Briefly, Ulric lamented his own lack of emotional honesty. Being aware of your own problems was different from finding the proper way to work through them. There was a reason therapists had a job. He wasn't equipped to be the best person to help this scarred Elf through her issues. Perhaps though, there were times when a blunt instrument was the most effective. More than one stubborn machine had returned to order after a severe kick to the housing. He put a pin in that thought.
Deciding that he'd never truly relax given this current state of affairs anyway, Ulric rose from his place and made to leave. A few eyes trailed him from the Elves in their pockets of social circles. Those same eyes flicked towards his Shadow, he noticed, before returning to their own conversations. They knew what was up, to some extent, then. He was grateful for the Iriel'en proclivity to Mind One's Own Business. That would make things easier, Ulric hated being involved in a public spectacle.
He left the baths and their beautiful bathers to enjoy the steam and the peace and toweled himself off in the dressing room. All too aware was the only Human in the room of the other occupants, each carefully avoiding questioning looks towards his person, or rather, the absent one who should have been with him. Watcher’s tits, this was awkward as a break up with an office coworker. Why was he so uncomfortable? Too self-conscious old man, don’t worry about it. Besides, you aren’t going out with Geyrt, you aren’t even going to attempt to lay a hand on so much as a strand of that fabulous hair, let alone the more than fabulous rest of her. She’s a…a bond slave of some fucking kind.
Fuck, Ulric commented in his head. That summarized his general disposition as he stood holding a rumpled, damp towel in choking hands. Reluctantly the disgruntled man let it fall to the floor, as it wasn’t able to properly suffocate and make him feel any better.
Steadfastly refusing to hurry out of intense desire to get the hell out of there, Ulric redressed in what had become his norm: the thin silken/fine wool clothes that warriors wore underneath their armor. His own armor was stashed in his quarters, his trident propped up next to it. He was nearly finished braiding his long hair by the time his aggravated body guard stepped into the room. Ulric averted his eyes, no sense giving the woman any reason to be further aggrieved of him. Now he was in a conundrum: to wait out of courtesy, or to ignore her?
The decision wasn’t exactly difficult, at the end of the day. He was the guy in charge, it was her job to keep up with him, not his to placate her childish pride. Some reptilian part of him sensed when a power game was being played and decided to inform his waking brain that waiting was a show of vulnerability where one should not appear to be vulnerable. Without glancing at the finest of Iriel’en skins, Ulric left the dressing room. Hal’et’s warning rang loud in his thoughts: Don’t ever let her think you weak or you will suffer for it.
Hurried footsteps uncharacteristically lacking in their usual silent tread announced his Shadow catching up to him some three quarters of the way back to his apartments. Still, she said nothing and Ulric decided he wouldn’t either. Not like he particularly had anything to say in the first place, if his Shadow wanted to be that way it was her problem. Gods how he hated it when people played games with him though, it was half the reason he’d stopped bothering to socialize. Always someone wanting to play a game whose rules they were making up that, invariably, were designed to make themselves feel better at someone else’s expense. Other than the political maneuverings of her father, for reasons he felt were fairly justifiable, and the misguided attempt by the Lordling dickhead to install themselves as new [Lord of the Ancient Glade], which had resulted in homicide, there had been precious little of that sort of nonsense in Iriel. Until now.
An aggressive whisper reared up before he quashed it. No, brain tiger, the recalcitrant former engineer scolded, now is not the time for that. This is a matter for diplomacy. Sort of. His life was made harder by the fact that he couldn’t just get up and leave the source of his troubles behind, like he normally would. In the Before, his solution to people that he judged to be problematic was to refuse to engage with them. It worked too. Their attempts to fuck with him were very similar to attempting to hit a pinata that was made of gas. Swing all you want you bastards, there’s nothing to hit. Here, that was not an option; his problem was going to stalk behind him hatefully until the heat death of the universe.
What would he even say? Sorry for you being kind of a bitch? Apologize on behalf of all humans everywhere, again, for crimes he’d had nothing to do with, that had occurred while he was on another planet, before he’d ever been born? Ridiculous. He sighed as he entered his room, anticipating some relief from the hostile presence behind him. Abrupt contact almost made him stumble as Geyrt Iriel brushed roughly past him to launch herself into her side room. Ulric gazed furiously at the door that had just slammed closed and gritted his teeth.
“Oh, you utter bitch.” He whispered to the sylvan architecture around him.
It wasn’t an exaggeration to say that he was totally at a loss as what to do. Once again, Ulric resolved to try to find some way out of this situation. Maybe he could fake his own death and sneak away. No, wouldn’t work, now she has that tracking spell she could probably trace him. Damn.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
His heartfelt chant brought no divine insight and the man stared long at the walls of his room trying to think of some way to shed his bond servant without insulting a nation full of people that might kill him for the insult. In yet more unwelcome news, a duty knocked to inform him that emergency requiring his pointy eared majesty’s attention had drawn him away and they would have to cancel their planned meeting, leaving Ulric to brood in silence. Night found him without answer and he went to his sleep disturbed.
What followed were some of the least pleasant days Ulric Einar, Twice Born of Earth had ever experienced up to that point. He’d put in a word with a duty to hold a meeting with Lord Bald’rt Iriel to pass along his suspicions, not necessarily because he believed he had the inside edge on anybody around these parts but, maybe, he was coming at it from an angle that was new. His background had produced thought processes that were distinct from his inhuman neighbors. Bald’rt was, unfortunately, not available, having left the citadel to conduct business with the Orlethrem. His Lordship was due back shortly and would meet with Ulric when he had the time. Fair enough. Whatever had come up to cancel their dinner plan was likely heinous in nature and Ulric had all he could handle, currently.
Training was as he had come to expect: dismal, grueling, and painful. That it was now also being done with a silently judging gaze laden with outright disapproval was just icing on the cake. There was, however, indisputable progress. He’d gotten good enough at the basics of moving that Idra would not disallow sparring matches with the other guardsmen. That went about as well as he expected, and his bruises soon had bruises. It wasn’t maliciousness, he was just slow to react and bad when he did. Getting less slow and less bad, but still.
At least Gother had remained consistently boring, if eminently informative. Learning herbology and cultivation of alchemical reagents from a guy that was probably around when the techniques were invented was nifty. Ulric’s time in chemistry coursework were well spent, he had a feeling he could see the connections between bioactivity in various oils and herbal treatments and the nature of the molecules participating in them. How those components married to magic was still nebulous.
He saw the reasoning behind this herb, [Moonlit Silverbloom] being profoundly neurotoxic in high doses, its symptoms indicated a strongly voltage gated sodium channel blocking chemical profile, paralyzing the diaphragm and sudden cardiac arrest being prevalent, ala good old Tetrodotoxin, but lacked a way to draw parallels when it turned out that herb, in lower doses and compounded with this other one here, would facilitate a temporary but potent increase in mana regeneration. Why? Did it make a core draw harder on ambient mana? Process it faster? And that was one of the more normal effects described by the withered Elf meister.
Even more fantastic, when Gother demonstrated a plant that manifested a fiery cloak around the petals of its flower that could be rendered to produce agents that healed burns with stunning alacrity, as if consuming the destroyed flesh to regenerate it, he saw no way to internalize the mechanisms behind so potent a biochemical process. [Phoenix Orchids] was the apt name of that particular plant and it was thoroughly magical in nature. Another, [Frostvine] gave off an aura of cold so intense it brought fog into the room when removed from its sealed container. It bore fruits that rendered one nearly immune to the effects of exposure to subzero temperatures. How? No fucking clue. Something, something, consolidation of the manaweave within one’s body to reflect Infrig ambiance.
His time with the Dragon Ladies was similarly productive, if exhausting mentally. Shor was tightening his grasp daily on manaforms and the abstractions of what he was doing with his spellwork. Trying to reconcile Elven mysticism with his knowledge of physical mechanisms regarding energy and matter was enough to give him headaches. The struggle was pouring water on fertile ground. He understood far better now why certain manipulations were necessary and Vedyr was quick to then translate those whys into hows, strengthening his casting. [Cinderpearl] was the culminating achievement of that study, no new spellforms came clear to him, but Ulric felt like he was edging around a breakthrough regarding multiple elemental interactions.
Bathe continued her efforts to teach him how to cycle and concentrate his magic through his body, and the effects were starting to bear fruit: Ulric was definitively tougher and his stamina recovered faster than before, with no change to his status. His core was actively strengthening his body, like training your lungs made you a better swimmer. The body magic was still in its infancy but he was getting there. He’d better, this was key to surviving his core’s eventual awakening according to the Elf Queens.
The ladies informed him that they would be departing, each had a task that required her particular gifts and Ulric should continue practicing cycling and infusing mana, if nothing else.
It was, by now, clear to all that there had been some sort of falling out between him and his Shadow. Absent her parents’ presence, his Shadow grew even more overtly hostile. Still not speaking to him but using every other means at her disposal to demonstrate her displeasure with his insistence on existing. If he’d known this was what would come of laughing at her status he’d have gagged himself with his belt. The other Elves were circumspect, at first, and somewhat amused later.
He had detected heavy notes of disapproval from the Dragons and Idra however, mostly directed towards the former Princess, though they clearly thought he was failing to handle the situation properly. Mostly because he was, damn it. Nobody was saying anything though, and Ulric still didn’t know how to broach the situation without being an angry bastard about it, that being his natural state. What would an Elf do? He resolved to ask Bald’rt when the Iriel’en King returned. It was his daughter and his fault for saddling Ulric with her hateful, if sumptuous, ass in the first place.
One thing was sure: This couldn’t last. Neither of them was the type to leave things alone forever. He shouldn’t have been surprised when the wheels came off, even though he was.
Stance work. He loved it, he hated it, and it was Idra’se’s passion in life. Here, at least, all his problems vanished for a few precious minutes, buried under the focused exertion. Ulric completed his last repetition under the smoldering gaze of the serpent behind him who had long since stopped offering suggested improvements, happy to make his spine itch with her eyeballing. It no longer made him chuckle when one of the Royal guards observed how hot the suns seemed to beat upon his back. This round was of particular difficulty, full of crossing steps and half step retreats, motions that Ulric knew would prove useful should he ever have the need to dodge buckshot at close quarters. He actually looked forwards to the inevitable strikes he was going to take from sparring partners. At least his knees wouldn’t feel like pretzels. Per usual he quickly went 0-2 against the experienced Elves.
Raising himself up after a painful reminder that livers did not like practice swords hitting them, he saw his partner give a salute with their blade. The Elf, Sinna, elder sister of Hal’et, praised brightly “That was a fine ripost, Glade Chief. Too slow coming, but the intuition is building. I think your body has started to gain a feel for the rhythm of the Dance.”
He cheered up a little at the first good news in a while.
“His riposte was harmless to any but a child. Not even that.” Came the incisive voice of his Shadow, the first time he’d heard it since their spat.
“And his movements remain clumsy beyond reason. At this rate, he will use his sword for a cane before a proper weapon.” Added Geyrt with open contempt.
Ulric was at his breaking point. He knew this was some kind of set up. That she’d chosen to break her silence now and in front of the rest of the warriors. Don’t let her think you weak, whispered Hal’et’s warning.
“Good of you to deign to share your thoughts, Geyrt.” Ulric rejoined, tersely, “Though I cannot help but notice that they offer nothing useful, as has been the rule as of late. Why don’t you piss off somewhere else, since you don’t feel like doing your duty, rather than interfering with those who do?”
It was a hard dig. The Iriel’en didn’t have much use for slackers, this bunch in particular. Worse, it was true. A Shadow’s role was well defined: Do all in your power to serve the interests of your Honor. The tall drink of water over there had done nothing but glare at him for nearly a week now and everybody knew it. He was past caring about embarrassing her now, not when she was being a snit while he worked his ass off over here.
Ulric figured he’d worried just about enough about her feelings. You don’t like where you’re at, what you’re doing, or who you’re doing it for? Tough shit. Do your job or go the hell on. It was time to force her to get her act together.
Ears bounced once and stilled and Geyrt’s expression went dark.
“I would be glad to show you what you lack, Glade Chief. If but you had roots long enough to stand the storm’s blow.” Came the Huntress’s challenge.
This here was what he’d been warned about. The former Iriel’en princess and notorious [Blood Thorn] of a woman was doing what she always did when someone slighted her, or she thought they had. She was going to try to shame them publicly. Either he could take her up on her offer and, most likely, get his ass kicked, or he could step aside from it. Neither option was good. No matter what he did here, he wasn’t going to be salvaging his dignity or fixing what was broken between him and this resentful Elf. One of them though, would cost him the respect of the warriors with whom he’d trained. That made the decision simple. Simple isn’t the same as easy.
Under the considering eyes of the sparring guardsmen and Idra who was keeping a show of disinterest while overseeing the courtyard Ulric did the only thing he could do.
“You’re out of line Taipan, but it’s fine. Unlike some, I’m not too proud to learn what is needed to become what I wish to be.” Ulric accepted, his use of her title setting her teeth to grinding.
Green-flecked eyes glittering, the Paragon Iriel’en snatched the training weapon from the grasp of Sinna, whose own expression tightened and the set of her jaw promised the slight had been tallied. Ignoring the guardsman, his Shadow took up a ready stance, lithe form fairly humming with eagerness.
Ulric knew better than to think she’d make the mistake from before though. No overextensions this time that he could use against her. No linear advance, absent guard. This time, he knew the Elf was going to use every single advantage of her training and heritage against him. And he couldn’t use any of the tools his core offered, like fighting with one hand behind his back. He didn’t have a snowball’s chance. But that wasn’t the point then, was it? All he had to do here was let her know he was here. Winning only mattered if you died when you lost. Defeat was like finding out your experiment disproved your hypothesis, it just showed you another opportunity to become better, a new avenue of research, not an ending.
Carefully, as precisely as he could, Ulric assumed the Undan ready, his sword held in a one-handed grip, soft wood blade slanted across his body to close attack angles and point aligned with the face of his opponent, threatening.
He regripped the wrapped handle, sweat cold against his palms. Geyrt was on the move before his fingers finished clinching.
Ulric tracked left following the sidestep, he half turned and took a half backstep and managed to parry the blurred stab at his heart, awkward in his motion because it had come from the opposite side he expected. Somehow, Geyrt had managed to slide to the other direction while he was watching the tip of her sword come in. Clever girl. Retreat was the only option, he worked the practice sword desperately, warding away precise thrusts that always targeted a weakness in his stance or a gap in his defense. Hip, root knee, offhand shoulder, neck, branch knee, neck again, chest, it was all he could do to pivot and step out from her attacks while the wood of his sword cracked against hers.
A stab turned into a cut without warning, the point coming back, like a magic trick, to her shoulder even as his attempted parry turned his sword wide. He caught the whistling blade under his sword arm, the impact slapping ribs and bruising the flesh instantly.
“Mmmgh! Fuck!” He grunted, wincing hard.
Maybe it was a difference of opinion, but where she looked smug about the hit, he was feeling pretty good about it. It had taken her all of about ten seconds to land the strike, and that was five longer than he thought it would take. He was doing twice as good as expected!
Her blade lowered and he watched her sneer at his obvious pain, “So easy. Is there even a point to you being here?” She asked.
He thought about Christ, throwing himself into Idra’se’s jaws on a daily basis. He remembered setting the chess a.i. to grandmaster when he learned the game. It was the same mindset. That was the attitude of people who wanted to go destroy their limits. Beating somebody worse or even was just doing what you’re supposed to. It was expected, of no value. There was no point beginning if you weren’t willing to lose against an enemy beyond you. That enemy was always going to come, eventually. Finding victory against someone better than you was always the taste of ambrosia to him. There was nothing weak in standing up to someone you knew you couldn’t beat. It wasn’t smart. But it wasn’t weak.
“You wouldn’t understand if I told you.” He told her, surprised that he couldn’t be angry with her anymore.
She wouldn’t. Born to it, she was. Doubtless, Geyrt Iriel had devoted herself to her craft but he doubted if she’d ever actually struggled, especially not when her family had been able to provide the best for her, to lift her up from below. Pitting herself against her lessers was the norm, not the exception.
The only thing Ulric Einar had ever been given was his name and an honest god given second chance. A chance he wasn’t going to let come to nothing because he was afraid of getting hit a few times.
He got back into his stance, keeping his legs looser this time.
“Whenever you’re ready, Princess.” He told her.
On she came. Without the smile.
Briefly, Ulric lamented his own lack of emotional honesty. Being aware of your own problems was different from finding the proper way to work through them. There was a reason therapists had a job. He wasn't equipped to be the best person to help this scarred Elf through her issues. Perhaps though, there were times when a blunt instrument was the most effective. More than one stubborn machine had returned to order after a severe kick to the housing. He put a pin in that thought.
Deciding that he'd never truly relax given this current state of affairs anyway, Ulric rose from his place and made to leave. A few eyes trailed him from the Elves in their pockets of social circles. Those same eyes flicked towards his Shadow, he noticed, before returning to their own conversations. They knew what was up, to some extent, then. He was grateful for the Iriel'en proclivity to Mind One's Own Business. That would make things easier, Ulric hated being involved in a public spectacle.
He left the baths and their beautiful bathers to enjoy the steam and the peace and toweled himself off in the dressing room. All too aware was the only Human in the room of the other occupants, each carefully avoiding questioning looks towards his person, or rather, the absent one who should have been with him. Watcher’s tits, this was awkward as a break up with an office coworker. Why was he so uncomfortable? Too self-conscious old man, don’t worry about it. Besides, you aren’t going out with Geyrt, you aren’t even going to attempt to lay a hand on so much as a strand of that fabulous hair, let alone the more than fabulous rest of her. She’s a…a bond slave of some fucking kind.
Fuck, Ulric commented in his head. That summarized his general disposition as he stood holding a rumpled, damp towel in choking hands. Reluctantly the disgruntled man let it fall to the floor, as it wasn’t able to properly suffocate and make him feel any better.
Steadfastly refusing to hurry out of intense desire to get the hell out of there, Ulric redressed in what had become his norm: the thin silken/fine wool clothes that warriors wore underneath their armor. His own armor was stashed in his quarters, his trident propped up next to it. He was nearly finished braiding his long hair by the time his aggravated body guard stepped into the room. Ulric averted his eyes, no sense giving the woman any reason to be further aggrieved of him. Now he was in a conundrum: to wait out of courtesy, or to ignore her?
The decision wasn’t exactly difficult, at the end of the day. He was the guy in charge, it was her job to keep up with him, not his to placate her childish pride. Some reptilian part of him sensed when a power game was being played and decided to inform his waking brain that waiting was a show of vulnerability where one should not appear to be vulnerable. Without glancing at the finest of Iriel’en skins, Ulric left the dressing room. Hal’et’s warning rang loud in his thoughts: Don’t ever let her think you weak or you will suffer for it.
Hurried footsteps uncharacteristically lacking in their usual silent tread announced his Shadow catching up to him some three quarters of the way back to his apartments. Still, she said nothing and Ulric decided he wouldn’t either. Not like he particularly had anything to say in the first place, if his Shadow wanted to be that way it was her problem. Gods how he hated it when people played games with him though, it was half the reason he’d stopped bothering to socialize. Always someone wanting to play a game whose rules they were making up that, invariably, were designed to make themselves feel better at someone else’s expense. Other than the political maneuverings of her father, for reasons he felt were fairly justifiable, and the misguided attempt by the Lordling dickhead to install themselves as new [Lord of the Ancient Glade], which had resulted in homicide, there had been precious little of that sort of nonsense in Iriel. Until now.
An aggressive whisper reared up before he quashed it. No, brain tiger, the recalcitrant former engineer scolded, now is not the time for that. This is a matter for diplomacy. Sort of. His life was made harder by the fact that he couldn’t just get up and leave the source of his troubles behind, like he normally would. In the Before, his solution to people that he judged to be problematic was to refuse to engage with them. It worked too. Their attempts to fuck with him were very similar to attempting to hit a pinata that was made of gas. Swing all you want you bastards, there’s nothing to hit. Here, that was not an option; his problem was going to stalk behind him hatefully until the heat death of the universe.
What would he even say? Sorry for you being kind of a bitch? Apologize on behalf of all humans everywhere, again, for crimes he’d had nothing to do with, that had occurred while he was on another planet, before he’d ever been born? Ridiculous. He sighed as he entered his room, anticipating some relief from the hostile presence behind him. Abrupt contact almost made him stumble as Geyrt Iriel brushed roughly past him to launch herself into her side room. Ulric gazed furiously at the door that had just slammed closed and gritted his teeth.
“Oh, you utter bitch.” He whispered to the sylvan architecture around him.
It wasn’t an exaggeration to say that he was totally at a loss as what to do. Once again, Ulric resolved to try to find some way out of this situation. Maybe he could fake his own death and sneak away. No, wouldn’t work, now she has that tracking spell she could probably trace him. Damn.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
His heartfelt chant brought no divine insight and the man stared long at the walls of his room trying to think of some way to shed his bond servant without insulting a nation full of people that might kill him for the insult. In yet more unwelcome news, a duty knocked to inform him that emergency requiring his pointy eared majesty’s attention had drawn him away and they would have to cancel their planned meeting, leaving Ulric to brood in silence. Night found him without answer and he went to his sleep disturbed.
What followed were some of the least pleasant days Ulric Einar, Twice Born of Earth had ever experienced up to that point. He’d put in a word with a duty to hold a meeting with Lord Bald’rt Iriel to pass along his suspicions, not necessarily because he believed he had the inside edge on anybody around these parts but, maybe, he was coming at it from an angle that was new. His background had produced thought processes that were distinct from his inhuman neighbors. Bald’rt was, unfortunately, not available, having left the citadel to conduct business with the Orlethrem. His Lordship was due back shortly and would meet with Ulric when he had the time. Fair enough. Whatever had come up to cancel their dinner plan was likely heinous in nature and Ulric had all he could handle, currently.
Training was as he had come to expect: dismal, grueling, and painful. That it was now also being done with a silently judging gaze laden with outright disapproval was just icing on the cake. There was, however, indisputable progress. He’d gotten good enough at the basics of moving that Idra would not disallow sparring matches with the other guardsmen. That went about as well as he expected, and his bruises soon had bruises. It wasn’t maliciousness, he was just slow to react and bad when he did. Getting less slow and less bad, but still.
At least Gother had remained consistently boring, if eminently informative. Learning herbology and cultivation of alchemical reagents from a guy that was probably around when the techniques were invented was nifty. Ulric’s time in chemistry coursework were well spent, he had a feeling he could see the connections between bioactivity in various oils and herbal treatments and the nature of the molecules participating in them. How those components married to magic was still nebulous.
He saw the reasoning behind this herb, [Moonlit Silverbloom] being profoundly neurotoxic in high doses, its symptoms indicated a strongly voltage gated sodium channel blocking chemical profile, paralyzing the diaphragm and sudden cardiac arrest being prevalent, ala good old Tetrodotoxin, but lacked a way to draw parallels when it turned out that herb, in lower doses and compounded with this other one here, would facilitate a temporary but potent increase in mana regeneration. Why? Did it make a core draw harder on ambient mana? Process it faster? And that was one of the more normal effects described by the withered Elf meister.
Even more fantastic, when Gother demonstrated a plant that manifested a fiery cloak around the petals of its flower that could be rendered to produce agents that healed burns with stunning alacrity, as if consuming the destroyed flesh to regenerate it, he saw no way to internalize the mechanisms behind so potent a biochemical process. [Phoenix Orchids] was the apt name of that particular plant and it was thoroughly magical in nature. Another, [Frostvine] gave off an aura of cold so intense it brought fog into the room when removed from its sealed container. It bore fruits that rendered one nearly immune to the effects of exposure to subzero temperatures. How? No fucking clue. Something, something, consolidation of the manaweave within one’s body to reflect Infrig ambiance.
His time with the Dragon Ladies was similarly productive, if exhausting mentally. Shor was tightening his grasp daily on manaforms and the abstractions of what he was doing with his spellwork. Trying to reconcile Elven mysticism with his knowledge of physical mechanisms regarding energy and matter was enough to give him headaches. The struggle was pouring water on fertile ground. He understood far better now why certain manipulations were necessary and Vedyr was quick to then translate those whys into hows, strengthening his casting. [Cinderpearl] was the culminating achievement of that study, no new spellforms came clear to him, but Ulric felt like he was edging around a breakthrough regarding multiple elemental interactions.
Bathe continued her efforts to teach him how to cycle and concentrate his magic through his body, and the effects were starting to bear fruit: Ulric was definitively tougher and his stamina recovered faster than before, with no change to his status. His core was actively strengthening his body, like training your lungs made you a better swimmer. The body magic was still in its infancy but he was getting there. He’d better, this was key to surviving his core’s eventual awakening according to the Elf Queens.
The ladies informed him that they would be departing, each had a task that required her particular gifts and Ulric should continue practicing cycling and infusing mana, if nothing else.
It was, by now, clear to all that there had been some sort of falling out between him and his Shadow. Absent her parents’ presence, his Shadow grew even more overtly hostile. Still not speaking to him but using every other means at her disposal to demonstrate her displeasure with his insistence on existing. If he’d known this was what would come of laughing at her status he’d have gagged himself with his belt. The other Elves were circumspect, at first, and somewhat amused later.
He had detected heavy notes of disapproval from the Dragons and Idra however, mostly directed towards the former Princess, though they clearly thought he was failing to handle the situation properly. Mostly because he was, damn it. Nobody was saying anything though, and Ulric still didn’t know how to broach the situation without being an angry bastard about it, that being his natural state. What would an Elf do? He resolved to ask Bald’rt when the Iriel’en King returned. It was his daughter and his fault for saddling Ulric with her hateful, if sumptuous, ass in the first place.
One thing was sure: This couldn’t last. Neither of them was the type to leave things alone forever. He shouldn’t have been surprised when the wheels came off, even though he was.
Stance work. He loved it, he hated it, and it was Idra’se’s passion in life. Here, at least, all his problems vanished for a few precious minutes, buried under the focused exertion. Ulric completed his last repetition under the smoldering gaze of the serpent behind him who had long since stopped offering suggested improvements, happy to make his spine itch with her eyeballing. It no longer made him chuckle when one of the Royal guards observed how hot the suns seemed to beat upon his back. This round was of particular difficulty, full of crossing steps and half step retreats, motions that Ulric knew would prove useful should he ever have the need to dodge buckshot at close quarters. He actually looked forwards to the inevitable strikes he was going to take from sparring partners. At least his knees wouldn’t feel like pretzels. Per usual he quickly went 0-2 against the experienced Elves.
Raising himself up after a painful reminder that livers did not like practice swords hitting them, he saw his partner give a salute with their blade. The Elf, Sinna, elder sister of Hal’et, praised brightly “That was a fine ripost, Glade Chief. Too slow coming, but the intuition is building. I think your body has started to gain a feel for the rhythm of the Dance.”
He cheered up a little at the first good news in a while.
“His riposte was harmless to any but a child. Not even that.” Came the incisive voice of his Shadow, the first time he’d heard it since their spat.
“And his movements remain clumsy beyond reason. At this rate, he will use his sword for a cane before a proper weapon.” Added Geyrt with open contempt.
Ulric was at his breaking point. He knew this was some kind of set up. That she’d chosen to break her silence now and in front of the rest of the warriors. Don’t let her think you weak, whispered Hal’et’s warning.
“Good of you to deign to share your thoughts, Geyrt.” Ulric rejoined, tersely, “Though I cannot help but notice that they offer nothing useful, as has been the rule as of late. Why don’t you piss off somewhere else, since you don’t feel like doing your duty, rather than interfering with those who do?”
It was a hard dig. The Iriel’en didn’t have much use for slackers, this bunch in particular. Worse, it was true. A Shadow’s role was well defined: Do all in your power to serve the interests of your Honor. The tall drink of water over there had done nothing but glare at him for nearly a week now and everybody knew it. He was past caring about embarrassing her now, not when she was being a snit while he worked his ass off over here.
Ulric figured he’d worried just about enough about her feelings. You don’t like where you’re at, what you’re doing, or who you’re doing it for? Tough shit. Do your job or go the hell on. It was time to force her to get her act together.
Ears bounced once and stilled and Geyrt’s expression went dark.
“I would be glad to show you what you lack, Glade Chief. If but you had roots long enough to stand the storm’s blow.” Came the Huntress’s challenge.
This here was what he’d been warned about. The former Iriel’en princess and notorious [Blood Thorn] of a woman was doing what she always did when someone slighted her, or she thought they had. She was going to try to shame them publicly. Either he could take her up on her offer and, most likely, get his ass kicked, or he could step aside from it. Neither option was good. No matter what he did here, he wasn’t going to be salvaging his dignity or fixing what was broken between him and this resentful Elf. One of them though, would cost him the respect of the warriors with whom he’d trained. That made the decision simple. Simple isn’t the same as easy.
Under the considering eyes of the sparring guardsmen and Idra who was keeping a show of disinterest while overseeing the courtyard Ulric did the only thing he could do.
“You’re out of line Taipan, but it’s fine. Unlike some, I’m not too proud to learn what is needed to become what I wish to be.” Ulric accepted, his use of her title setting her teeth to grinding.
Green-flecked eyes glittering, the Paragon Iriel’en snatched the training weapon from the grasp of Sinna, whose own expression tightened and the set of her jaw promised the slight had been tallied. Ignoring the guardsman, his Shadow took up a ready stance, lithe form fairly humming with eagerness.
Ulric knew better than to think she’d make the mistake from before though. No overextensions this time that he could use against her. No linear advance, absent guard. This time, he knew the Elf was going to use every single advantage of her training and heritage against him. And he couldn’t use any of the tools his core offered, like fighting with one hand behind his back. He didn’t have a snowball’s chance. But that wasn’t the point then, was it? All he had to do here was let her know he was here. Winning only mattered if you died when you lost. Defeat was like finding out your experiment disproved your hypothesis, it just showed you another opportunity to become better, a new avenue of research, not an ending.
Carefully, as precisely as he could, Ulric assumed the Undan ready, his sword held in a one-handed grip, soft wood blade slanted across his body to close attack angles and point aligned with the face of his opponent, threatening.
He regripped the wrapped handle, sweat cold against his palms. Geyrt was on the move before his fingers finished clinching.
Ulric tracked left following the sidestep, he half turned and took a half backstep and managed to parry the blurred stab at his heart, awkward in his motion because it had come from the opposite side he expected. Somehow, Geyrt had managed to slide to the other direction while he was watching the tip of her sword come in. Clever girl. Retreat was the only option, he worked the practice sword desperately, warding away precise thrusts that always targeted a weakness in his stance or a gap in his defense. Hip, root knee, offhand shoulder, neck, branch knee, neck again, chest, it was all he could do to pivot and step out from her attacks while the wood of his sword cracked against hers.
A stab turned into a cut without warning, the point coming back, like a magic trick, to her shoulder even as his attempted parry turned his sword wide. He caught the whistling blade under his sword arm, the impact slapping ribs and bruising the flesh instantly.
“Mmmgh! Fuck!” He grunted, wincing hard.
Maybe it was a difference of opinion, but where she looked smug about the hit, he was feeling pretty good about it. It had taken her all of about ten seconds to land the strike, and that was five longer than he thought it would take. He was doing twice as good as expected!
Her blade lowered and he watched her sneer at his obvious pain, “So easy. Is there even a point to you being here?” She asked.
He thought about Christ, throwing himself into Idra’se’s jaws on a daily basis. He remembered setting the chess a.i. to grandmaster when he learned the game. It was the same mindset. That was the attitude of people who wanted to go destroy their limits. Beating somebody worse or even was just doing what you’re supposed to. It was expected, of no value. There was no point beginning if you weren’t willing to lose against an enemy beyond you. That enemy was always going to come, eventually. Finding victory against someone better than you was always the taste of ambrosia to him. There was nothing weak in standing up to someone you knew you couldn’t beat. It wasn’t smart. But it wasn’t weak.
“You wouldn’t understand if I told you.” He told her, surprised that he couldn’t be angry with her anymore.
She wouldn’t. Born to it, she was. Doubtless, Geyrt Iriel had devoted herself to her craft but he doubted if she’d ever actually struggled, especially not when her family had been able to provide the best for her, to lift her up from below. Pitting herself against her lessers was the norm, not the exception.
The only thing Ulric Einar had ever been given was his name and an honest god given second chance. A chance he wasn’t going to let come to nothing because he was afraid of getting hit a few times.
He got back into his stance, keeping his legs looser this time.
“Whenever you’re ready, Princess.” He told her.
On she came. Without the smile.
