A thick cloud of dust clung to the atmosphere of the courtyard, stirred up by the worn leather boots of the two young combatants. Once, the dusty gray cloud had been solid rock; solid like the granite mountain top on which the walled town of Anza had stood for a millennium. But generations upon generations of young men sparring in between the granite-slab benches had worn stone to gravel, to sand and finally, to the dust that now hung in the air.
Bear, a good two meters tall and with a shoulder-width to match, stood and watched the sparring match with eyes that had seen it many times over - unperplexed at the vicious, flashy acrobatics of his apprentices.
Michael, the fiercest of the twins, could leap like none other and deliver lunges the likes of which the arena had not seen for a hundred years. His long, golden hair fluttered through the air as he soared towards his brother - the spear held masterfully over his right shoulder.
But Marcel had defended himself against those very lunges for a decade; ever since the young age of five, he had steeled his left arm to meet the wooden spear with worn, rounded shields. This time would be no different; Michael knew it, Marcel knew it and Bear had known it even before their session had begun.
The tip of the wooden spear slammed into the barrier with enough force to knock any ordinary, grown man over, but not Marcel.
Another dispersal of dust tore off the sweaty ground as carefully planned placements of his feet absorbed the force and redirected to the wooden half-sword in his left hand.
Bear watched with a measure of surprise as Michael countered with blocking the elbow beyond the approaching half-sword and, despite having seen the impulsive movements for years, he was taken aback by the headbut.
“Fuck!” Marcel shouted and took a step back to pinch the bridge of his agonized nose, hoping to stop the bleeding before it stained his worn and tattered leather armor.
Michael, dazed by the headbut, rubbed his equally pained forehead and grunted. To their shared dismay, the dirt shook with approaching bootsteps. They both knew the rhythm of their master’s gait and to no one’s surprise, Bear stood between them as they looked up; his furrowed brow signaling a profound displeasure.
Bear was a monster of a man. His long, braided, reddish hair and beard hung over his oiled black leathers - leathers concealing the continuation of his thoroughly scarred arms. He was certainly a man most would be wary of defying, but the brethren had learned to weather the storms that were his bouts of silent displeasure.
He crossed his thick arms and looked to the golden-haired twins in turn, his sunk-in, dark-ringed eyes conveying his expectancy for an explanation to the dreadful display.
Michael was the first to break under the pressure and, nursing the bump forming on his forehead, he took a step forward to explain: “S-surprise… I was counting on surprising him…”
Bear looked over at the approaching Marcel and saw that his efforts of containing the nasal bleeding had been in vain. With a voice befitting one pinching their nose, the brother deemed: “Well, you succeeded at that. I hope that hurt you as much as it did me, you idiot.” Michael tipped his head and turned his avoidant gaze on the empty granite benches surrounding the arena. “Sorry… for what it’s worth, I didn’t expect your face to be so… hard.” They both grunted a laugh, only for them to choke on the huffed exhalations as they heard the low, growling voice of their master: “Foolish children. You’re too old for this, but you still try to one-up one-another with childish moves- it’s as if you’ve learned nothing!”
The twins swallowed and shared a look of dread as the master went on: “What do you think the Spawn would do to you if you shoved your head into it? Do you think it’d go to a corner and cry? No! It would tear you limb from limb and throw the scraps over the wall!” To the boys, it seemed Bear was more irritable than usual - far more irritable than the situation called for. To their relief, upon finally looking up from the dirt to behold their glorious, terrifying master, their eyes came upon a pair of robed shapes approaching from the Monastery.
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Abraham; their friend and only colleague-aspirant, approached with his brown robe’s hood drawn over his head. Next to him, Isaac spread his calming aura through that wide smile - a smile interrupted halfway across his mouth due to a split, scarred lip.
“Now, now, Bear… The Spawn has not been seen in the Anza mountains for hundreds of years. Let’s not infect our young with our paranoia.”
Bear turned over his shoulder to scold the white-haired veteran Miraculist: “Wisdom’s learning from our mistakes. What does that say about you, priest?”
Isac drew back his hood to chuckle a warm huff and shook his head, flailing his lengthy, white hair. “Funny, I seem to remember you slamming that doggish face of yours into mine some years ago…”
Bear finally turned around to stare at his colleague and friend, scoffing. With a wave of his hand, he dismissed his students, stating: “You’ve got duties. Abraham, you’re in charge. If they start slacking off, feel free to use whatever tricks you want on them.” Bear pointed to the small, frightened shape next to Isaac, springing him into action.
Following a triple salute, the three young students set off towards the ancient, arched gateway leading from the Monastery grounds into the body of their mountain home.
Isaac’s worn and weathered features softened as he watched the twins set down their equipment and disappear down the unending steps leading into the abyss of granite and lime. When he was finally certain they were out of Abraham’s range, he finally spoke: “Impressive prowess. You’ve done good with those two. By long, they’ll be proper Behemoth-slayers - Lord forbid they ever meet one.”
Bear, still with his arms crossed, huffed and shook his head. “They’re talented, but headstrong and brash… thankfully, I’ve got enough time on my hands to train ‘em.”
Isaac chuckled, albeit with the taint of melancholic shade to his voice. “We’ll take good care of the few young we have, certainly… That aside, you seem more irritable than usual. News from the Citadel?” Bear resented mind-tricks. He had never understood the workings of the mysticists; he was not in possession of the Gift, himself, after all.
Despite Isaac’s many assurances throughout the years, he still suspected that the man could read minds - he certainly seemed to know how to ask the perfect questions at the worst possible time. Bear reached inside his leather armor and procured a bright-white scroll, handing it to his compatriot who was quick to scan its contents.
“Ah. The Guvernor’s sending a Ghast… any idea what for?” Bear, being the administrator of Anza, had been saddled with the duty of receiving the Governor’s missives and orders and, although he wished it not to be so, Isaac could easily see the worries such a station wrought upon his colleague.
“Our failing production of nutrifungus, our dwindling numbers, the state of the Order - maybe the caravans that never seem to make it out of the Anza region? Pick one or several.” Isaac joined his colleague in crossing his scarred arms.
“I see… well, there’s not much we can do about it. I’m sure he’ll come around, spout some nonsense about heresy and give you some pointers.” Bear broke from his sour frowning to laugh.
“More like execute the two of us, impregnate all our women and enforce rations on the ones they haven’t decided to burn. Come on, Isaac, you know how many psychopaths are in those ranks.”
He wasn’t wrong - not entirely. They had both fought side-by-side with the inhumane order of black-clad, masked madmen and knew of their brutality and insanity. As the Governor’s extended arm, they enacted the will of mankind in his stead; should they be the Lords of Man or Spawn, the only rumor and legend not surrounding them was anything regarding patience, tolerance or forgiveness.
“Now, now, Bear. They are reasonable, learned men at heart… I’m sure they’ll listen to reason. Life has not been easy in the region, sure. Losing half our power-grid was a disaster to us; the Governor has been informed. Maybe they can be a resource to us - maybe they can even do something about the situation? Should we really be expecting them to only have malicious intentions?” Bear shook his head with pessimism.
“I wouldn’t count on it. I’m prepared to be told we need to work faster, harder and with less resources than ever. Face it, it’s been a hundred years since last we could count on the Citadel... We’ll have to weather this alone…”
Isaac scoffed and leaned on his massive compatriot’s side, seemingly bemused by his usual misery.
“We’re not alone in this, old man. Anza prevails - it always has. The children will light our future.”
Bear finally brought his hand to his face and shook his head into his large palm and muttered: “Lord help us…”