12-30-2017, 02:41 PM
Armande felt irritation flare up. The condescension seemed to drip with her every word, flicks of acid spun out, wounding his pride.
How dare she....I need to practice killing beasts?
His eyes narrowed, blue fire of rage. His voice was drawn tight, the string of a bow, the readied blade. "I have been 'practicing killing beasts'"- he imbued the words with all the contempt he could- "since your mother was a child."
He was beyond angry. How dare she. He flowed to his feet in one movement, looking at her, daring her. In one motion his tunic was off and he proudly displayed himself. Scars of stab wounds and slashes and tears and still healing burns criss crossed his muscled shoulders and chest, his still taut stomach and torso and back. Some were faded while others fresh, and every shade in between. His right arm was still torn and scabbed and bruised, as was his shoulder where he had taken the brunt of Apollyon's blast, had been dragged across the rubble strewn ground.
Pride dripped from his lips. "These wounds were taken while your mother was in swaddling. I have killed dreyken in their lairs, stalked wolfkin in the woods. I have hunted rakshasa in packs and killed nests of rougarou who only desired to devour me alive. D'Jinn have not stopped me, nor have bainak. I have never been defeated!"
She asked about weapons? "I have hunted with weapons you cannot imagine. I boiled Apollyon and his godling alive from the inside out so that their eyes steamed and their blood roiled. I summoned an Ijiraq with ancient Atharim weapons and broke it to my will, forced it to serve me and hunt."
Pride was a fire burning inside him, boiling him alive. His words spilled from him like steam escaping from a heavy lid, pressure never relieving.
And for a moment, he saw himself as a hero of old, as the ancient Atharim had been, saw himself standing with them against the gods. He burned with pride, at the image.
He HAD killed Apollyon. That had happened. He. But they had been betrayed. The gods used their power somehow, to restore him. Or he was possessed by wefuke. Or something else. But he had done it!
And then something snapped and he saw himself as he must look in her eyes. Posturing. Prideful. Preening.
And Armande opened his mouth and laughter roared from deep within. He struggled to contain it even as his eyes lit up. He dropped to the cot, shoulders still shaking, and put his head in his hands, face red with shame. Between chuckles, he spoke softly.
"I am an old fool."
And smiling, he looked up to watch her, expecting to see contempt. It would be what he deserved.
Edited by Regus, Dec 30 2017, 02:46 PM.
How dare she....I need to practice killing beasts?
His eyes narrowed, blue fire of rage. His voice was drawn tight, the string of a bow, the readied blade. "I have been 'practicing killing beasts'"- he imbued the words with all the contempt he could- "since your mother was a child."
He was beyond angry. How dare she. He flowed to his feet in one movement, looking at her, daring her. In one motion his tunic was off and he proudly displayed himself. Scars of stab wounds and slashes and tears and still healing burns criss crossed his muscled shoulders and chest, his still taut stomach and torso and back. Some were faded while others fresh, and every shade in between. His right arm was still torn and scabbed and bruised, as was his shoulder where he had taken the brunt of Apollyon's blast, had been dragged across the rubble strewn ground.
Pride dripped from his lips. "These wounds were taken while your mother was in swaddling. I have killed dreyken in their lairs, stalked wolfkin in the woods. I have hunted rakshasa in packs and killed nests of rougarou who only desired to devour me alive. D'Jinn have not stopped me, nor have bainak. I have never been defeated!"
She asked about weapons? "I have hunted with weapons you cannot imagine. I boiled Apollyon and his godling alive from the inside out so that their eyes steamed and their blood roiled. I summoned an Ijiraq with ancient Atharim weapons and broke it to my will, forced it to serve me and hunt."
Pride was a fire burning inside him, boiling him alive. His words spilled from him like steam escaping from a heavy lid, pressure never relieving.
And for a moment, he saw himself as a hero of old, as the ancient Atharim had been, saw himself standing with them against the gods. He burned with pride, at the image.
He HAD killed Apollyon. That had happened. He. But they had been betrayed. The gods used their power somehow, to restore him. Or he was possessed by wefuke. Or something else. But he had done it!
And then something snapped and he saw himself as he must look in her eyes. Posturing. Prideful. Preening.
And Armande opened his mouth and laughter roared from deep within. He struggled to contain it even as his eyes lit up. He dropped to the cot, shoulders still shaking, and put his head in his hands, face red with shame. Between chuckles, he spoke softly.
"I am an old fool."
And smiling, he looked up to watch her, expecting to see contempt. It would be what he deserved.
Edited by Regus, Dec 30 2017, 02:46 PM.