[action - outskirts of Troia.]
[Excenmille, sadly, wasn't one to recline and relax within any Kingdom's walls. He has his lessons to practise after all. And without any orcs, his lessons were taking twice as long. The monster's weakness compared to the Bloodwing Horde he's become accustomed to is disconcerting. As is their amazing capacity to flee. But he'd doing what he can -- tolerating setback after setback when they fall too easily or flee with speed he just can't match. And his mind wanders, no matter how he attempts to focus. A voice comes to him; a recollection.]
A spoony weakling like you couldn't hope to change history. As well try to stop the setting of the sun.
[He didn't want to be a weakling. He needed the strength to protect everyone. But everyone... Everyone was his mother, his father. Machegue. Phillieulais. They were all dead. He'd failed to protect every single one of them. There was Rahal, Cyraunce. The latter of which had not been seen or heard of; had vanished after his brother was slain. Rahal... probably dead. No. Most likely dead. And it was his fault. Rahal had attacked Zogbog to save him -- because he'd been foolish enough to be caught by the orc's trap. And now
There was a reason, a damned good reason, why this child was difficult to deal with. It was because he was entirely and utterly ashamed of the past. He felt powerless to prevent the ongoing cycle of death -- the destruction of his family, his friends, those he looked up to. One by one, they all died. And they would keep dying. And there was only one way to escape the pain and the grief.
...Anger. Forcing the blame onto other things. Forcing the feelings of his own inadequacy into venom, and spitting it at the nearest targets. Forming it into a ball of rage, and throwing it at the enemy. ...It was no retaliation. Just something, anything, to stop him feeling so powerless. Yet it didn't work. It never had, but he was only just starting to see it.]
...
[He lowered his greatsword -- the huge, heavy thing that signified everyone in his heart, and he stared at the ground. His eyes were wet, yet he couldn't cry like the ten year old he was. The voice wouldn't let him. He was almost afraid that the recollection would chide him some more if he did.]
You'd best learn to tolerate the truth - Nay, embrace it if 'tis truly your desire to bring about change. Now. Listen well, boy. Your stance suggests solid groundwork, but the quivering tip of your blade betrays a lack of resolve. Have I illustrated my point, boy? You don indecisiveness as if it a suit of armor, one that does naught but weigh you down.
[Finally, he understood. And he hated it. His eyes no longer showed emotion. Instead, they hardened. Lesson 67. Be not the fool that swims clad in armor. He rushed towards a monster, striking it deftly and with more power than what one of his age really should have had. It stood next to no chance, and crumbled instantly.]
Yaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!
No. T'was no better than your last effort.
These eyes will not be tricked. You mask it with blind aggression, yet you are encumbered still.
[Panting, he moved the sword back unto his back, and walked on in the search of more monsters. His voice was muted, more a question to himself than anything.]
...How...
could there have been...
any indecision in...
that?
A spoony weakling like you couldn't hope to change history. As well try to stop the setting of the sun.
[He didn't want to be a weakling. He needed the strength to protect everyone. But everyone... Everyone was his mother, his father. Machegue. Phillieulais. They were all dead. He'd failed to protect every single one of them. There was Rahal, Cyraunce. The latter of which had not been seen or heard of; had vanished after his brother was slain. Rahal... probably dead. No. Most likely dead. And it was his fault. Rahal had attacked Zogbog to save him -- because he'd been foolish enough to be caught by the orc's trap. And now
There was a reason, a damned good reason, why this child was difficult to deal with. It was because he was entirely and utterly ashamed of the past. He felt powerless to prevent the ongoing cycle of death -- the destruction of his family, his friends, those he looked up to. One by one, they all died. And they would keep dying. And there was only one way to escape the pain and the grief.
...Anger. Forcing the blame onto other things. Forcing the feelings of his own inadequacy into venom, and spitting it at the nearest targets. Forming it into a ball of rage, and throwing it at the enemy. ...It was no retaliation. Just something, anything, to stop him feeling so powerless. Yet it didn't work. It never had, but he was only just starting to see it.]
...
[He lowered his greatsword -- the huge, heavy thing that signified everyone in his heart, and he stared at the ground. His eyes were wet, yet he couldn't cry like the ten year old he was. The voice wouldn't let him. He was almost afraid that the recollection would chide him some more if he did.]
You'd best learn to tolerate the truth - Nay, embrace it if 'tis truly your desire to bring about change. Now. Listen well, boy. Your stance suggests solid groundwork, but the quivering tip of your blade betrays a lack of resolve. Have I illustrated my point, boy? You don indecisiveness as if it a suit of armor, one that does naught but weigh you down.
[Finally, he understood. And he hated it. His eyes no longer showed emotion. Instead, they hardened. Lesson 67. Be not the fool that swims clad in armor. He rushed towards a monster, striking it deftly and with more power than what one of his age really should have had. It stood next to no chance, and crumbled instantly.]
Yaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!
No. T'was no better than your last effort.
These eyes will not be tricked. You mask it with blind aggression, yet you are encumbered still.
[Panting, he moved the sword back unto his back, and walked on in the search of more monsters. His voice was muted, more a question to himself than anything.]
...How...
could there have been...
any indecision in...
that?