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enderrosa · 5 years ago

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Rival

((Another one from @oc-growth-and-development‘s prompts~ This is probably the first time I’ve ever used Ederich’s POV. He’s such a pure soul ^.^;;)

Sir Ederich did not expect an herbalist to hit so hard. But then, he had never met an herbalist quite like Sandaine d’Arce. He had spotted the man watching his recruits, sharp yellow eyes following the movements far more clearly than any novice, and had called him up with the intent of letting the recruits have outside insight. Sir Ederich was proud of his ability to read skill, after all. But he wondered if even the goddess Andara herself could have forseen how this would turn out.

“Clearly you have muscle under those sleeves after all,” he said, grinning wide as Sandaine parried his thrust. “Ah, well played, sir.”

Sandaine mirrored his smile far more sharply, teeth gleaming as white as Ederich’s parade armor as he danced back out of reach. “You may recall I never actually claimed otherwise,” he replied. “Just that they were far outshone by yours.”

“Quite so, so you did.” Sir Ederich ducked a sweeping slash. Sandaine moved faster than he expected as well. He was learning a good deal today. “I do apologize if this is interrupting your plans for the afternoon.”

Sandaine deflected the next slash one-handed and spared a dismissive wave with his free hand as Ederich’s sword slithered past. “Never fear, my lord. I can always spare a little time and bruises.”

“Ha! Well said. Ach!” Sir Ederich stumbled back a step as Sandaine caught him in the elbow with the flat of his blade. “I see my recruits could learn a lot from you.”

The smile would have looked quite wolfish in a less clean-shaven face. “At your word, sir. My point?”

He had preferred real swords over the wooden practice sticks as well, and spent a good few minutes weighing and testing the selection before taking one apparently at random. Full of surprises, this one.

“Your flat, thankfully,” Sir Ederich replied, earning an obliging chuckle from his opponent and a groan from one of the bolder and less spellbound recruits. Alright, his wordplay was terrible. No matter, he could work on it. “One to one?”

“One to one,” Sandaine agreed. His cheekbone was beginning to show a startlingly red-black bruise where Ederich had caught him in the first exchange. (He insisted it was fine--nothing broken had been his exact words. Sir Ederich was beginning to learn that he had to pay very close attention to this man’s exact words.)

Ederich took a ready stance again. Sandaine mirrored it. He had done much mirroring so far. Not a single movement had been something unfamiliar, something the recruits had not drilled this very morning. The realization struck hard, and surprised Sir Ederich more than anything. Sandaine was performing, he realized. It was all a lesson.

“Your stance is slipping,” Sandaine pointed out politely with a light gesture at Sir Ederich’s arm.

Ederich laughed ruefully and shook his head. “A good deal is slipping. Will you humor me?” he asked. When Sandaine raised an eyebrow, he continued, “It might be good for the recruits to broaden their horizons.”

“Ah. As you like.” Sandaine’s stance shifted completely. The formality dropped, as did his sword point.

The recruits murmured. Had he given up? Was that hit against Sir Ederich just luck? What’s wrong with him, he’s leaving himself wide open.

Sir Ederich frowned. A ploy, perhaps. Sandaine’s faint smile held no answers. He had seen more readable statues. But he was ready enough. Sir Ederich stepped forward.

Sandaine ducked the first swing, flicked his free hand forward to catch the corner of Ederich’s eye and make him pause for just a blink, stepped back from the backswing--clearly Ederich expected him to have upped his game. Good for him. Some of the recruits began to jeer, though the drill captains quickly silenced them. They hadn’t gathered to watch a dance, though, and Sandaine looked like he was trying to mimic the court jester, ducking and bobbing, feinting but never truly striking. Ah, let them.

I am likely too old for this, Sandaine mused as he stepped aside again. Too old for playing with children. Another feint, but Ederich was wise to that one now and Sandaine had to skip back far faster than he liked. Too tired, too, he admitted to himself, bringing his own sword up.

The yard went silent as Sandaine stopped, echo of a metal crash ringing off the castle stones. He showed almost no effort, braced under his taller opponent’s sword, flat of his blade supported by the back of his free arm. No one had ever stopped Sir Ederich in a contest of strength.

Just to make his point, Sandaine shifted a little, indicating how easily he could send Sir Ederich’s sword sliding off and away from himself, how his free hand could produce a spare dagger and aim there or there, or engage in a sweet variety of other nasty little tricks to ruin the knight commander’s day.

And he did it subtly, so that to the recruits, it just looked like a simple disengagement.

Sir Ederich actually smiled. “A fine parry,” he said, offering Sandaine his hand in acceptance. “I may have to ask you in another day to teach that to my recruits.”

“Thank you, sir,” Sandaine said. He accepted the handshake and winced just a little theatrically in the knight’s firm grip. “I may have to decline if they also insist on rattling my poor bones.”

Ederich chuckled. “Do not worry. I will remind them to be gentle. And,” he added more quietly, looking at the ground, where only his boots had left skids in the dust from the strain of that parry, and Sandaine’s had not moved at all. “I think you would not be too bothered if they did.”

Sandaine’s smile returned, showing his teeth again and setting his eyes glinting in the midmorning sun. “Who can say?”

“Well, I will not keep you.” Sir Ederich clapped him on the shoulder, and there were no theatrics in the wince this time. His hand was heavy. “You must be tired, no?”

“Perhaps a little.” Sandaine dusted himself off and bowed, returning his sword to a nervous page.

Ederich watched the boy hurry over to return the blade to its owner, then looked back at the dark and scarlet bruise on Sandaine’s face. Almost like a burn. A burn from Ederich’s cold iron sword… “We can use wood next time,” he offered softly, words almost lost under the bustle of recruits resuming their training. “I will have a pair made to suit the strength and balance as you like.”

Sandaine stiffened, and touched the bruise. Ah. Yes. But… “Next time?” He looked up, and was surprised by the sheer force, humor, and good will in Ederich’s smile.

“If you’ll have it,” the knight said. He kept his voice quiet. “I would relish another chance to cross swords with you.”

Sandaine felt his tired body relax, tension fading as cold from his fingertips sank into his cheek. “I’ll play fair next time,” he promised. Mischief turned his eyes young and ancient. “But I promise nothing for the time after that.”

Ederich laughed. “I would have nothing less.” He turned back toward the recruits, then called back over his shoulder, “We practice here every morning, dawn to noon, should your path carry you this way.”

Sandaine bowed again and collected his empty basket from the edge of the field. Back to the shop, he’d need cream for his face, and Doctor Regulus wanted more myrtle before dusk… So much to do today. But he could not quite take the excitement out of his smile. Tomorrow was another story. Too old for playing with children, yes. But no one said I cannot have a little fun.

#my writing #writer on tumblr #sandaine #sir ederich #valsk original work #moonfall

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enderrosa · 5 years ago

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Dream

((Just three of @oc-growth-and-development ‘s prompts left after this. The subject here really surprised me! Did not expect a scene from one of the gods I’ve made for game shenanigans))

Most know better than to walk beneath the Dreaming Moon, for fear of its twin gods’ eyes. Idazi’s hand brings sleep and dreams, sometimes safe and sweet, sometimes far too deep. Miran’s hand brings sleep and nightmares, dark whispers and deeper fears. And both gods bring madness. Lunacy. There is a reason it is named for the moons.

But some still seek their favor, because the twin gods of Mirandazi hold sway over the unknown. Some seek the raw power of that unknown, while others seek to wield it. They come bearing gifts, which works for a time.

Idazi likes gifts- the taste of honey, a lover’s sigh, the memory of stars. These are the things her dreams are made of. Choose the gift well, and leave with her favor and your mind intact. Mostly. For Idazi is a loving but fickle goddess. But her beloved are most blessed, all agree, even if they see things a little sideways, as if through a mirror, a prism, a broken shard of glass.

Miran does not take gifts. You cannot bribe a nightmare as you might buy a dream. No. He asks questions instead. Most hear only the first.

He leans forward, eyes hidden by his dark blindfold, teeth sharp as a scream. “Tell me, child, what is a dream?”

Some do not answer. Lucky ones. He lets them go, unless they were too bold in seeking him. Miran is a patient god, but patience is not endless.

“A lie,” some say. He laughs, and gives them lies. Lies of pride, lies of fear. Some go mad from the lies, and some wear the lies until they find greatness. It is what they sought.

“A truth,” others claim. He nods, and gives them truth. Truth of all things, and there too is madness. Some see too clearly. Some see, and say just enough. It is what they sought too. But few are ready.

But the rare, rare few, say, “A door.”

And Miran smiles. Because they are right. A door to the mind, a door to the world, a door to be opened and closed. To those who asks, he gives the key to that door, and they go away satisfied.

Dare to remain, and his smile fades. He stands, tall as fear itself, and his black moth’s wings blot out the light. “And tell me,” he asks, “what is a nightmare?”

“You,” one tries. And Miran sighs. For he is god of nightmares. They are not wrong. He spares them. It is the least he can do. And they spend the rest of their life chasing his smile again, but they will never see it.

“A tool,” another claims, “a weapon.”

“Taste them,” Miran says, “and tell me if it is so.”

Don’t listen too hard on new-moon nights. You might hear them screaming still.

But one says, “Something to overcome.”

And Miran is surprised. No one ever answered right before. “You seek to overcome them?”

And this one, with the audacity to offer their hand to a god, says, “With your help.”

His smile returns, softer, deeper, teeth sharp as a broken promise and lightless wings glimmering with sudden stars. The god of nightmares, the god of he-who-fights-monsters, who stands at the edge of dream and void and fought so long against becomes-a-monster-himself.

“Very well,” he says. “And so we shall.”

#oc-tober #miran #valsk original work #my writing #writer on tumblr

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