Battle Type: BATTLE
Prize: Practice/exp!
Contact Made: Yep
Character #1: @Diarmuid
Bonded: None
Magic: None
Armor: None
Weapons: None
Character #2: @Israfel
Bonded: None
Magic: None
Armor: None
Weapons: None
Prize: Practice/exp!
Contact Made: Yep
Character #1: @Diarmuid
Bonded: None
Magic: None
Armor: None
Weapons: None
Character #2: @Israfel
Bonded: None
Magic: None
Armor: None
Weapons: None
The exiled knight is stripped of rank, of power and of purpose. A sword not wielded has few uses except to rust. A shield left to hang may only rot. The scars of the past whisper reminders of his failure in his muscles and bones. Marks of betrayal bitten deep into body and soul. These scars are the reward for his years of fealty. For blood spilled for a monarch bewitched. Now he has nothing.
And yet, there is hope.
An ivory maid, sun-kissed and fire-eyed, led him from the Tinea Swamp. She gave him the name of the land he walked upon and the Court which held it. Like a line thrown to a drowning man, she gave him something else as well. Something he could neither name nor describe. Something that made the deepest shadows of his mind seem somewhat less dark.
...a warrior of the Dusk Court.
And what does that mean? Normally Diarmuid is content to leave philosophy to scholars. His mind is not so quick or flexible as theirs, lacks the learning that lets them spar with words. And yet some days it feels like he has done nothing but think since he limped onto a ship bound for anywhere but the white cliffs of Sophra. For now he holds this rank, whatever its meaning.
Dusk Court Warrior
Is he to be sword or shield, tool or toy? He knows so little of the Sovreign that he cannot say. Today he is tired of thinking. Today, he strives to knock a little of the rust from the blade.
The Steppe is barren. It is far removed for the lush vibrancy of his birthplace. And yet when his dark hooves touch the edge of the beaten circle he feels a sense of familiarity. There is an instinctive loosening of the muscles, an ease and a confidence that fills him like a pitcher plunged into the sea. He walks the circle slowly, methodically, his blind eye turned towards the center. The red-dusted stallion knows the measure of the ring, the distance to it's center and the sturdiness of the footing. A tilt of his head notes the treachery of the holes in the ground.
All the while his good ear flicks and turns, listening. He must never cease moving, turning his head to look for the flash of ivory and gilt, listening for the turn of dirt under hoof or the rustle of wind over wing. Though he is first here for their spar he does not believe he will be waiting long beneath the sky blood-streaked with the last fingers of sunset.
"Israfel!" He calls out, voice ringing with an air of authority usually absent. The name lilts as it falls from his lips, rolling with the accent of his birthplace. There is a note of vibrant joy that rings just in the sound of her name. Reserved excitement for what is to come. He forgets in the moment how long it has been and the months of building muscle back in the ruins of his body. He only feels the vital rush of blood and the eager waiting the precedes a spar.
Diarmuid is a soldier. A soldier needs a duty. Perhaps he has found it in Terrastella.
