“Do you like music?” Daito had said, oddly. They'd agreed for the most part, confused, and he'd played. Tuning his bizarre lute lackadaisically and began to strum, leaving Tyr amazed, at first it seemed so random but eventually began to take shape before his very eyes. The light of the spira that constantly suffused the world was pulled into the instrument, dancing on the strings until every fiber of the man was lit up with it. It wasn't magic. Daito was capable of magic, Tyr had seen it, but it wasn't a thing borne of mana.
He began to sing. A song in a language even Tyr could not understand, full of all the joys and sorrows of life, infusing every part of Tyr's essence until settling in his heart and plucking at the knots there. Unraveling them, slowly but surely. The song, the same he was acquainted with, but not of the blade or bow, of the heart and the soul not diluted by wielding it as a tool for violence. It was a sharp metallic plucking, rougher than that of the lute or lyre more commonly found in . More visceral and harsh than the chords struck on a Varian 'guitar'.
Tyr remembered the time that Alex had touched his hand, when his dull and gray perception of all around him seemed to come alive and reveal all the colors the of the world. It was like that, this melody, but stronger, more intense than anything he'd ever felt. It started as a pressure in his gut that rose up through his throat and ended with the tears streaming from his eyes.
Why...? He brushed them aside, left wondering why he'd felt such a strong reaction to music. Tyr's own spira began to vibrate in tandem with the rhythm, a frequency of understanding that caused long dormant emotions to surface. He saw his mother, and the man that had raised him as his father – only for years later to be revealed as a surrogate. Of course, Jartor claimed otherwise, but Tyr was still conflicted, whether they looked alike or not... He didn't know what to believe anymore. Jartor was a liar, a manipulator who hid behind his taciturn expression and allowed the court to think themselves in control, while he remained the master of all things. Always in control of each and every situation, letting Tyr do terrible things, and allowing terrible things to happen to Tyr in turn.
Men could be complicated. That was par for the course, but what he'd done to his own 'son' was sick to the point where Tyr no longer cared who his father was. Almost hoped it wasn't Jartor, no matter his mysterious motivations.
“What is this?” One of the paladins choked, feeling the building pressure in his chest. Totally unique to him, nothing like the sensation settling upon Tyr. Not some warmth or bittersweet sorrow, but a cold desolation hung over his soul, allowing him to see every melancholy moment that life had ever given him. The death of his firstborn before he'd chartered with the paladins, back when he was just a knight. It clung to him, tugging at his heart until he felt that grow cold and desolate as well, slumping dead and lifeless to the ground, like a puppet who's strings have been cut.
“Hubert!” Mustache cried, staring at the dead man aghast. “What foul sorcery is this!?” He demanded of Daito, but the captain of the Hunter's guild did not answer, just played that music. “To arms!” Dropping his enchanted warhammer, his broadsword left its scabbard with a dry rasp. It was a heavy thing in his hands under the force of this bard magic, but he was a paladin. Men of great faith and a conviction to duty, always walking in the light of the divine. Over the years, it suffused them with a strength and courage beyond mortal men, so long as they had the will to follow the path of their divine.
Before the mustached paladin could reach the bard, two more dropped dead. First, the loud mouth, and another with a ridiculous bowl cut with the top bare of hair. The crown of the mans head was covered in scars, and his limp body carried a panoply of self inflicted wounds, one of the madmen who flayed their own flesh to attract the eye of their chosen deity, a flagellant. Leaving only two, mustache and a tall lanky youth, but only the former was capable of moving.
Tyr slapped the pointed tip of the broadsword aside mere inches from reaching Daito's neck, willing his body to move despite being entranced by the song. But it didn't fight him, once he'd gotten his bearings, it... Lifted him up. Like magma, the hot emotion causing great discomfort just behind his sternum cooled and served to steady him.
Enchantment through the use of spira...? Does Daito even know what he's-- URK...
Mustache's eyes were burning, come alive with the fires of faith, enough to throw back the pressure foisted on him by the music. Daito's fingers paused in their playing and he sighed, shaking his head slowly. “Paladins are a troubling lot. Resistant to magic, and these two in particular have very strong ki. You take the mustached one.” He cleared his throat as Tyr wrestled with the larger man. “I'll take him.” Daito inclined his head toward the one man remaining. A gangly, younger man with auburn hair and brown eyes with a little too much space between them.
'Taking him' seemed to be a metaphorical statement. Before the paladin could recover his wits, Daito had slipped through the air and used his strange lute to bash the mans skull in with a single, smooth stroke. Pulling a rag from the pouch at his side and wiping the blood and brain matter from the enchanted wood, humming softly to himself and seemingly uninterested in Tyr's own struggle.
Not much of a fight at all, Tyr was rusty and out of sorts. The music had given him clarity and a bit of refreshment, but only for a moment. As soon as it had stopped he felt lost like never before, discombobulated by any other word. Dizzied to the point where even standing was hard.
His disadvantages in the fight were many. First, Tyr only had his spellbreakers, the newest variant was half forged from mithril and well enchanted, so they were durable enough to defend against the striking sword – but that wasn't the problem. It was the range, and the fact that the man was well drilled to capitalize on this. His skill with the blade was something sublime, feeling so familiar and yet very different all the same. Mustache was strong, as well, not as strong as Tyr but what with his advantage in whatever magic infused him – he made up for it in spades. Every paladin was a 'mage', in their unique way. Some were little different than battlemages, what with the strange abilities gifted to them by their patron. Tyr had never seen them in proper action, their ways were shrouded in secrecy and they only taught those sworn to their particular pillar.
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
If Brenn was on the cusp of becoming a real paladin... Those waters must run truly deep to birth a man of this level of skill. Fire burned low in his eyes, infusion magic boosting his strength threefold and giving him a speed and power beyond what his mortal body would be capable of providing.
“Tower style.” Daito observed, voice monotone as he used one of the nearby boulders as a seat to observe the bout. “A blade master, too. Surprisingly for a Varian, and I've never heard of a paladin blade dancer before.” He whistled in wry amusement. “I guess that explains why he was able to shrug off my ki so easily, men who can resist the the death song are rare, you know. Very impressive.”
“Oi!” Tyr spit blood as the flat of the paladins blade clanged against his armor, carrying the explosive force of fire and speed akin of a striking viper. “A little help?” He grit his teeth in pained discomfort as his ribs began to stitch back together. Even behind the layer of chain and padding, the sword had struck the perfect place. It always did. A blademaster, using every inch of his weapon from the pommel to the tip to debilitate and destroy. Not the greatest swordsman Tyr had ever seen but he was a match for a kingsguard at worst.
“Why should I do that?” Daito asked, clearly amused. “They're not here for me – kid. You're skilled in the panther, yes? Better adjust to something more appropriate to work through a more defensive style of swordsmanship, consider this your official interview.”
He very much wanted to see what the young man was made of. Having heard all of the wild tales from the east and wonder how much of them were true. To kill near a thousand men in a handful of days was too much for someone of his age, there had to be something more that the boy was hiding. Now that it was revealed he was no primus, and he certainly didn't feel like one whatever the case may be, Daito had to be sure. To possess such power would mark him as an abomination, one that needed to be dealt with, one way or another.
Either to guide or to eliminate a potential threat, sooner rather than later. Then again, Daito had never cared much for the customs of his people so perhaps he would just have a bit of fun with it.
Tyr stomped, calling on the earth to crack and split the ground. Mustache weaved deftly through the two meter spurs of stone harrying him, as if he had seen it coming. Tyr saw the spira that was hidden in every movement, coming from the sternum and extending into various limbs to steady them. Fire was useless, the paladin seemed alive with the element in every fiber, capable of absorbing near half of the level two spell he'd used and throwing the rest aside. A net of steel surrounded him, and not just the physical.
They separated for a moment, staring at one another. Tyr's many wounds healed at a visible rate, alarming the paladin – but not enough to bait him into disadvantage. He needed time to adjust to the tempo and develop a plan of attack. Blademasters and their derivatives were strong, perhaps the greatest warriors 'normal' humanity was capable of fielding, but they had a very serious flaw. Their movements were scripted, it took a calculative mind to shed off instinct and fight with an eye on more than just the present, the complete opposite of Tyr. The boys reach was shorter, but his ability to freely use silent magic and heal so rapidly were notable, just as the rumors said. His spellcasting as been so fast that Mustache had barely had an opportunity to adjust his footwork and weave himself between the arm length pillars of earth shooting up at him.
Too blunt, though. Mages were tricky, always hiding some effect in their skill, but the boy only used one element at a time by the looks of it. Broadcasting it for all to see, such a literal and honest use of magic had no place on the battlefield.
“We don't have to do this.” Tyr spat a red glob of phlegm from his mouth. “I do not wish to kill you, and I had nothing to do with the deaths of your men, you can blame that on him.” He pointed at Daito angrily. Tyr understood why it had needed to happen, there was no other course of action – and it was better to strike first and ask forgiveness later at times like these, or not ask forgiveness at all, he certainly never would.
The lingering music in his head reminded him of things, some of which he didn't remember ever doing, but some that he certainly did. About the promise he'd made. Something adjusted in his psyche to take some of that edge off and make him feel sleepy, but more collected. He'd give the man his choice.
The paladin snorted. “Kill me? Your footwork is sloppy, you take no consistent form, and your magic is weak. My goddess watches over us and the foreigner will face judgment soon enough, and be that as it may...” He cleared his throat. Anything to buy time. If this boy had ever had the opportunity to fight a paladin or a blademaster – he'd have known better than to allow for such a thing. The longer a fight went on, the stronger he would get, as a paladin. The more time he was given to observe and educate himself on the quirks of an opponent, the stronger he would become as a blademaster. They were the perfect pairing of disciplines, one to sustain and supplement, the other to study and overcome. “What are you?”
“I am Tyr.” Tyr replied simply, as he always had, eyebrow raised at the odd turn of events. “Nothing more, nothing less. Only Tyr.”
“Men cannot heal from an opened gut or regrow limbs, monster.” Mustache spat, bits of spittle hanging from his mustache bristly, glinting in the light of a broken lantern. “Men do not make agreements with Anu, nor do they survive the wrath of a primus. Your father may be too pure and noble a man to do what must be done, gods forgive me for saying so, but I am not. I will send you to my goddess, and we will see what she has to say.”
Daito sighed. This fight was already over. He lifted himself from the boulder, prepared to intercede as the wild mana coursing through the paladins body settled into an incredibly intricate array. The strange power of faith coalescing in a blend of mana and ki to give him the power necessary to squash most any mortal opponent like a bug.
To be honest, he'd left Tyr with the most able opponent because paladins had a penchant for long drawn out fights, enough for him to observe. But the boy's level of ability was a world away from his opponent. There'd always be other opportunities, but not if he was crammed into a box and taken back to the Vatican...