Valborast Valchek
Member
- Messages
- 110
Darker nights there had been, starlight pierced the gloom, a disc of white to peer upon the scene. Long grasses played out their dance. Sound carried across the chill winds. Night suited enough for a rematch. The outskirts terrain of the knight Anathaeum's Monastery.
Slivers of metal rotated within gloved hands, the daggers that would loan themselves to become silver slips of interruption. They were drawn each in turn, so arranged across Valborast's person, tucked here and there upon his trunk and limbs to be a multitude of knives. Drawn, set to floating, set to dancing, replaced.
The previous duel between the two aligned to meet had resulted in humiliations upon humblings. Torn cloak, swaddled about the wearing party. A low trick in Valborast's estimation. His own crimson regalia set against him.
And the rest.
But tonight the shades of magic that Valborast did bid and beckon to his arcane wit would be stronger, more compelling in their motion. His eyes were not squinted against the day, his brow unfurrowed, the lack of light providing with it all the comfort that daylight denied him. To be raised in a place without trace or hint of daylight had attuned his favours so.
His pale skin maintained from such days. His vision better drawing in what little light fell. His disposition calm for the expansive endless distance between horizons, instead of the rising rock of underground life, somewhere in the distance at all times, no matter the impenetrable gloom and pitch.
The Crimson Knight Valborast replaced all daggers and found hand by habit and encouragement upon the grip of Riven, a curved blade with wilful lurkings of conquered conscience and sentient selfhood that nestled at his hip.
The two communed in the waiting time. If nothing else, this constant companion was dutiful in council and opinion, if voracious of blackened opinion within Valborast, if chill to Valborast's drive to have a further exacerbation of rivalry with Petra.
Tightly bound in red cloth was fixtures to prevent errant cloth from being commanded, and free from liabilities of harboured secrets, Valborast looked to the moon, to the movement of the grasses, to the open field around them where the fight was ascribed to take place. His fingers tapped lightly upon weapon blessed by the Captain's own driving will to save a comrade and their effort to contain their mistakes in steel. Each time fingerpad gently touched Riven, a ripple of communication, like a heartbeat between symbiotes, passed between them.
Upon a pulse of direction, Riven was drawn. The motion a sweep of gleaming silver. Held poised outwards, curved, wicked. Exposed to moonlight, then engulfed in scabbard once again. The motion like drawn blood from slice.
“Petra,” Valborast breathed. No rage, he was past such emotions. Rather, simple determined anticipation of the duel to come, some bitter hints of needing to best his own performance against her driving him on.
The night was in full bout. As Valborast hoped to be soon enough once his rival appeared for the arranged rematch. No contraband to arrest the moment. Just skills to be tested. Petra had bested him before. No matter the outcome this time, Valborast would push himself to reveal his full plethora of fighting arts, using shade, dark, pitch of night, and the unknowable murk of men's souls. While he hoped to settle the score, he was more interested in how Riven might faced a fellow knight. He had some semblance of begrudging camaraderie with Petra.
Riven however, had no such compunction.
((Previous duel and resulting events can be found here: https://chroniclesrp.net/threads/to-know-and-write-of-blood.4260/post-119685 ))
Petra Darthinian
Slivers of metal rotated within gloved hands, the daggers that would loan themselves to become silver slips of interruption. They were drawn each in turn, so arranged across Valborast's person, tucked here and there upon his trunk and limbs to be a multitude of knives. Drawn, set to floating, set to dancing, replaced.
The previous duel between the two aligned to meet had resulted in humiliations upon humblings. Torn cloak, swaddled about the wearing party. A low trick in Valborast's estimation. His own crimson regalia set against him.
And the rest.
But tonight the shades of magic that Valborast did bid and beckon to his arcane wit would be stronger, more compelling in their motion. His eyes were not squinted against the day, his brow unfurrowed, the lack of light providing with it all the comfort that daylight denied him. To be raised in a place without trace or hint of daylight had attuned his favours so.
His pale skin maintained from such days. His vision better drawing in what little light fell. His disposition calm for the expansive endless distance between horizons, instead of the rising rock of underground life, somewhere in the distance at all times, no matter the impenetrable gloom and pitch.
The Crimson Knight Valborast replaced all daggers and found hand by habit and encouragement upon the grip of Riven, a curved blade with wilful lurkings of conquered conscience and sentient selfhood that nestled at his hip.
The two communed in the waiting time. If nothing else, this constant companion was dutiful in council and opinion, if voracious of blackened opinion within Valborast, if chill to Valborast's drive to have a further exacerbation of rivalry with Petra.
Tightly bound in red cloth was fixtures to prevent errant cloth from being commanded, and free from liabilities of harboured secrets, Valborast looked to the moon, to the movement of the grasses, to the open field around them where the fight was ascribed to take place. His fingers tapped lightly upon weapon blessed by the Captain's own driving will to save a comrade and their effort to contain their mistakes in steel. Each time fingerpad gently touched Riven, a ripple of communication, like a heartbeat between symbiotes, passed between them.
Upon a pulse of direction, Riven was drawn. The motion a sweep of gleaming silver. Held poised outwards, curved, wicked. Exposed to moonlight, then engulfed in scabbard once again. The motion like drawn blood from slice.
“Petra,” Valborast breathed. No rage, he was past such emotions. Rather, simple determined anticipation of the duel to come, some bitter hints of needing to best his own performance against her driving him on.
The night was in full bout. As Valborast hoped to be soon enough once his rival appeared for the arranged rematch. No contraband to arrest the moment. Just skills to be tested. Petra had bested him before. No matter the outcome this time, Valborast would push himself to reveal his full plethora of fighting arts, using shade, dark, pitch of night, and the unknowable murk of men's souls. While he hoped to settle the score, he was more interested in how Riven might faced a fellow knight. He had some semblance of begrudging camaraderie with Petra.
Riven however, had no such compunction.
((Previous duel and resulting events can be found here: https://chroniclesrp.net/threads/to-know-and-write-of-blood.4260/post-119685 ))
Petra Darthinian