Rove
????, The Grasping Isle
[https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/876104022833127448/1102931345916829817/zoltan-tasi-HQPJEEjHqSE-unsplash.jpg]
Image by Zoltan Tasi, Unsplash, Unsplash License
The air whooshing past his cheek reminded Rove that Prado wasn’t to be taken lightly. Even though Prado hadn’t quite reached his level as far as sword skills went, his skill with a shield more than made up for the difference. He counted himself lucky that he had Stormgrinder at his side. Were he to face Prado again with a bronze blade, it probably would’ve been a quick battle. And not one that would’ve ended in his favour. For a couple of moments, Rove was also afraid that the mist would try to mess with their heads. But it soon became clear that whatever force was behind it had no intention of interfering with the fight. Either that or his mind was too focused on his opponent to care about shadows.
Using a hand to block Prado’s sword arm before he could finish a strike, Rove slashed down towards his brother’s shins. Sparks flew from the shield as Prado blocked his assault. The shield thrust down and blocked the Tinker-made blade, their arms quivered as muscles were strained. For a moment, they stood there, weapons locked and blocked, pushing against each other in a bid to get the upper hand. With a grunt, the men jumped away out of the other’s reach once more, only to clash a moment later with grim determination. The echoes of their blows rang hollow through the white fog surrounding them. Mist swirled around their slashes in small whirlpools around them, giving the whole fight an unreal vibe. Rove dove low, sweeping his legs across the valley floor, trying to trip Prado up. Prado reacted with a strong downward slash, forcing Rove to roll away before he could complete his manoeuvre. As the Herhor rose again, he slashed up towards his opponent’s groin area. Sparks flew as Prado lifted his leg, his bronze shin armour deflecting the blow. A grunt of pain left the man as his armour was dented by the force behind Rove’s strike. On one knee, Rove couldn’t defend well enough though. His brother responded with a move of his own, making him take an armoured knee to the face. A loud thud tried to echo through the fog, only to be swallowed whole by it into a muffled dull thump.
They both stood their ground, bleeding and panting, not wanting to give the other a finger’s length of space. Gritting his teeth through the pain, Rove wiped the side of his face clear from blood, not losing sight of Prado for even a moment. With practised movements, Prado undid the shin guard and tossed it away with a kick, sending the dented bronze armament clanging against the rocks out of sight.
With a roar, Rove rushed forward, blade arching in a downward sweep towards his brother’s side. Their swords met in a clash of silvery steel, a wild exchange of blows following suit. Their swords cleaved through the air like silver wisps of wind, meeting one another and changing direction every other moment. Both men were unable to avoid damage in the exchange.
Knocking Stormgrinder away with his shield, Prado managed to slash Rove across the chest, his steel blade easily rending the cured hide. The blade cut deep, damaging ribs and cutting muscle. A blow that could easily be fatal if not treated. His time was running out.
A split second later, Rove kicked against Prado’s now unarmoured shin, knocking Prado off balance and forcing him to take a deep gash across his shield arm.
It wasn’t long before both their clothing was drenched in blood, droplets of the crimson fluid starting to colour the rock and dirt around them.
Their dance continued, the mist seeming to undulate in the tempo of their strikes. Expanding and retracting, swirling around their blades like a sinister dancer enjoying the carnage.
Rove’s stamina began to run low, the Herhor barely able to hold his sword arm up while he slowly circled his brother. Prado’s body was in a similar state, the man standing his ground and following him with his shield at the ready. His shield was quivering, his arm having been maimed heavily, and it cost the man a large amount of energy to keep it ready for incoming attacks.
Somehow, Rove couldn’t help but let out a chuckle. They had just had the first genuine exchange of words in over a decade. Fuck this irony. And now he had to kill his brother. Family issues were the worst blemish on life. He could do nothing else but grit his teeth and get through this. With a laboured groan, Rove forced his tired legs into a sprint. Stormgrinder shone in a deep red light, reddening the surrounding mist with an eery glow. Their eyes met, both men tired yet determined.
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With an overhead strike and a ferocious cry, Rove’s blade connected with Prado’s shield with an echoing crash. Prado’s arm couldn’t handle the blow, and the shield got knocked away from his torso. With his last strength and feeling the last of his strength ebb away, Rove grabbed his brother’s sword with his off-hand. A desperate move, as he felt the weapon cut deep into his palm. And then, with a shout of utter frustration, he thrust his weapon into Prado’s abdomen. His brother’s eyes widened with surprise as he staggered back. Stormgrinder’s blade slid out of his gut, a stream of blood pouring over the rocks. Prado’s shield clattered to the ground, followed by his sword until finally, the man himself collapsed against the valley’s cliff face. Wheezing heavily, he lay there, barely moving. Rove gasped and gargled, wobbling on his feet as he also dropped the now crimson Stormgrinder on the ground. Silence returned to the mists, the white seeming to move closer towards them.
The battle was won. He’d won. He lived. It was strange though. Would think he would be happier with living. But rather than that, he just felt annoyed, tired, and angry.
Glancing at Stormgrinder, Rove left it on the ground as he hobbled towards his dying sibling. It was over, the blade did its job well. He collapsed next to his brother while he listened to the sound of their breathing. Beaten up, dying. For a while, the only sound he could hear was the wind and the laboured breathing of the dying man next to him. Prado would die first. But he wasn’t far behind if help didn’t arrive quickly.
“… I’m… I’m proud of you, Navene. You’re a good… good swordsman.”
Prado’s voice was barely more than a whisper. Rove nodded, turning his head ever so slightly. If he was to speak up now, he wasn’t sure if his voice would hold.
“Just… be sure… to kill that bitch of a mother… for me… alright? Take my blade… it will serve you… you well.”
Prado raised his sword arm, weakly pointing at his blade lying on the floor before him.
Rove gulped, putting a hand on Prado’s shoulder.
“I will, brother.” He said, his voice shaking. “I will fuck that bitch up if it’s the last thing I do.”
“Heh… language… brother mine. Skarin…Skarin wouldn’t approve. Heh…”
He felt tears welling up in his eyes and with a sob, he pulled Prado into an embrace.
“Thank you, brother. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Sshh, just... live...”
Prado’s body went limp, his arm falling to the floor. His brother had passed. Wiping his tears and taking some distance, Rove muttered a prayer to Terraz. The Aral of Destruction seemed like a suitable entity to pray to. For the first time in years, he recited the long unuttered words he’d learned from his father.
“… and I humbly ask of you to guide his soul away from his destroyed form. May he reach the Wailing Gates so that he may rise again in another life.”
He closed Prado’s eyes and sat next to the now unmoving body for a while. Then, with a weak grunt, he walked to his brother’s blade. The steel glimmered under the coating of blood, the Tyheart’s family crest protruding proudly from its hilt: The big oak tree with a heart protruding from the centre of its trunk. Carefully, he picked it up, staring at the crest for a moment. After picking up Stormgrinder as well, he walked back to Prado’s corpse and unclipped the blade’s scabbard. Red blood still flowed over his arms and he began to feel lightheaded, but Rove didn’t care. He took a piece of cloth and quickly cleaned the blade, sheathed it and put it on his belt.
“I accept your contract, brother. I’ll see to it that it is completed. By mine and your blades, I swear this.”
He staggered back to the ground, collapsing as his eyes fluttered. The blood loss was starting to wear him down. Dumping his backpack on the ground, he took several bandages out and began the arduous process of patching himself up, using the cliff face as support. It didn’t go very well, with no help to put the bandages on properly, but he managed to stop some of the bleeding. Enough to at least last a while instead of moments. Only Hudol would know if it was enough.
Rove sighed a garbled breath of relief, taking a swig from his waterskin. Damn, he was thirsty. The waterskin was empty in a couple of seconds, but he did feel better now that he wasn’t immediately at death’s door. With a forceful throw, he tossed the water skin away into the mist. Damn it all. Damn this. Damn his mother. And damn Siandra.
He wasn’t thinking straight at the moment. The Herhor rested the back of his head against the rocks and closed his eyes. A little sleep might be just what the doctor ordered. No harm in resting up a little bit. And even if somebody with killing intent were to approach, it wasn’t as if he could put up a decent fight. He couldn’t even lift his sword arm, let alone slash somebody.
“Bring it on, damned fog.” He mumbled as his mind slowly became as foggy as the mist around him before drifting off into a fevered sleep.
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Made by Mark Evegaars, writer of this story