Avelyn, Through the eyes of a sentinel

[midnightsyndicate]

What is time? a voice rings, worn and grandfatherly, echoing in a young man's mind with decades of wisdom and life. There is no time another voice replies, this one younger and raspy, tired as if growing old before its time. The tongue of its owner cuts like a blade speaking in precise tones void of emotion. Time is a word, a label conjured by man to give meaning to the passing of their own lives in measures of what we have come to know as years. But time does not change, it does not exist, there is no past or future, only the present, and it is we who change, not it. The voices fade, a clap of thunder stirs Avelyn from his contemplations. His eyes crack open, staring blankly across the room to a window. He watched and listened as rain drummed against the glass, and wind howled a mournful song outside his room. He sat on his shins, with his hands resting on his lap. Beside him on the bed, an elven woman was still deep in reverie, sitting in a lotus position.

His lips cracked just enough to allow his breathe to expel in a bitter sigh. Years ago his concentration and will were such that no storm could have wakened him from his meditations. Now his thoughts ran rampant, chaotic, disjunctioned. He could barely sleep let alone sort through the many troublesome memories that clawed at the edges of his mind, threatening to rend his sanity. The lack of mental discipline had taken its toll on his skills as a swordsman. His mind was not as quick, his body not as responsive. Events prior to his arrival on the frontier had kept him from his sword practice, from the ritual he had performed reverently at every dawn for years. It had been two years since last he raised his sword in the slow dance that allowed him to commit every reflexive movement of his body to the memory of his muscles.

His calloused hand dragged down over his face in frustration, as if the friction of the hardened skin against his pale face would wipe away the weariness, the shame of knowing he had slackened in taking care of his body, and the bitter spike of defeat that was wedged into his gut, beneath a bandaged abdomen crusted with dried blood. His eyes closed, and the slow heave of his chest lessened with his breathing as his eyes closed and he tapped into the lineage of his half-elven mother to return to his dreamscape, and sort through his chaotic memories. Where was it that he had gone wrong, why could he not recall the teachings and lessons of his mentor? He began again, from the beginning, sorting through an endless stream of his wasted years, searching for answers held by his own internal demons.

[midnightsyndicate]

Avelyn tilted his head back to meet the clouded skies with jaded eyes. Those eyes closed as time seemed to slow around him. For a long moment, nothing could harm him, the screams of the dying and the battle cry of the charging bandits were all drowned out, and all he could hear was the onslaught of rain against his armor. He felt the welcomed cool droplets cascade down on him and wash out some of the warm blood that matted his hair. The chill water ran down his features, causing his hair to fall down over his face in a wet tangle. Rain, bloody rain, it did not matter which island he traveled to with his diminutive shadow, wherever they went the weather was all the same. The skies always rained blood, the storms and gathering gray clouds were nothing but a prelude to the death that would come that day, and it came every day.

Avelyn's thoughts returned to the present as the oncoming bandits drew close. Sprinting forward he, supposedly to meet the trio's charge, he surprised them by cutting to the side at the last moment and into a roll, knowing full well that his companion was behind him and ready. The bandits expected him to charge, and even expected him to cower and flee upon realizing they had the advantage at numbers, what they did not expect was the halfling thirty paces off behind a rock that had planted an arrow in the throat of their leader as Avelyn dove out of the way, the arrow practically chasing the dark clad swordsman, and bursting through his cape to meet them in the blurred image of his quick pass. The first fell, failing to understand the cunning trap that was set for them, that they were baited by the larger of their two foes. They could not begin to understand how long the two foes they faced had fought and traveled together, how many times they won the day against impossible odds, or how well coordinated they were.

The female of the two remaining bandits turned to charge at Gears, thinking the halfling easier prey, but Avelyn shouldered his way back into the fight, knocking her off balance. He went into a furious attack routine against the other bandit, putting him on his heels. He scathed his enemy, giving him several gashes, but failed to kill him before the woman regained her balance and charged at Avelyn. The young swordsman entered a defensive stance and began to parry their blows, deftly turning their swords aside and maintaining an air tight defense. Avelyn slowly gave ground, but subtly turned as he did, leading and herding the two assailants while keeping his halfling companion in his peripheral vision. Finally, he dropped to one knee and laid the woman's belly open with a sudden sidelong slash. She gurgled blood and clutched futilely at her spilling innards while the other bandit pounded relentlessly on Avelyn's upraised shield.

Again the highwayman was caught off guard. Carefully timed, Gears let the arrow loose before Ave even finished the set up, by the time he was on his knee and deflecting the brigand's sword, a fletched bodkin arrow whizzed right over Ave's head to catch the bandit in the eye. It was all over in a few seconds, but the two friends who had practiced the routine time and again, had all the time in the world as they executed their respective roles in the battle plan. With the fight over, Avelyn slung his shield onto his back and began the dirty work. His sword was held tight in both hands, his grip reversed so that the sword pointed downward as he passed over the corpses. One by one, his sword dug into their backs. He would twist his sword, and sever their spines with a loud snap that echoed above the clatter of rain, just for good measure. They would make no mistakes, they would make certain that any who wished their demise would not return for revenge. Avelyn would leave no unsettled scores, out of cold practicality and an understanding of the driving power of hatred and blood lust. No, there would be no unsettled scores.

As Avelyn wiped his bloody sword off on one of their tunics and moved to stand in a silent vigil, Gears moved from one body to another. He plucked a dagger out of his boot and went to work on the corpses. He fingers curled in the hair of the dead woman and pulled her head back with harsh tug. The knife came across her forehead in a slow sawing motion. Blood gushed as flesh and nerves yielded to cold steel, and when he had cut a near full circle he ripped off the scalp of his prey, an undeniable claim to the bounty that was rightfully theirs. His lips curled in mild disgust, but he mimicked the grim task for the others they felled, and then the two went on their way. They walked down the road as if it was just another day, now hardened and used to dealing death. "Fark'n rain" Gears muttered as the trudged on. Avelyn only nodded his silent agreement.

They had grown numb to the horrors of the world, the two companions who had traveled the better part of the continent together. Despite the odds however, they had survived, relying on each other and their friendship, a trust that neither would offer to others so easily. While Avelyn could not know the thoughts of his halfling companion, he felt certain that Gears was just as relieved to have a partner like Avelyn, as Avelyn was to have him around. Silently, the two walked the rainy road they knew all too well, wandering to destinations unknown.

~~~~~~

Avelyn wandered into the Red Stag, a tavern of some elegance and cost, and wearily trudged up a flight of stairs to his private room. One arm hanged limply at his side, wounded and battered from a long day of collecting bounties. A few drops of blood trickled down his arm and dripped from the tips of his filthy fingers to the carpets and boards below his clicking boots. Once in his room, he silently went to work removing his mail hauberk, letting his armor drop to the floor in a stained heap. His eyes were framed in black, laying plain the weariness that plagued him. His every step was as if he walked barefoot over shattered glass, as he approached the pre-drawn bath. He settled for washing his arms and hair, which was matted down and plastered to his head with blood now crusted and clinging to his scalp.

A moment of quiet reflection left him wondering if all his life would ever amount to again was survival by means of killing beings weaker them himself, culling the lives of unworthy and lesser foes. He was a swordsman with no real enemies left to fight, yet the sword was his only love, and the focus in his life. Men like him were meant to die in battle, not in the comfort of luxury and retirement. He feared and dreaded the thought of hanging up his blade more than any beast he had ever faced. But exhaustion prevented him from worrying much.

Tugging off his shirt, he winced in pain as he exposed a gash along his chest. Shameless of any eyes that may have been upon him, he silently cleaned the wound, not even knowing if the ever stealthy Gears was in the room or not. He did not care, it would be just another scar, most of which he gained fighting beside the crafty hin. Gauze and cloth wrapped around his torso, concealing the black calligraphy that spanned the majority of his back and more. From his back sprouted the wings of a falcon, that wrapped protectively around his sides, and traveled teasingly down his waist to end in sharp tips. His pale lips were in a tight line, his mind wandering back to the significance and memories of the tattoos.

A soft sigh escaped those lips, realizing that his days of glory were behind them, short lived as they were. There was once a time when the black wings were his sign and standard, one dreaded and respected. Now his legacy was no more, he was just a traveler on the road to nowhere. When the wound was well wrapped, one hand traveled to his left breast, and the single unique scar that remained on his body. A slender black line was just above his heart, and all the veins stretching from it could be seen through his flesh, having long ago turned a sickly dark shade bordering purple and black, from exposure to negative energy. Like roots of evil, they sprouted from the wound in what could easily be mistaken as another tattoo from afar. He heard the ring of steel on steel as the horrid scar carried him back into the past, but he was too tired to reminisce that night. Avelyn kicked his boots off in two different directions, and flopped onto his bed for some much needed sleep. His eye shut, and the beckoning call of slumber finally overcame him. Come dawn, he had vanished, leaving behind a distressed friend.