Yelena
Dimedrious shot forward with the precision and speed of a preying mantis about to catch some wriggling insect. But she was ready.
She sidestepped to the right, keeping her blade high, the tip aimed at Di’s shoulder, and delivered a precise strike just above his elbow.
He spun round instantly, shooting her a sly smile.
"Notice my opponent’s strategy!" he bellowed. "She has cleverly identified her foe’s dominant arm and moves to disable it. Lesson 1: observe your enemy. Know that disabling their ability to strike is the key to victory."
He came at her again, this time with two sharp thrusts aimed at her torso. She deflected them quickly, tightening her hold on her blade with both hands, feeling the force behind both his attacks. She knew they were lighter than usual.
Are you holding back on me, Di?
Another strike came from above. He lifted his blade into the air and brought it down on her head. In so doing he stepped forward and put all the weight of the strike on his right leg. She rolled to the side of the blow and used the momentum to get behind him, smashing her blade into the fur behind his kneecap.
He stumbled forwards with a little yelp, fighting to regain his balance. When he turned back this time, a look of confused consternation washed over his face.
"Cheeky," he murmured.
She smiled back at him and brought her sword up again.
"Observe well Yelena’s gambit," he chuckled to the crowd. "She has noticed the inherent weakness of her opponents fighting style – the size and weight of my sword makes my movement cumbersome. The benefit of her armor and longsword is increased mobility, which she uses to her advantage. Lesson 2: Know your opponent’s weapon – its advantages and disadvantages. But don’t forget your own."
Di spun his blade overhead in a wide arc that told Yelena he was attempting a vertical slash. She ducked low and rolled forwards. But as she looked up, ready to thrust her blade up to rest on Di’s heart, she suddenly felt herself smacked to the ground by the force of her Captain’s blade. He had hit her with the flat side intentionally, and simply walked away to talk again with the enraptured crowd.
"Mark: My opponent’s eyes are so focused on anticipating my moves that she forgets to remain present. She attempted to predict, going by the book to dodge and counter my telegraphed vertical slash. However, she seems to have forgotten that not every foe she meets plays by the rules."
She looked up at him with a begrudged smile, wiping the dust from her cheek.
"Lesson 3," Di continued. "Knowledge is power – it’s true. But the textbooks can only carry you so far. The monsters you will face out there do not abide by our notions of combat. They are bound by their own rules. As such, analyze and evaluate, but never take your eyes off your opponents. Trust the eyes, not the sword alone, and you’ll always expect the unexpected."
Yelena rose and swept her blade before her. She calmly assumed her stance again.
"Lesson 4," Dimedrious grinned, licking his lips. "Never give up."
Their blades clashed in the hall for the next five minutes, Yelena blocking, anticipating openings, and striking for Dimedrious’ vitals, while he had fun dodging, flourishing, and showing the new troops the force and speed of his sword arm. A few times the crowd had to move to let the two warriors pass them by as they continued their dance, their gazes never shifting from the other, never faltering in their seemingly endless melee. Even the hybrids who’d started taking notes on the outskirts had simply stopped writing to watch the display – the most decorated Captain of Caer Argent and his second locked in a display of their respective martial talents. It was almost like they’d forgotten there was a crowd there at all.
Yelena felt her heart leap with every impact she felt, and each glistening bead of sweat that leapt from her forehead was an indicator of both exhilaration and joy. She was in her element. Weaving in and out of Di’s strikes and making her sharp thrusts after every parry was as natural to her as breathing air. It had been her focus during these fifteen long years amidst those who looked upon her with thinly veiled suspicion. There were times when she even regarded herself with that same level of distrust – watching her own form in mirrors or glass windows resolve into something hideous and loathsome. A worthless creature that didn’t belong.
On those days, she’d come here. She’d train. She’d smash her blade against dummies or live opponents, matching her strength against those of her squad. She’d spar with Di on days like these, and for however long the fights lasted, she felt whole again.
Even when the final clash of their swords came and they pulled away from eachother for respite, she found herself longing. Wanting more.
"Captain Diiiiiiiii!" a voice suddenly wailed through the crowd. "You look tireeeeeeed!'
Dimedrious, mid-swing, barely wasted any energy in spinning around and throwing his sword in the general direction of the yelling Agathae, who was immediately sent flying across the room, winded by the blow.
"Lesson 5," Dimedrious huffed amidst the crowd’s laughter. "Eliminate all distractions on the battlefield."
He turned back to see Yelena smiling up at him. Looking down, her wooden blade’s tip was aimed squarely at his chest.
"Finally, lesson 6," he sighed with a smile. "Don’t actually let them distract you."
As Cynthia ran to help a cursing Agathae back to her feet, the crowd applauded the display of the two warriors, who both shook hands and turned back to them.
Yelena was still heaving with sweat, her chest swelling with the effort of regaining her breath. For his part, Dimedrious may have looked tired, but Yelena knew he’d barely even broken a sweat.
"Thus concludes our training demonstration for today," Dimedrious told the onlookers. "Remember well these lessons – they’ll serve you better here than the empty words of those pompous swordsmen down South. Practice, hone your skills, and never hesitate to seek out the advice of those who came before you. My squad’s doors are always open. Learn from us, and you may find yourself standing beside me one day like this one is – one of the finest swordsmen to grace these halls since Lord Jael himself."
Yelena felt herself blush, staring at the ground so as not to display her bright cheeks to her new comrades. She heard a few chuckles in the crowd as they swept their eyes over her now, seeing her in an entirely new light.
Come on, Di, she thought. Comparing me to the Founder himself? Don’t milk it.
He grinned down at her with satisfaction.
"What?" he asked.
"I wish you’d reel it back a bit," she wheezed. "It’s you that they really look up to."
He turned to cast his cheerful eyes over Agathae’s snarling face, Cynthia barely able to comfort her.
"You’re too humble," he said.
"And you’re a braggart."
"Mother didn’t raise no timid pup, that’s for sure," he laughed. "Come on, let’s get something to-"
"An impressive display, Captain Dimedrious!"
The gradually dispersing crowd turned as one to behold the creature that had just thrown the door open and announced itself with a booming voice that echoed through the whole room. Several gasps and murmurs ran through the assembly, but Yelena didn’t have to hear them to know who it was. She knew that voice.
"I say 'display', of course, for that’s what it was: a piece of delightful theatre for these younglings to soak up."
It was the same voice that gnawed away in the back of Yelena’s skull whenever she found herself most wrought with doubt. It was the voice that made her sink deeper into self-loathing whenever it announced itself.
"But I question your commitment to realism," the speaker continued. "I wonder – now that the entertainment’s done, can we get serious now?"
The crowd dispersed as the creature made her way through them, breaking through the ranks with nothing more than a look from her crimson, reptilian eyes. Dimedrious could barely conceal the low growl that was building in his throat as the speaker stepped forward.
Yelena locked eyes with her as she emerged at the front of the spectators. Clad in a fine leather hauberk, vambraces and leggings, the fierce form of a Yok’ra lizardwoman stood before Dimedrious and Yelena with a smirk of derision smeared upon her scale-covered face. She blinked slowly, the horizontal movement of her eye-slits quickening the pace of Yelena’s heart, and only then did she notice the silver rapier glistening at the Yok’ra’s side.
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"Sister Virtir," Dimedrious said. "You have something to say to me?"
Another series of muttered musings swept through the crowd as their suspicions were confirmed. This was indeed Virtir: the second-in-command of the Silent Vipers squad – known for their dexterity and keen sense of strategy on the battlefield.
"I would simply like to know why you see fit to instruct the new recruits through such playthings as these," she said, indicating the wooden weapons on the ground. "They’ve come here for a taste of real combat, after all. Why not let them see it?"
"Sister," Dimedrious said, measured and calm, though Yelena could tell his temper was flaring underneath his composed demeanor. "Are you questioning my methods?"
"I wouldn’t dream of it, Dimedrious," she hissed. "But why not show them what they came to see? No use being a warrior of Argent if you’re scared at the sight of blood drawn from your foe."
"That’s Captain Dimedrious to you," he snarled back at her. 'I don’t know what your game is, here. But if you value your limbs, I’d suggest you kindly back the fuck off."
The crowd chuckled to hear the retort, and Yelena was sure that, if embarrassment could truly show on the face of a Yok’ra, Virtir would seem flustered right about now.
"Tides are turning, Captain," she said. "Soon, you and I will be addressing each other as equals. Then you’ll wish you’d been more careful in your choice of friends."
She turned suddenly to Yelena. "Take this one, for example.'
She recoiled as if struck, and Virtir savored every second of her shame.
"I assume we all know the real tale of this girl?" she said, addressing the crowd now. "This girl who killed her mother to come into the world. This cursed Firvak who burned her entire village to a crisp before she was so valiantly ‘rescued’ by our esteemed Captain and brought before us."
The crowd was cowed into total silence now. No one would even look at Yelena.
"Firvak," Virtir said again, almost spitting the word. "A child born dead, risen only through the vile magic known as The Glance. Destined to infiltrate the lives of all mortals and destroy any who they touch."
She pointed a scaly finger at Yelena.
"This thing should not be one of us."
No one in the crowd rushed to her defense. They mumbled, they looked away, and some of them even nodded in assent.
She knew the truth then. They’d heard the story, alright.
"That’s enough out of you," Dimedrious growled, stepping forward to take the Yok’ra by her raised hand. "Get out."
"Oh, you’re so crass, Dimedrious," Virtir replied with spite, slipping out of his grip and sparing another hate-filled glance in Yelena’s direction. "But I’m afraid you’re coming with me. Direct orders from Proctor Azran, you understand. All Captains must be present in the Assembly when a new one is sworn into office."
Di’s eyes went wide. "You don’t mean…"
"Oh yes," she smiled. "As of today, I am assuming command of the Vipers. I do hope you’ve brought me a gift for my promotion. You see-"
"We’ll fucking see about that!" Dimedrious raged, practically throwing her aside and storming off. Only once he’d reached the door did he remember himself, straightening up and shouting back a hasty "Dismissed!" before barging out the room, leaving the bewildered novices to file out after him, equally confused and enraptured by the afternoon’s events.
Once most of them had gone, Virtir turned back to Yelena and flecked her forked tongue in the way she did when she looked upon anything that disgusted her. Yelena felt herself reeling under the lizard’s demonic stare, but when Cynthia and Agathae presented themselves beside her, she at least had enough courage to keep her gaze steady.
"I’d say it must be difficult for the three of you to operate under the command of such a blunt instrument as that," Virtir hissed, looking after Dimedrious. "But then, perhaps it takes a beast to keep a little demon like this one in check."
"You insult my Captain or Yelena again," Cynthia warned. "And I’ll gut you like a fish, scale-face."
Virtir gave a derisive laugh as she looked down at the tiny Tilonxeel that barely came up to her navel.
"The empty threats of an archer," she replied. "Your blood is not even deserving to coat my blade. Why you two choose to consort with this thing is beyond me."
"It’s called having friends, Virtir," Agathae spoke up. "Doubt you’d understand."
Virtir’s eyes found her next target. ‘Ah. The pretty kitty speaks. Here I thought that mouth had limited uses.’
As Agathae made to charge forwards, Yelena held her back. Her other hand flew to Cynthia, who’s grip on the dagger at her belt had intensified. Virtir drank in the whole sight, enjoying every moment.
"Sister Virtir," Yelena said. "We brook no threat to you. We only live to serve the line of Argent just as you do."
"That’s where you’re wrong," the Yok’ra grimaced, stepping closer to Yelena and suddenly consumed with fury. "You are an insult to everything this order stands for. By my honor, I will personally see to it that you will not destroy what took us centuries to build here."
Their eyes locked, and Yelena suddenly felt a pull on the inside of her being. Like a string being plucked and then yanked down deep in her abdomen. It was all she could do to resist the feeling, while still keeping her hands on her companions.
Virtir’s eyes suddenly flicked between them all, seeing the rage burning in the eyes of the Tigran and the Tilonxeel. She stepped back, slowly.
"A sorry display," she said. "Enjoy your peace and theatrics for now, Fangs, for soon you may find that times have changed."
They watched her walk off like a beast that had finished toying with its prey.
"Creep," Agathae spat. "I don’t know why the hell you stopped me, Lena. She was being a bitch, as usual."
"Yeah," Cynthia said. "We could’ve taken her."
"And tarnish our own honor by spilling blood in these halls?" Yelena asked. "No, Sisters. We must be better than that."
She stepped forward to pick up her wooden practice sword and swing it a few times absent-mindedly.
"We have to be better."
It was a statement she’d repeated to herself all too often.
Her companions watched her meandering strikes with concern etched across their faces. They watched the back of her head, thinking as they usually did about what they could possibly say to show that they were on her side.
"The irony is," Cynthia said aloud to Agathae. "There’s no one more committed to the cause than our Lena. By Amarata, why can’t people like her see that?"
I have to be better, Yelena kept thinking.
"Yeah, Lena," Agathae said. "Don’t pay any attention to her, 'kay?"
She felt their hands rest upon her shoulders and smiled thinly at the warmth that radiated from their fur. How she envied them!
"Lena," Cynthia’s voice said. "She doesn’t know you like we do."
No, Yelena thought as she suddenly dropped her blade and hugged her only friends close to her, trying for a fleeting moment to take in but a fraction of their warmth, even as the truth played over and over in her mind like a chittering insect:
She doesn’t know me, and she doesn’t care.
----------------------------------------
That evening, Yelena again found herself in the training hall.
She snuck out once the Dusk Bell had tolled, and all warriors had returned to their chambers. She’d lain awake in her room as the final note of the bell was struck, staring into the dark recesses in the stone walls above.
Somewhere deep within her chest, the feeling – the thing that had railed against her restraint when faced with Virtir’s insults – surged forth and would not subside. She had tried calming it, but it was like a creature with its own will that drove her to grab the blade by her bed and march towards the unoccupied training room, darting through the monastery’s eerily empty corridors with the care of one who knew them by heart. She could have found her way even if blinded.
When she gently opened the doors to the Hall, she halted for a moment, unsure of even her own intentions. She felt the crisp chill of the night air chew away at her pale face and legs, like it was warning her to turn back now. But she didn’t listen. She didn’t listen to anything right now except the little voice in her mind that was replaying Virtir’s taunts over and over, interspersing them with the looks of derision she’d gotten from her Brothers and Sisters all her life.
She unsheathed her blade and cut through the air, feeling power behind every slice.
I have to be better.
She did. She was the problem, after all. She was an outlier – was made an outlier by the mere circumstances of her birth. What could she do but push herself to attain the kind of strength that one such as Dimedrious possessed? It was either that – aiming for the ideal, and knowing she may never attain it – or languishing under the looks they all shot at her in the lunchroom, the Great Hall, and even on the fields of battle where none dared to stand shoulder to shoulder with her.
I have to be better.
She said it as she moved with precision to strike at a target dummy holding a wooden buckler and Morningstar. She jabbed, switched up her stances, and aimed each thrust of her blade at the points that would inflict the most damage – the chinks in armor that so often appeared at the nape of the neck, the back of the shins, the chain wraps at the elbow…
Have to be better.
She was so caught up in her furious flurry of jabs at the dummy that she did not notice the sparks beginning to hop from her feet, or the golden threads that ran up her legs.
Have to be better.
With every strike, she felt her muscles tense up and she cursed under her breath. She breathed, threw herself at her target, and chipped away at its stuffing and makeshift weapons with exhalations of anger.
Have to be better.
Then, for a single instant, the reptilian eyes of Virtir glimmered on the face of the dummy, and as she brought her sword across the face, she let fly a scream of rage.
Have. To. Be. Better!
The colors of the world drained away as her sword made contact with the dummy and she heard a snapping of wood and the tearing of stuffing and straw. She heard it from off in the distance, while her vision was consumed by a haze of lambent crimson. She blinked, and yet she changed nothing. The veil of red remained. It remained as she saw herself cut clean through the remnants of the eviscerated dummy till only tiny threads and pads of stuffing were left, and as her sword moved of its own volition to cut right through the wooden buckler, she felt pain sear up her arm.
Her vision cleared and the first thing she realized was that she’d been screaming – bellowing like a banshee over her decimated static opponent. She wheezed under an effort she didn’t even realize she’d made herself, propelled by a power that had surged from within her belly like the urge to vomit. Her eyes cast themselves over the destroyed form of the target dummy and made the tenuous connection that it was she who’d sliced through it with such berserk abandon. A distinct sting radiated up her body, and only then did she look down to her right arm to see small rivers of blood trickle down an open wound.
She collapsed, staring at the spiked metal from the dummy’s buckler that had wedged itself just above her elbow crook. Her other hand flew to the perforation and grasped the offending spike with the desire only to yank it out her body. But she knew she couldn’t – she knew she’d have to find help to dress the wound. Maybe Di –
As soon as that thought – the fleeting idea of ‘help’ - entered her mind, she beheld the impossible: she watched tiny sparks of light fly from her fingertips, turning into thin threads of gold that spilled from her hand and coalesced into a miasma of searing light to cover the entire width of her wound. Then she saw the golden water settle like solidifying amber on her skin, and the blood slowly begin to retract back into her body.
Lightning pierced her eyes as she watched it happen, and, with a mouth that could barely suppress a scream, she saw words etch themselves into the air before her:
Incantation: Guardian’s Ward
HP Regen (Self): +5 pts for 5 secs
She stared past the black columns of the words towards the swimming golden water that was absorbing her blood. The pain of the wound receded until her arm was as unblemished as it was when she’d entered the room.
And she sat there, in mute horror, until dawn broke over the Hall.