Phaeratar walked with purpose, but inside he was afraid. He was headed for the academy for his test. He was in his last year and knew that he had to pass this test. But it wasn't like any test he had ever had: he was twelfth in the class, and the test depended on besting a weapon master from a lowly house. He couldn't even recall the name of the house - Teken'tlar or something - but he knew the man didn't rise to weapon master by being a pushover.
He could not lose, however, being the youngest of the honoured House Barrifin. He had great shoes to fill, but he had to pull this off. His house ruled the council, and he had just heard of the successful coup. If he bested the weapon master easily, he could easily challenge his brother for the weapon master seat of the house.
So Phaeratar found himself standing before the vast doors of the academy. To his right stood the priestess academy, but since the coup, the doors have never opened, either due to vacancy or they were afraid to leave. Behind him stood the mage tower. All those who showed promise to the Arts were taught there. In front of him stood the battle house, where those gifted with quickness of hand and prowess of a blade were taught.
Steeling himself, he pushed open the doors. The deafening din of battle wafted over him, almost forcing him back. Of course, this is what always occurred, and he raised his chin and strode in defiantly. Within his hands were his ceremonial longsword and dirk, both crafted just for him in a magical ceremony on the day of his coming of age. They were infused with his blood, tying them to his hands and his alone. Hefting the blades, he said the words of power that blunted the blades - students were disallowed from killing within the academy - and waded into the glorious battle before him.
He easily blocked the first slices at him, slashing the blade across the face of another student. Even blunted, the blade dug into the boy's face and blood flowed out in a flurry. He would have a scar for the rest of his life. Whimpering, the boy crawled away. Phaeratar blocked many such attacks, driving the attackers away with ease.
Soon he found his target. The tall, silver-haired monstrosity of the lowly house. He had no finesse, Phaeratar thought with a grimace. The beast was thought to be a half-breed with an ogre - such things were not uncommon among this society, but it was still disconcerting - and wielded broadswords in each hand. Each swipe sent students flying, causing a wide berth to be created around the monster. Phaeratar gulped and walked into the open space, eyes fixated on his target. The monster screamed defiantly, drowning out the din of battle. Then, Phaeratar realised, the din of battle disappeared, all eyes turning to the circle of these two brave combatants.
Phaeratar knew that a single hit from one of those blades would kill him, so he whispered the words of power to return the keen edge to his blades. No one noticed, assuming the words were a prayer. And then the battle was joined.
The ogre charged, broadswords slicing in front of him like cleavers. Phaeratar charged as well, dropping into a slide as he neared the reach of the monster, dragging his blades across the ankles of the beast. The beast illicited a howl of rage mixed with agony, and tried to stomp on his smaller opponent, but Phaeratar was long gone, dancing away quickly.
Another roar, and another charge. Phaeratar concentrated on the swiping of the blades, timing his jump perfectly to land on the flat of the blade. The monster showed no change of tactic as Phaeratar jabbed at his face with his dirk, piercing one eye. The howl of rage dissipated into a howl of agony. Phaeratar backflipped off the blade landing gracefully in a defensive stance, awaiting to see how this would play out further.
The beast dropped one of his broadswords, clasping his gushing eye with the hand. He let the other blade rest as he pulled a piece of fabric from his pocket and tied it around his eye. Gripping his remaining blade with both hands, his tactic changed as he charged again.
Phaeratar nodded and flipped his dirk high in the air. Time seemed to slow as Phaeratar reached into his belt and retrieved three throwing daggers. He tossed those in the air as well, flipping one at the left knee of the monster. Before that blade landed home, the second blade landed in his waiting hand. This blade he threw at the right shoulder and the final blade at his left shoulder.
Before his dirk landing in his hand again, all three daggers had hit their mark. The shoulder targets severed major tendons, his broadsword slipping from his hands unbidden, and the dagger sliced through his kneecap ripping the tendons there sending the monster face-first into the obsidian battle floor. The crunch of skull against floow made Phaeratar grimace, but he knew he had won the battle.
Turning away, he walked through the crowd to the battlemaster's quarters. He had won, and had finished his training. The crowd dared not challenge the youth who conquered the beast, and let him through without
incident.
(Out of Context: Yes, for those who are wondering, it was intended that this story would take place in the same general setting as Order of the Broken Rose. I don't know where I intended to *take* the setting, but that's what I planned)
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