dubious honor of being the sole member yet living in the Order to have fought in the Crusade of 1266, where he had been (though he would never acquiesce the fact) deafened in part by the booming guns on the fel war-machines of Kostchya.

           “No sense in delaying any further than our allies have, I suppose?” Imogene chuffed, “Very well. Squire Susannah Deschamps of—” she snapped her fingers.

           “Normère.” The squire finished with a nod. The river-crossed village was not far at all from the cliffs of Sarie.

           “And you are, as of last winter, twenty-one years of age now, correct?” she clarified, though there was little doubt—it was inked in the pristine records of the katib.

           “Yes, ma’am.”

           The Lord-Paladin smiled wide, breaking her stern face, but none of her confidence. “And I’m told by dear Clement that you’re something of a prodigy. Indeed, I’ve seen your attentiveness in matters around the fort, and your piousness is respectable, though I’ve not had the fortune of seeing your performance in the field.” With every statement she finished, a slight flick of her fingers cued Susannah that she was allowed to speak.

           “I was shield-bearer for Knight Clement at the Battle of Saltfort, and I held the line with him on the fields of Brod. Among other battles.”

           “Brod?” Clement plucked up, “Ah, yes. Cut down many a traitor swine. As did she!” he pointed to Susannah, holding his trembling hand still, “Fantastic display! I think at one point she stuck two Norse barbarians upon one spear!”

           Imogene cocked an eyebrow, “Impressive—”

           Susannah coughed, brow furrowed with discomfort and cheeks red with flattery, “Not to, uh, discredit my mentor, but there was only one Norseman at that battle. I did once spear two men on one pole, though. More of an accident, truly.”

           “I do not believe in accidents.” Imogene pursed, before smiling, “Perhaps this is a good precedent, that the Goddess favors you so?”

           “Maybe, ma’am?” she didn’t know if it was a joke, compliment, or serious consideration. She hoped in her heart of hearts that it was the latter.

           “Needless to say, you’re a prime candidate for an early knighting, and it would be a great boon to all upon Sarie.” Susannah sat up even straighter than her already pole-backed stance, “And the time has come for your trial.” The squire suppressed sweating further, “No knight of this order has risen to their station without a solitary test of their mettle and virtue. And after much deliberation—perhaps unneeded, we have just such a test for you to prove yourself on.”

           Susannah placed her hand over her heart again, but was unable to make eye contact with the paladin, “Thank you, m’lady. I will uphold the honor of the Order.”

           Imogene continued, not perturbed at all by the interruption, “We have received word from across the sea, from the lands of Naeng, from the Academy of Gishornas.” Susannah could not know at the time the horrendous Naegnish spelling of the shibboleth “gee-horn”. The squire couldn’t say she knew anything of the academy in question, though Sarie had maintained fair relations with the northern islands for many years. “One of their senior magisters was abducted—taken whilst away on research upon the northern coasts of the Empire. The Kelgal barbarians are suspected of the crime, though the information we’ve been allotted is unsure.”

Now this was where Susannah was thrown; she was to fetch a mage? She had nothing against mages, they were of great import and usefulness in the New Yahmian Empire—even those suspect ones from the libertarian colleges of Naeng—but they were odd folk, and their presence upon a mission or battlefield heralded confusion and bizarre happenings. Furthermore, she was expected to travel to the lands of the Norse for this rescue—the rescue of a magician worthy of the title of Magister, but unable to withstand the might of this particular party of raiders? She did not envy the encounter, though she likewise would not allow fear to seep into her heart.

           “Ah, yes.” Clement interjected again, craning his head in a knowing gesture towards Imogene, “It has been an unfortunately long wait, for having such a man’s life on the line. I’d lay the blame on the academy itself, however—word is they only asked for aid once they were certain there was no easy retrieval of the scholar in secret. Then there was the usual scramble of alliances amongst the orders nearest to Naeng. It is a shame so many of our calling do not seem to share the dedication of Sarie—once we heeded the call, there was no more argument to be had.” He smiled, “First to glory.” He recited the latter half of the Order’s holy motto.

           “Am I to go alone?” Susannah asked, more as a way of determining what assistance she would have, “There were no Naegish orders to answer the call? Sarie is some ways south—is the Academy lacking for allies?”

           “Oh no, there were many who leapt at the mission, though I’d dare say it was simply us who were the most determined.” Clement boasted, “The Naegish holds found the threat of raiders so bold to be fair cause to hole up and defend their lands from further attack. Those of the mainland, I’m sad to say, became embroiled in politics. No such trivialities for the Castle upon Sarie! Though you follow my mind, Susannah, the absence of ready defenders of an academy, a northern one… it is suspect.”

           “How fortunate then that we have someone as pure of purpose as our squire here, then?” Imogene remarked, “Fulfil your duty and return with haste, and all will be well, that is what matters in the here and now. But to answer your question: yes, the Count of Gishornas has seen fit to send a prime warrior from among her court, foremost to accompany the mage who will also be upon this endeavor.”

           “A mage?” Susannah leaned in, “Of what kind?” she didn’t know what else to ask. She’d never met a true mage—Sarie was so rural and agrarian, there was little even in the ways of mystic medicine through the lands of the steep coast.

           “The foremost apprentice of Magister Crewe, the missing man in question.” Imogene clarified, as Susannah became more and more interested in the arrangement. It appears the mages had as firm a belief in holy vengeance as any, “Their names are not listed upon the missive, save for the surname of the warrior; ‘Sidheach’—I believe that is ‘shay-hawk’—no, pardon… ‘shaw-hawk’.” Imogene shook her head, “Neagish consonants; enough to make a dame sweat.”

           “Very well then!” Clement clapped his weathered hands, “A perfect quest, I’d say! Noble goals, a chance to experience the folk of the sister-kingdom, and a tempering in the cold crucible of the north! So cold—”      his voice withered, as if remembering his own trials; though Clement had known the misfortune of fighting in the Drained Lands, further east, rather than the true home of the Norse. His memories were no doubt more bitter for it.

           “I’m ready for any adversity.” Susannah saluted once more, “I could never not accept. I promise I will return victorious, and bring the Goddess’ wrath upon the trespassers.”

           “As I’m sure you will.” Imogene smiled, though her eyes were as ice, “Carry the warmth and fair winds of Sarie with you, and the good word of the Vag’Yahmi. Bellamy!” she pointed to her subordinate, “You can show her where to sign on the ship ticket, and give her a token for the quartermaster.” The Katib nodded one mechanical nod.

           “You’ll do us proud.” Knight Clement grinned like a joyous father, “And then perhaps I’ll have to find some other strong-armed youth to heft my shield? Ah, what a shame, what a lost squire. Return safe so that I might at least have the privilege of fighting by your side. Goddess bless.”

           Susannah stood and took his hands in hers, “If I’ll remember your stories of battle, then I won’t need to rely on blessings alone.”

           “Hear no evil.” He said with a wink.

           Though the next day or so would see Susannah consumed with preparations, her soul fluttered within a disciplined chest the whole while, thinking down to the ship that waited below and beyond the cliffs to the shoreline, floating on the same waves—though here touched by the golden sun of the mainland—that lapped at the frozen shores of her destination, the place to prove her honor.

           But first, some breakfast.

[kevlin-on-the-weekends]

Retribution (Working Title)

  “I told you a thousand times already – the more you try to kill me, the more dangerous I get.” Efavirenz sighed as three bullets broke through his skull. His body made a loud thud as he fell on his back.

  After what seemed to be the longest minute of their lives, three Peacekeeping agents rushed in to where the young man laid. Efavirenz “the Ruthless” remained motionless as blood gurgled out of the gunshot wounds.

  “The fucker’s head’s still intact,” exclaimed one of the soldiers. “Got any theories for this, Tom?”

  “I won’t have any if you keep blocking my bodycam,” replied Tom via the intercom. “Sheesh, why’s there so much blood –“

  “Bodycam, you say?” the limp body asked. Startled, the soldiers jumped back, but were held down by what appeared to be hands rising from the red puddle and bracing their ankles. “I’ve heard about some of the newfangled things this century has devised. Make sure you get this, Tom, is it? Maybe your sacrifice will convince whomever sent you to leave me in peace.”

  The hands gripping the boots of the agents slowly descended into the crimson slick, to the captives’ horror as well as those watching them via their live webcams. A few eyewitnesses have told stories of people being pulled under pools of blood, their mangled corpses unearthed beneath the ground. The soldiers screamed in pain as they tried in vain to pull themselves away from what appeared will be their red, watery death.

  “’As the land cried in horror touching the blood of Abel,’” began Efavirenz, “’thus shall you howl to the heavens when his blood taints yours.’”

  Amidst all the wailing, a voice crackled through small speakers on Tom’s fatigues: “Efavirenz! Stop this madness immediately! What do hope to gain by killing our men?”

  “Oh dear,” sighed Efavirenz, “I’ve said it a thousand times already. Look, I’m so tired of people not listening to me, so here is what I’ll do. I may just let one, two, or all of your pawns go, depending on how well you answer my question.”

  “Which is?”

  “What have you learned so far about me? What have I revealed and explained so far to those who’ve seen and heard me?”

  “But everything we heard so far is preposter-“

  “Are you sure those are the words you want to be saying right now? Choose your words wisely, and better speak up – your boys are only going to get louder over time.”

   “ARGH!” yelled Tom, “I can feel it in my veins! Vaughn – get your plasma sabre and cut us loose NOW! Vaughn? Vaughn, can you hear me? VAUGHN!”

  “Your comrade passed out from the pain,” sighed Efavirenz, “but he is still alive. Barely.” Efavirenz approached the limp man’s sinking body, apparently looking for something. “There you are,” said Efavirenz as he stared at the camera. “Believe it or not, I can now see you as you can see me. Let’s just say that you’re not the only ones with fancy eyes. Now that I have your attention, I must tell you that my blood has seeped through their skin and is now slowly creeping up their blood vessels. Some say it feels like they are burning without flame. Now, whether or not any of you survive is up to you.”

  “All right, Efavirenz, we’ll talk – just spare them! From what we’ve been told, decades-long wars abruptly end whenever you walk across battlefields. You’ve been known to bury combatants and non-combatants alike across radii ranging from a block to a mile. According to eyewitnesses, you’ve told them that you don’t control your powers, and that it is triggered by the actualization of ‘killing intent.’ If someone tries to kill another in your presence, that person is swallowed up by the ground, regardless of whether or not his intended victim died. However, if you yourself gets hit by lethal force, be it from a bullet or a missile explosion, the one who pulled the trigger dies, even if you were only hit accidentally.”

  “Makes you feel stupid now, sending these boys to kill me.”

  “You are a TERRORIST who’s killed thousands of people!” shouted another voice. “You and your guerilla bandits are a scourge that has to be wiped off the face of this planet! My city of Serulea is one massive graveyard because of you!”

   “Because of ME? Guerilla bandits? What nonsense are you spouting? I was sealed and sleeping peacefully in your catacombs for centuries. I wasn’t the one who dropped an explosive cannonball on my head. As I have explained to countless others, my power casts its curse in proportion to how deadly the force I experience is, and my curse can be just as indiscriminate. Why does this seem to surprise you – am I not in your history epics anymore?”

  “Pardon my colleague,” said the first voice, “but it seems that I answered your question well enough. Now, can you let go of our soldiers? Those soldiers had no knowledge of who you are or what fate would befall them once they tried.”

  “But, good sir, it appears that you did.”

  “We are men of science who attributed those fantastical stories to the delirium of war. Based on the intelligence we had that we did not deem absurd, we surmised that you are a terrorist who led a cell that grotesquely buries people as a form of retribution. For this reason, our generals decided to take you out in the name of national security. Never would we imagine that the truth would be so much stranger than fiction! Seeing what we are seeing now, it appears that our best course of action is to rescind the warrants for your death and encourage every other government to do the same.”

  “So much killing. It’s a good thing Lamuvidine didn’t come out – otherwise she would be melting the frozen continents and drown the lot of you, just like in Noah’s time.”

  “Lamu…vidine?”

  “Lamuvidine the Pristine – don’t tell me you’ve lost all of your oral history. If you think that I’m terrible for your kind, wait until you see the cataclysm she brings. First, you’ll lose your coastal towns to the rising sea. Soon, even the highest mountain will be covered in water. Come to think of it, I have heard this thing… global warming, was it? I don’t know much about that, but it sure sounds like you’ve already woken up my eldest sister. Anyway, forgive me, I can talk a lot. If any of you have a sword that’s fresh from a bonfire, I can cut your soldiers legs below the knee and cauterize the wound. Otherwise, my blood will just pull their blood into the pool. If that happens, then there is nothing more I can do. They’ll be doomed.”

   “One of them has a plasma sabre. Lieutenant Tom, point to Vaughn – it’s the oval tube attached to the wrist clasp on his right arm”

  Tom gingerly pointed his forehead to Vaughn’s direction. He didn’t want to loosen his grip on his calf out of fear that the loss of pressure would make Efavirenz’s blood gush up to his thigh.

  “I got the oval tube,” said Efavirenz. “Then what?”

  “Point the tapered end away from you, then do a slashing motion, just like how you would flick blood off a sword.”

  “I see. It’s been millennia since I last held a sword, but…” Efavirenz swung the rod, and out came a short, fiery blade that looked and sounded like an emergency flare. “Incredible – now, to see how this cuts. Vaughn, is it? I’ll tell you to say goodbye to your foot, but you’re knocked out, which, come to think of it, is all for the best. Three, two, one…”

  Efavirenz slashed Vaughn just beneath his left knee, then pushed him away from the blood puddle. The cut was clean; and the stump sizzled and smelled like sirloin being grilled. Efavirenz then approached another soldier who had two feet gripped by blood hands. He too was standing unconscious and barely breathing. In two quick motions, Efavirenz slashed his legs and pushed him aside.

  Efavirenz then tilted his head to look at Tom. “Oh my, you’re still conscious? In any case, since you can hear me, I’ll need you to let go of your leg – unless you want to lose your hands, too.”

  “I… can’t,” Tom replied, “I’ve kept the blood down–“

  “Well, if you’re fine living without hands, it’s your choice. Three, two, one…”

  Out of sheer instinct, Tom released his grip as part of a dodging maneuver ingrained in him through years of training. He felt foreign blood surge up his thigh before Efavirenz cut his right leg just below the knee. Tom fell back, writhing in agony as his blood vessels visibly squirmed beneath his skin.

  “Oh dear,” Efavirenz sighed.

  “Efavirenz,” the speaker crackled, “what’s happening to Lieutenant Tom?”

  “Oh – can you see him? He has some of my blood trapped in his body. He will most likely die, though even if he were to survive, he will wish for death because of the pain he will suffer every second of his life.”

  “This is madness – can’t you stop this?”

  “The curse I carry acts on its own accord – and if you’re asking me to end his suffering by killing him, I can’t do that. My curse kills by redirecting the karma of murderous intent unto others, but I myself have no desire to kill. However, there is one way to ease his suffering.”

  “Whatever it is, please do it! Despite his flaws, the lieutenant does not deserve such a cruel punishment!”

  Efavirenz waved the sabre, shutting it off using sheer intuition. “Let it be known that Efavirenz the Ruthless can also render clemency. To release you from my blood curse, I claim your blood and body as my own. By the power vested in me by your superiors, I claim your earthly form and dub thee Tanofivyr the Merciful! As my sister Lamuvidine bequeathed her power upon me, I now impart power upon you. You shall share with me both my undying fate and my deathly curse. You yourself can never kill, yet you will watch our curse bury the maleficent! Rise, Tanofivyr! If you wish for freedom from the command to kill, kiss the tears of mercy off my cheek and follow me to the ends of this Earth!”

  As Efavirenz continued his incantation, Tom felt the pain subside, allowing him to hear the former more clearly. As he listened, he felt as though invisible hands were propping him up towards Efavirenz. As he drew closer, he saw tears flowing from Efavirenz’s eyes. He heard the words ‘tears of mercy,’ but Tom did not see Efavirenz’s eyes as merciful. They were lonely. This was the man he was ordered to kill by people who treated him like a dispensable pawn. As he was fighting for his life against Efavirenz’s blood hands, he never felt malice from Efavirenz himself. Instead, he felt that Efavirenz was faintly sorry for him – that he was tired of seeing a gnarled form of justice play out in front of his eyes over and over. Now, those eyes are crying. Tom felt the entirety of his aggression dissipate. It was his turn to feel sorry for Efavirenz.

  “Tanofivyr – you shouldn’t be hurting by now. Therefore, you can and must choose out of your own free will, without the fear of a painful death. You can let my curse take you to restful sleep now, or you can take my tears and pledge subservience to the commands of Mercy. Know that the first choice makes you wish for more life, while the other may make you wish for death, but neither wish can ever be granted–“

  Tom interrupted Efavirenz by kissing him on the cheek and tasting salty tears on his lips. He has never kissed another man that way before, much less swallow another man’s tears. As a soldier, he has faced many life-or-death situations before, but he never felt more afraid of death than when he was pulling his leg from the blood hands. However, as his lips glided over Efavirenz’s face, there was no trace of fear in him.   The pain on his stump was gone. Efavirenz let go of him and backed away; and Tom expected to fall on his face from the lack of support. He did fall forward, but to his surprise, something stopped his fall. His right foot grew back and felt the grass beneath it. Tom looked up and saw Efavirenz stare at him as if innumerable thoughts are running through his head. But his mind was clear. Without shifting his gaze, he dropped down to one knee.

  “Lieutenant Thomas Corpus of the Fifth Peacekeeping Battalion is dead – I am Tanofivyr the Merciful, vassal of Efavirenz!”