- Messages
- 110
- Character Biography
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Brett’s face lit up with determination as he listened to Bexley’s words, absorbing them like a sponge. The weight of being taught by a Second Rank Dreadlord wasn’t lost on him, and though he was young, the gravity of it gave him a spark of pride. He moved with eagerness, striking and then shifting to defense as she instructed. His small frame vibrated with effort as he parried her blows, eyes narrowing with each clash of their conjured blades.
Arryn, standing on the sidelines, tensed at every shift in their pace. He watched the slight gleam of magic strengthening Bexley’s strikes, jaw clenched as Brett’s determination met with rising pressure. Every instinct told him to step in, to protect the boy who meant more to him than he cared to admit. But as Brett met each challenge, gritting his teeth and adjusting his stance, Arryn’s anxiety wavered, yielding to reluctant admiration. He had always been eager to learn, just as Arryn had at his age.
Brett's breath came in quick pants, but his grip on the sword remained strong. The sudden change in Bexley’s movements and the subtle hum of magic didn’t escape him. He felt each strike vibrate through his bones, but instead of faltering, he adjusted—finding ways to deflect her blows that felt just shy of overwhelming. Sweat dampened his hair, but a grin crept across his face, fierce and full of exhilaration.
Arryn’s chest tightened with pride, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips. “Good, Brett,” he called, unable to keep quiet. “Remember, find the rhythm. Don't just defend; make her work.”
Brett nodded without taking his eyes off Bexley, the words fueling him. When she spoke again—“Magic can always end.”—it clicked in his mind like a key turning. His gaze sharpened as he feigned a defensive move before darting to the side and aiming a clever strike at her midsection, testing whether he’d caught her off-guard.
Arryn's heart pounded as he watched, the boy's newfound confidence making him forget, just for a moment, the lingering fear of what it meant to cross blades with a Dreadlord.
Arryn, standing on the sidelines, tensed at every shift in their pace. He watched the slight gleam of magic strengthening Bexley’s strikes, jaw clenched as Brett’s determination met with rising pressure. Every instinct told him to step in, to protect the boy who meant more to him than he cared to admit. But as Brett met each challenge, gritting his teeth and adjusting his stance, Arryn’s anxiety wavered, yielding to reluctant admiration. He had always been eager to learn, just as Arryn had at his age.
Brett's breath came in quick pants, but his grip on the sword remained strong. The sudden change in Bexley’s movements and the subtle hum of magic didn’t escape him. He felt each strike vibrate through his bones, but instead of faltering, he adjusted—finding ways to deflect her blows that felt just shy of overwhelming. Sweat dampened his hair, but a grin crept across his face, fierce and full of exhilaration.
Arryn’s chest tightened with pride, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips. “Good, Brett,” he called, unable to keep quiet. “Remember, find the rhythm. Don't just defend; make her work.”
Brett nodded without taking his eyes off Bexley, the words fueling him. When she spoke again—“Magic can always end.”—it clicked in his mind like a key turning. His gaze sharpened as he feigned a defensive move before darting to the side and aiming a clever strike at her midsection, testing whether he’d caught her off-guard.
Arryn's heart pounded as he watched, the boy's newfound confidence making him forget, just for a moment, the lingering fear of what it meant to cross blades with a Dreadlord.
