“Tsk.” Brenn was heavy in the lungs with the effort. Tyr was stronger than he looked, and seemingly indefatigable, only taking a break when his partner asked for one. “Wait. Give me a second. I need to breathe...” His hair was soaked through with sweat, while Tyr was as fresh as the moment they'd begun, nodding calmly and pulling his long hair back into a messy tail. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”
Brenn's father had been a merchant in the republic, and his mother a well-to-do lady of Varia. They were both gone now, leaving him an orphan in the care of the church. Having grown up moving between the republic, successor states, and Varia – Tyr answered him with a half-lie, one that was somewhat believable. It was something he could stomach, considering Varinn's want for anonymity.
“I studied under a blade dancer.” He replied. It was close enough to the truth. In all his studies, he had not come across mention of any 'blade singer', they weren't part of the histories. Which wasn't entirely surprising, advanced disciplines would often be kept secret. It was impossible to learn how to make gates at the academies until one had hit a certain level of merit, and taken several oaths – and that was one example of many. Fortunately, Brenn accepted the claim with a nod.
“You must have trained hard, to move so gracefully.” And graceful was a word for it, not in the way of the fencer or ballet. Viciousness might've been a better descriptor for the way he threw his entire body into every swing. Something many would find rude or inappropriate in a casual spar, but Brenn didn't mind.
“Hard?” Tyr grimaced, taking a sip of water and resting beside his new friend. He didn't feel like he was all that graceful, but by now his body had changed to the point where the movements came easy to him. He'd thought his style was brutal and violent compared to Varinn's smoothness, but perception was reality to most. “You've no idea. I thought I was going to die throughout the process, but it worked.”
“Very fortunate. I would like to meet this master of yours one day, the Lyran blade dancers are legendary.”
“Mmm... He is very skilled, and I owe him more than I could ever possibly repay.” Brenn watched as Tyr spoke, an uncharacteristic gentleness on his normally twisted face. Speaking softly, almost wistfully with a nigh imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Some master they must've been.
A moment later, and they were back to sparring. Brenn would tire fast from Tyr's perspective, but given consideration that he was 'just a human', he was an energetic one. Recovering quickly, decently strong of limb. Much slower than Tyr, though, and too honest with his actions. Paladins were like that, supposedly, relying on teamwork instead of deception – few fought alone. In Haran, that is, he had little knowledge of those elsewhere but figured they were much the same considering the unified churches were an extra-national entity. They wouldn't move outside of that general rule until the day they became a templar or inquisitor.
“Why did you become a paladin?” Tyr asked. “It seems like a boring life. Swearing abstinence and forsaking material things, all of that...”
Brenn laughed, pushing away his latest attack with his shield and loping his hammer around toward Tyr's thigh. Something he would rather avoid than face head on, Brenn might be slow but that would do some damage. “Vestia is my patron goddess. There are no such restrictions on us. How could the hearth mother and matron of family swear us off having our own? She asks only that we defend the weak and come when called. It is as good a life as any other, and there is great satisfaction in helping the less fortunate.”
“Really?” Tyr asked. He knew of Vestia, everyone did. One of the light gods, seen as 'lesser'. Goddess of birth and familial love, strong bonds and the hearth, home and family. “But aren't you restricted by silly oaths and forced to serve the church for the rest of your life?”
“Huh?” Brenn grunted as Tyr changed his weapon to a hammer and slammed it directly against the head of his own, sending painful shock rolling down his arm. He had to admit, this new companion of his had an incredible gift for allomancy to do such a thing without alchemical reagent. Not quite understanding why he had left the school of evocation to become a healer. Allomancy and transmutation were compatible as well, but Tyr didn't seem to have any interest in that either. “What kind of books have you been reading? I can leave at any time, I choose to remain so that I can earn my star and my hammer. See...?” They separated mid spar and Tyr watched as Brenn turned and bared the back of his neck.
Upon it were two white marks, like brands or scars. It looked painful, but they weren't – just spots of skin that had been 'kissed' by the goddess, a drop of wax from a blessed candle. The church of Vestia in particular was run entirely by women, and they would mark the faith militant of their order with stars to represent their standing. One star for neophyte, two for a squire, and three for a knight paladin. Four and five were things men could not earn except in times of war, if ever. He could only hope to become knight captain, templar, or the equivalent of a squad leader. That was his ceiling, given his gender, and he was happy with his lot, the priestesses who raised him had never treated him anything less than family. Those the goddess chose to lead would do so, it wasn't his place to question the order.
“Kind of like a mages mark.” Tyr revealed his own 'brand', swirling black lines that covered his left pectoral and curled down to just below the elbow.
“A handsome marking. I did not know you were a college mage, forgive me if I think less of you.” Brenn had heard of how mages were treated in the twin empires, worse than anywhere else. They were little more than slaves, under the guise of 'public servants', from his perspective. Some churches outright reviled mages, but Vestia's faith included man – magic was just a tool and they were the pragmatic and amicable sort.
Tyr chuckled. “I'm no such thing, I just thought it was cool.”
“...” Brenn burst into laughter, receiving and shrugging off the flat of Tyr's sword as it rapped painfully against his humerus. Perhaps there was some irony in that. “Because it's cool! You, my dear Tyr of House Ebonfist, are blessed with a talent for comedy. Or an idiot, it is hard to tell.”
Tyr shrugged. Sometimes, he felt the same. “I am what I am.”
“Indeed, and I am glad we met. The hour grows late, however. Thank you for the session, I will go bathe before checking on the others – and see what they are up to. You should come with us.”
“To the bath?” Tyr arched a brow.
“Of course, there is nothing more manly than washing the back of your new brother. You are I are friends, to bathe together is no strange thing, this is a tradition of both the north and south! Come, we shall do a bonding!”
“Eh.” Tyr shook his head. “Maybe.” A 'maybe' from Tyr was always a 'no', but for Brenn – he took in stride. Everyone had their own reason for being here. He departed, leaving Tyr and but a dozen or so other mages in the sparring hall. Not many followed the path of the martial, being mages, but at the same time – those who wished to become battlemages were more common than he'd have thought.
Skill in a weapon was important for everyone, but those of that vocation actually lived by the lesson. Battle had a romantic sound to it, trained to fight. Even if they were altogether too common in the world, there was no end to people wanting to blend the way of the knight with the arcane. Frankly, he was fairly certain some people just wanted to carry swords because they thought they were cool, having no interest in actual swordplay.
Kael Emberwind, head of the battle magic department, observed the gathered mages sparring as he commonly did. Always looking for new talents, or a diversion. He had looked forward to seeing him in his class, only to find that Abaddon had pulled his attendance in lieu of other studies. Typically, he'd have argued against it, but Abaddon wasn't someone one argued with...
As for the content present in the boy's swordsmanship, Kael wasn't impressed. Too flashy, predicated on instinct and not enough attention given to proper form, and not enough magic. What was the point in attending a mages academy without using magic when you trained? Following the path of the sword was perfectly reasonable, but battlemages were strong because they combined 'battle' with 'magic'.
Tyr was tightening the laces on his boots when Kael made himself known, critiquing his every move loudly for the others to hear.
“You spin. I stab you in the back. Presenting your back is the first rule any swordsman should learn. What trash taught you to fight in such a way?” He knew very well who Tyr was, and his background, surprising him even more by the way the boy fought. This prince would spin, reverse grip, and took his eyes off his opponent far too often – even closing them from time and time, promptly punished for dropping his focus.
He'd clearly read too many fantasy novels. There was beauty in honest swordsmanship but romance was for women and children. It wasn't the ballet, and the only dance it might've been was a dance of death. One purpose. Blades were for killing, cutting slashing and maiming, not dancing.
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“With respect, professor. I would appreciate if you avoid insulting my master.” Varinn was Varinn, he certainly wasn't perfect – but he wasn't trash. Of all those Tyr had met, he respected this master the most, including other tutors like Tiber and Regar. The old man was a free spirit that lived by his own code and did as he pleased, not bound under the weight of oaths and servitude. He respected everything around him, even allowing Tyr to live and showing him what he could in their short time together. Proud, but humble. Strong, but gentle.
Few men could claim to possess that level of control. Fewer men deserved the kind of respect Varinn did.
“Why? He taught you this drivel. You said he was a blade dancer? I doubt that very highly. More like a charlatan. Some wonder how he managed to convince your father into letting his whelp learn--”
Tyr flicked his sword from the scabbard with his thumb. He would remain as patient as he needed to be, but these halls were enchanted. No deadly wounds could be dealt here, only Iscari was a threat to him – seemingly immune to the presence of those wards. Or too strong for them to properly hold him down, it was unclear. “That's enough. I am not your student, professor. I would very much like to leave now.”
Sighing internally, Kael pursed his lips. If he antagonized the boy overmuch, Abaddon wouldn't let him hear the end of it. Least of all Lernin, but he had to know if the rumors were true. That Tyr was a 'powerless' primus. For curiosities sake, if nothing else. It didn't matter whether he was or not, but it'd give him ammunition to coax the boy back into his own specialization and see what he was really capable of. He was wasting his time in the runesmithing discipline...
Unable to have prince Iscari, he'd settle for the lesser of the two.
“Relax, kid. I'm just saying, your master taught you all wrong. I like the level of face you've given him, that kind of respect is important. But I would wager that I'd make for a far more appropriate teacher. Forgive me for saying that I believe your father might have made a mistake when he chose another tutor over myself when I offered to train you in your youth.”
“Where are you from, Kael Emberwind?” Tyr dropped the honorifics. He'd given the man a chance, and that's all anyone could ever ask of him. Even if he insulted Varinn in his own mind, there was no chance that he'd allow another to do the same aloud. That, and while his relationship with his father was complicated, Tyr still had pride in his house if nothing else. Lesser men shouldn't speak so boldly when referring to a primus. It bothered him more than he was willing to admit. Not the 'whelp' part, but the fact a mortal would question the paragon of mankind. Tyr didn't dislike his father because of his lack of power, it was the opposite, Jartor was the strongest – the best. First among equals, and his dominance was the reason why Tyr was so irked by him, how many gifts he'd received while his own son scrabbled in the dirt looking for something.
How much power he had, and yet he'd been unable to save Signe, or Tyr when his time had come.
“Lyran born, of course.” Kael responded. Did this child not know who he was? “Why?”
“Do they participate in the throwing of the glove in your rats nest of a republic?” Tyr asked. His emotions were getting the better of him, but he didn't much care. Not concerned with getting ejected from the academy after learning that he was wholly incapable of using the magic they taught. All of his pent up frustration at how wildly wrong everything had went was worming its way into his voice. Remaining here whatever the case may be was an arc on the story of his life that would serve no real purpose, perhaps it was time to leave.
“We do indeed--” Kael couldn't see where the conversation was going, it was another strange question – so near Haran most of their customs were the same. What with the fledgling republic being founded by refugees from the empire a few centuries ago. It was the glove slapping him in the face that would stop the remainder of the response from leaving his lips.
“No magic. Swords only, or whatever weapon you prefer. I'll show you how my master fights.” Tyr growled. Kael's face was flushed, nearly losing his composure. But there was something else, too. Anticipation...?
“When and where...?” Kael smiled widely. A better result than he'd expected.
–
Tyr regretted his decision almost immediately, it was impulsive and he wasn't sure where the fuel for that anger had come from. The words were his but they seemed to come from someone else... Kael wasn't just famous in the academy, he was famous near everywhere the adventurers association had sunk its foundations – which was everywhere. The republic, the successor states, and even the southern nations – including Varia. 'Bringer of Ash', they called him. Evidently, he'd carried the soliloquy of 'Ashbringer', before some lawkeeper had declared it a violation of intellectual property law.
Not a regret borne from a fear of losing or being beaten, but one of missing just how significant that challenge would be. Not held in the close confines of the sparring hall – but rather the arena proper at the peak of the academy. A massive structure at the top floor of the tallest building, with thousands of seats built into the style of a real coliseum. Something that must've taken years and tens of thousands of sovereigns to build by the looks of it...
As if the grandiose scale of the structure wasn't enough to distract him, the seats were full. Lernin had laughed at Kael's call, declaring an academy wide event. A challenge between student and teacher. They weren't unheard of, but it was very uncommon for a first year intermediate student to make one, especially in the middle of the first quarter. However, it was very common in the battle magic discipline of which Kael was the department head of, people always wanted to duel their professors right before they graduated, and in their final year it served as their exam.
People ringed the place, students and professors alike. Cheering, shouting, with more filing in every second. Tyr felt the stage fright settle over him. Performance anxiety, hands shaking at how many pairs of eyes would be watching him. Even in this single academy there were thousands, he hadn't properly considered how many people attended the place.
In the corner of the first row, Iscari was hoisting Micah aloft, with the latter acting as a bookie and calling out bets. Tyr stared at him with a sour look on his face, they hadn't known one another long enough for him to determine whether he liked the guy or not.
“One thousand to one odds with Professor Kael Emberwind as the favored! Three thousand to one odds on a draw! One to one thousand to Tyr Ebonfist! Come place your bets!” He styled himself a businessman in that moment, and business was booming today. Tyr felt like throwing a rock and knocking him out of that stupid chair. “Me?” He called out with raucous laughter. “Who would be stupid enough to bet against a professor!? Ha!”
As a matter of fact, Tyr didn't like him at all.
Lernin arrived with the two council mages he'd been seen with earlier that week, flanked by the department heads. Here to watch over the academy and provide what assistance they could considering Hastur had passed so close by and gone unnoticed. Waving the crowd silent, he spoke as he always did, keeping it short, sweet, and to the point.
“Kick his ass!” Sigi shouted, her voice booming over the now quiet arena so that everyone could hear it. She hadn't spoken to Tyr since the unfortunate events in front of the dungeon, but they were all here now to watch him now. He couldn't tell if she was cheering him on – or the opposition. Maybe he didn't want to know.
Lernin stifled his laughter at the outburst in the now silent arena, with Alex and Astrid shushing her anxiously. It took a moment, she kept screeching on about 'tearing him in half', until a hand was placed over her lips and she was dragged back from the edge. Even now, the muffled attempts to continue on could be heard as she resisted her would-be captors.
“Yes. It is good to see so many of you in such high spirits. What better way to celebrate the closing of our first quarter here at the Red Dragon than a duel? In the north corner, we have professor Kael Emberwind, once a famous adventurer throughout all the lands – the briiiiiiinger of aaaaaaaash!”
The headmaster seems to really be enjoying this... Tyr sighed, standing there beneath all those eyes, feeling his skin crawl. And they were cheering loudly. Kael was a handsome man, and skilled with both blade and magic, having fans all across the student populace irrespective of demographic or vocation.
“And in the south corner...” Lernin spoke as soon as the roaring crowd had calmed themselves. “We have Tyr, of House Ebonfist! Far from his home of Oresund, offering challenge to a professor in the ways of his people.”
This time, it was only boos. So loud that they shook the place. It was no surprise, for a student to challenge a professor of such renown as Kael was rare. Maybe a dozen cheers, half that. Valkan crossed his massive arms together and glared back at his students – ensuring that the runesmithing students either cheered for their peer or remained silent. Nothing would please him more than to see an arrogant man, a republic one at that, properly humbled. As unlikely as the result might be, there was always hope.
“...You're enjoying this more than you should.” Abaddon snorted in bemusement, the Anu was beating his chest like an ape and howling louder than any of the naysayers nearest them. “A professor should behave like one.”
Valkan cleared his throat, hoarse from all the shouting. “Yes, master.”
“The content of the duel is simple. No external generation of mana or ranged spellcasting. Victory conditions are until first blood. Infusion magic, transmutation, or any form of internal magic will be allowed. No external shields or movement spells. Violation of these rules will result in immediate disqualification. Are you ready!?”
Both participants signaled their assent. Tyr's was a respectful bow, while Kael flourished his blade dramatically, tossing his long hair to the side much to the joy of the female students. And quite a bit of the males, truth be told. The 'rule of cool' was very real here.
“Then without further ado...!” Lernin cried, arms held aloft as if attempting to embrace the whole of the arena. “Let the challenge begin!”