So near, yet so far

[mmat 7460]

 

“I was always cursed with being a good fighter.” - Khaine Csarathaire

 

He had been travelling home slowly for years after the escape from his erstwhile enslavers, an often unwelcome pilgrim in a foreign land. Very rarely did the numb figure encounter another of his own kind in this state of transit, causing him to become somewhat more melancholic than usual and inducing a state of profound loneliness. Now he finally neared home and this, whilst the phoenix-clad Elf was happy about the possibility, a sense of dread also filled him about the prospect. For now through, he approached another small village in which lived a decent amount of Horen’s children.

 

...Clang. The thrusting iron head of a simple Elven shortspear loudly collided with the defensively positioned, shining flat edge of a human’s castle-forged arming sword. The wielder of the spear let out a frustrated growl, his face now set in an eager snarl as he eyed his opponent opposite. He held the middle of the weapon’s handle in his right and the section just below the tip with his ironwood left hand, waiting for his opponent to strike. In a flash, the swordswoman whom he faced shimmied towards him and lunged with a forceful strike directed at the exposed bronzed skin on the chest. With supreme expertise the Elf reached out with his spear’s exposed shaft, nimbly directing the sword’s heavy thrust to pierce naught but thin air slightly to his left. With the opponent unbalanced by this maneuver, the blunt spear-end now slammed downwards with strength, aimed towards the pommel of the blade. A combination of the missed thrust and impact forced the weapon down even more. Finishing his swift series of attacks, a upwards diagonal uppercut with the same blunt end cracked against the swordswoman’s fair cheek, the blow making her go limp and prompting her to raise her hand in surrender. The spearpoint now threatened her until all it once it withdrew, its owner; Khaine, propping the weapon vertically on the ground.

 

“Best of five, knife-ear?” the woman queried in an obviously joking tone, throwing her blade to the ground as she tiredly gasped, the exertion from combat making the woman rest on her knees. The figure from whom the words came was a human of average beauty, with a patch of notable freckles on the cheeks beneath each of her brown eyes. Moreso, she was at least four inches taller than Khaine and just a bit less well built, a perfect sparring partner. Supposedly originating from a village of half giants in the nearby mountains, a questionable claim to say the least, her name was Sylvia.

 

“No, I’m content to quit while I’m ahead.” Khaine replied after a few moments in his characteristically dour demeanor, his attention now distracted by readying himself once more for the road. He wrapped a bandage relatively tightly around his torso, binding his spear that now was fixed to his back. Afterwards, the lean Elf bent down to one knee and began to put a reasonable amount of supplies into a makeshift patchwork sack which sat loose on the ground. An abnormal amount of care was taken by the logistically minded former commander in the amount and composition of food he stocked, but eventually he threw the pack over his shoulder and stood tall. “Let life treat you well, half-giant.” was all that the seemingly introverted Elf would give as a farewell, in addition to a brief wave. He had never talked much since he had been removed from his homeland.

 

As the Ember Druid once again set off from the small hamlet in which he had stayed, phoenix tattoo proudly displayed on his almost bare chest, his mind once again began to wander. He had not seen any of those whom he had commanded, or who had commanded him, any of those he had wronged, or who had wronged him in over twenty-five years. Had his attempted letters reached their destination? Did their recipients even care? What was the world that he had left now like? The unfamiliar worry that now seeped through his unoccupied mind caused his face to twist into a solemn grimace and, to dispel the cloud of thought, he untied the bandages on his chest and grasped his spear with one hand, ready to now be thrown. He would keep himself occupied for a while and take a break from travelling. Khaine’s eyes keenly scanned the sparse woodland around him, and finally they set upon a broad tree which he then stepped towards.

 

Now using his spear as an overhanded javelin, he persistently tested his throw’s power and accuracy against the tree. With each throw a satisfying thud sounded as the sharp spearpoint penetrated the tough bark, and each thud succeeded in gradually decreasing his anxiety. No matter what had occured in his home after his departure, or what state his world was now in, he knew. He knew that he would need to be able to fight again.

 

He threw the makeshift javelin once more... and missed. A frown appeared on his face and a growl exited his mouth.

 

“Typical.”

[osumanduas 1442]

Moved to The Great Library. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.

 

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