one sword out of many.
In all his days, there were only two things that had brought Blyse much joy: success and a sense of purpose, always going hand in hand. Despite where he came from and despite all the uneasy feelings he had about his noble ties, his former place within the military fed both of those hungers. In fact, it had been a feast. He succeeded on the battlefield, shoulder to shoulder with brethren whose cries for war could not drown out his own. He found purpose by the fires, drawing himself among the soldiers in the sand as he commanded them to play their next move. War was his purpose; war had been his success. And then suddenly…there was no war.
Feast became famine.
That was largely what plagued him so dearly then—finding those things that brought him joy through other means, unknown to him in that moment but surely waiting for him in the city. Of course, what drove him is of little import until you consider the obstacle standing his path. From its lips came a sarcastic retort, delicately laced in spite, echoing through the flames. And then, in pure theatre, his flames vanished and revealed the showman in a fine coat of buckskin and black and wearing a shit-eating grin across his masked face. Blyse did not return the smile, but he would be lying if he said he did not feel at least a sprout of contentment bloom in his chest from the sight of the conflict waiting to leap free from its dormancy.
There was nothing stopping Blyse from abandoning this boy for the sky, except that he was proud and a bit more likened to conflict than he would likely ever admit. Another notion he kept tucked away in deniability was the intrigue he had for this man’s trick. He once knew a brute who used similar illusions to prey on his people and it left a bitter taste in his mouth. He could hear the ghost of a short-lived acquaintance remind him of just who those illusions now belonged to, but he denied them their proof until they were tangible to him. Perhaps then he would re-evaluate his opinion on the matter. Today, he had only what he always had—wit and iron will, in both of which he was well-equipped.
The red-wine stallion stole a few steps toward the other, eyes focused and drinking the stranger in. He looked a bit younger, this brute. Not a child by any means, even with his penchant for tricks, but Blyse supposed that naiveté was a not a worth-while bet. “Somewhere I did not expect to be interrogated.” His reply had a duller edge than his first command, misleadingly innocuous. Tension coiled in his shoulders, ready to command his wings at a moment’s notice. “Do you fancy yourself a sentry?” If so, a rather poor choice.
@Acton //
Feast became famine.
That was largely what plagued him so dearly then—finding those things that brought him joy through other means, unknown to him in that moment but surely waiting for him in the city. Of course, what drove him is of little import until you consider the obstacle standing his path. From its lips came a sarcastic retort, delicately laced in spite, echoing through the flames. And then, in pure theatre, his flames vanished and revealed the showman in a fine coat of buckskin and black and wearing a shit-eating grin across his masked face. Blyse did not return the smile, but he would be lying if he said he did not feel at least a sprout of contentment bloom in his chest from the sight of the conflict waiting to leap free from its dormancy.
There was nothing stopping Blyse from abandoning this boy for the sky, except that he was proud and a bit more likened to conflict than he would likely ever admit. Another notion he kept tucked away in deniability was the intrigue he had for this man’s trick. He once knew a brute who used similar illusions to prey on his people and it left a bitter taste in his mouth. He could hear the ghost of a short-lived acquaintance remind him of just who those illusions now belonged to, but he denied them their proof until they were tangible to him. Perhaps then he would re-evaluate his opinion on the matter. Today, he had only what he always had—wit and iron will, in both of which he was well-equipped.
The red-wine stallion stole a few steps toward the other, eyes focused and drinking the stranger in. He looked a bit younger, this brute. Not a child by any means, even with his penchant for tricks, but Blyse supposed that naiveté was a not a worth-while bet. “Somewhere I did not expect to be interrogated.” His reply had a duller edge than his first command, misleadingly innocuous. Tension coiled in his shoulders, ready to command his wings at a moment’s notice. “Do you fancy yourself a sentry?” If so, a rather poor choice.
@Acton //
