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Reasons to Hate


mmat
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REASONS TO HATE

Avius Csarathaire, although his name was really Adessius unbeknownst to the vast majority of his comrades and companions, strode up the path from Amaethea’s great Orocarnë gate with more than a few beads of sweat making their leisurely way down his forehead. The warrior, thoroughly decked out with a recently-sheathed sword known reverently as ‘Eldarian’ sat still at his waist, expelled the moisture from his form with a brief, backhand stroke. To deal with the source of the distasteful bodily fluid before coming into contact with any others, he threaded a firm handful of fingers through the damp, flowing, but still mostly controlled head of dull brown atop his head, ringing it dry. That mane really ought to be trimmed soon, Avius considered with the irate warrior’s customary hint of irritation. So much more convenient for engaging in fluid swordplay. Fighting in general, really. Slowly approaching the Amaethean central hearth, the phoenix-dawbed Elf performed his usual ritual of stalking around the periphery first, appearing like some kind of grumpy big cat. He did it to establish who exactly was there before committing to a seat, and thereby a conversation. Everyone else? Those idiots just thought it was ‘creepy’, in their own words. 

 

Some familiar faces milled about, speaking and relaxing; a certain friendly, redheaded former ‘thill speaking to the ‘bear’ with whom he’d fallen in love. Another, one of his ‘ame comrades who just wouldn’t stop bitching about how his damned eye was destroyed, eagerly preached to one of his seed-kin, one whom Avius reviled utterly. Such feelings were far from rare, admittedly. Even so, their respective presences alone were enough to justify sitting down for a while to recover. Others inhabited the area as well though, others that he wasn’t so fond of. On the far side of the fire, engaged in idle mongrel chatter in its barbarous, mongrel tongue, was a grey Orc. Alone, weaponless and without any form of proper protection, the creature clearly presented no immediately threat whatsoever, not to him or any of his people. In a physical manner, at least. Despite that obvious fact, Avius felt the side of his mouth crumple into an expression of growing, but still barely discernible disdain. Narrowing eyes joined the Elf’s lips in their expression of fervent revulsion, and Avius felt the usual pot of latent, poisonous anger simmering within him. Providing the searing heat for this boiling process, which would inevitably end in violence, were lightning memories, personal and racial, fresh and old. For untold centuries, these malignant, verminous creatures had kidnapped, enslaved and killed his people without a seconds’ worth of hesitation. Honour, this Orcish race was meant to possess. Laughable. Never once had he been challenged to a ‘klomp’ by one of these barbarous dregs. He had, as a mark of immense restraint, always killed them by necessity, cutting the filthy monsters off of unarmed civilians who could not defend themselves, or swarming an ambushed, lone warrior with no chance of resisting overwhelming numbers. He hadn’t been able to stop them on some of those occasions, and it was those occasions that provided the most heat to his ever-blazing memorial fury. These beasts were not honourable, they were filth to a man. Existence would be a less agonising thing if they were all tossed mercilessly into the cold void. The nerve, then, that this mutt felt it could sit in the city of Malin’s descendants, with some of the same Mali that its kin had butchered. The sheer gall of it. Avius didn’t pull Eldarian, despite desperately wanting to. 

 

And then there was the valah, the human woman who had so often been speaking to the ever-softening blonde prince next to her. Did they really think everyone that blind? Anyway.. To their credit, the Wood Elf considered, at least the humans had the capability to create a civilisation, however backwards and poisonous it was in reality, however irreverent of the world around them. Unusually complimentary thoughts, but they disappeared with predictable alacrity. Thoughts came forth, overwhelming ones. The massacres of three centuries before had left a dreadful, permanent scar onto the consciousness of almost all Malin’s people, but particularly on his family. In an usually poetic flourish of thought, Avius considered how his somewhat vicious Csarathaire tree had grown due to being watered by the blood of his own people. In many ways, the near-unspeakable atrocities perpetrated by the Kaedrini White Rose order gave him birth, indirectly anyway. However, that great bloodletting was a long time ago, far before his birth. Avius Csarathaire had many other, more personal reasons to despise humanity. Despite what the others said, Irrinor in its best days was always the product of his youthful will, his and perhaps that of the long-gone Artimec. Conniving with the equally pernicious pale-ones, these short-lived wretches had waged a lacklustre war on the enclave he’d brought from nothing and eventually forced it to send him away. Eighteen years of exile, alone in the western mountains of Arcas, near two decades’ worth of time in which he’d festered and diminished, growing in his hatred of those who had done him and his people wrong. And what had he done, killed some meaningless human rat who was meant to possess some level of importance? Pitiful. Come to the door of Malin’s people armed and with ultimatum in hand, expect to accomplish only your own death. Still, that was done now. Suddenly, a pang of guilt smacked Avius in the face from a source wreathed in shadow. He thought of it, and then remembered the valah girl with whom he’d been close, how he’d stealthed his way dangerously close to the empire in order to see her. That was a long time ago now. He couldn’t even remember her name. It had been a long time ago, and she was a human, after all. They’d killed her, and he’d seethed for a long time, he remembered that. Despite utter revulsion at the crime he’d been willing but unable to commit against his own kind, that killing left a permanent scar across his soul. It joined all the others. Those lingering echos of feeling might've been the reason he was so lenient with the prince and his friend.


Only a few seconds after Avius had started scanning those around the fire, he suddenly didn't feel like taking a seat anymore. He skulked away, finding less painful company in Eldarian. He trained alone with the familial weapon for another few hours longer, a waterfall's calming trickle in his ear the whole time.

 

How he wished for a shorter memory, sometimes.

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In the shear corner of those amber, sun-lit eyes of hers would the bear notice an approaching Avius. 

"Sword-boy, Muttered Miven under her breath with a grin forming across her countenance --perhaps confusing her counterpart as she'd exclaim such. 

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Syndra Caerme'onn, as usual, always kept an eye out for Avius, whether he knew it or not. She had become fond of him in the almost-decade she had known him thus far, mostly for the fact that they were so similar in personality and dry humor.

 

However, as she observed him that particular day, she noticed he seemed irritable and on edge. She felt, in that moment, a pang of worry pulsed through her. Though he had his mate, and likewise a child by her, sometimes she found herself wishing he might look to her for consoling and comfort.  The stoic and hardened Avius was just the sort that she could bother herself with cracking the shell of for years and centuries, if she had her own way.

 

The prideful Sister Venom, for all her boastings of being a free-spirit, was wary to admit that she wanted something she couldn't have. And such a fact bothered her, for it was seemingly beyond her own control.

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