Private Tales Bastards, Beggars, and Broken Things

[Melchior]

Tempered though they were for the woes of war , all men grew enticed to indulge eventually; if only to forget their troubles for a time.

The academy, arcane arm of Anir, a place where children ran the crucible of conjuration and, eventually, emerged as masters of magic; at least that's what the nations' government would have you believe. In truth, the development of new dreadlords was a gruelling and often harrowing ordeal, a period where proctors broke their bodies and moulded their minds toward a single goal, to serve as sorcererous strike-forces for the state. It was little wonder then, that when the students were afforded the rare luxury of leave, they inevitably found themselves courting the cups or curves of the lonely lamb; a local tavern whose libations were as welcome to them, as the coin that coursed from the clasps of their noble patrons.

Neatly nestled upon a nook which overlooked Vel Anir itself, legend had it that the establishment had been founded long ago, by a graduate of the academy that had found fortune as a merchant, rather than on the field of battle; a rumour reinforced by the elaborate ward stone which illuminated the edifice's exterior each and every evening.

Whether there was any fact behind such fables or not, it had become a tradition of sorts for each senior class to celebrate their sponsorships there, once selected by the arms of the Anirian guard to guide the latest generation in all matters military; an event which grew increasingly raucous as the night wore on.

When the door swung open then, and admitted another cloaked connoisseur to the festivities, the common-room that greeted them was a collage of characters, a rich tapestry whose lively lines were accentuated by the music manifested by such merriment. Boys and bards alike bathed the banquet hall in song, which masked the armoured footfalls of the stranger as they slipped deeper into the building's belly; allowing them to approach the bar with relative anonymity, as saucy syllables swept across their ears. “They danced in tune, ta pluck 'er prune, that Sally by the sea; an' though they'd grow, as seasons go, she'd never bend tha' knee”.

Paying the cavorting clientele little heed, the figure secured a seat upon a table within the middle of the room, rather than some secluded corner as stereotype suggested, and simply let the words and wine wash over him; as war-weary limbs settled into a grateful slump, whilst thoughts flashed through the obligations which, year after year, drew him back to this place anew.

 

[Silka]

It was sheer curiosity that had drawn the sightless girl here. The prospect of music was about the only thing that lured her from her dark confines, it was the light to her moth; something she had so rarely heard and wholeheartedly adored whenever her sensitive ears had been graced by it. There were familiar voices here and there. A few whispered comments and one or two remarks that were a little less discreet, but Silka had long ago learned to ignore it, just as most of them had long ago learned not to push her too far. She was fine with being the weird girl if it meant people left her alone.

It went without saying that she had received no invite to join any of her fellow initiates here. She sat alone, in said secluded, stereotypical corner, but corners made things easier for her, in that she only had to pay attention to the sounds in front of her. As always, the metal mask she wore to cover her eyes hid half of her porcelain face, though her lips had been stained a soft pink and her silvery hair had been loosely pinned up. Pale palms pressed down on the small, sticky table she sat at, a ghostly curl of a smile on her lips as she felt the vibrations of the music that she listened to, helping her to cut through the discordant din.

"Hey Brett, look who it is."
"What the fuck is that creepy bitch doin' here?"
"Freak should be locked up."
"Or worse."
"Hey Kamil - That's the one who put your brother in the infirmary!"

Silka's hands slowly slipped from the table to rest on her thighs, her head turning ever-so-slightly. Now she was paying attention, the music muffling out as her focus shifted to the conversation. Brett and Anja, those were two who had only recently learned not to push her too far - their friend Kasper, apparently brother of Kamil, had learned the hard way. And now, it seemed, Kamil and a three, no, four others were pushing their way through the patronage toward said freak until they surrounded her table.

"We have some business, lass."

She didn't look up. There was little point in that, but still she could tell that Kamil was almost twice the height of his brother, and his friends weren't too far off.

"Hm. I don't think so.." her head tilted, the slight semblance of a smile still stained on her lips. Her voice was unnerving to many, unnaturally soft and fragile, so quiet that it shouldn't have reached the ears of those who surrounded her and yet it did, clear as day.

"My brother is lucky to have any of his face left. Animals that out of control are put down. If the fucking proctors won't do anything about it then I will." he assured, leaning closer to her now, his hands now those that were splayed across the sticky table in her stead. "Lets not make a scene, we can take this outside and settle it."

"No thank you.." she answered with a soft smile. She wasn't stupid, there were four of them and one of her, and she would be the one to face the consequences of getting herself into trouble in the city.

"It wasn't a question!" Kamil snarled venomously at her, the sudden slap of his meaty hands on the table an assault on her senses, and yet she did not flinch. The light from sconce, candle and hearth around the bustling tavern did flicker however, as though disturbed by an absent gust. Knowing what she was and what she could do, Kamil would waste no time in acting.

"No thank y--"

It was as though something had grabbed hold of her, though she could feel no physical presence to the force. It lifted her from her seat and slammed her into the corner of the wall, her feet dangling and her hands clutching at whatever nothing was constricting her throat.

 

[Melchior]

Eluded by few, yet envied by the innocent, age is both adversary to flesh, and advocate to experience.

Languishing upon the hillside, as though a foal forsaken by its founders, the lonely lamb had stood here for as long as anyone could remember, an edifice that endured, though time and tide washed tradition away; ushering Vel Anir into a new era, devoid of houses, or at least the wealth they had once wreathed this corner of the city in.

Whilst the music may have snared the senses of Silka though, as they relinquished comfort in favour of curiosity, a far different burden weighed upon the mind of the magus; for a memory marred his consciousness as he sat there, a purgatory of the past, that years alone could not diminish. He had sat here once, he reflected, tracing the tip of a gauntleted finger along contours that had been carved into the table's troubled face so long ago; a simple serpent, yet a symbol of defiance to a boy that had been betrayed by the system. It was here he had sheltered, when the world came crashing down, and dreams had died; because the curse he carried had proved a double edged sword, a strength which had severed him from this society once, and thrust him into the arms of the Blackguard.

Before he could control his qualities, his very presence had punished any acolyte of the arcane, as he exuded an energy which disrupted its delicate flow, a potency he was persecuted for, when the only home he had known was snatched away from him and replaced with a callous conscription instead. They thought I would die there, he surmised, and sometimes he thought he had; for although he had survived countless battles now and eventually evolved to embrace his abilities, there was nothing left now of that hopeful youth, as horrors untold had harried his heartstrings to death.

When the woman was accosted then, the words wrought of wrath, and undoubtedly ignorance, were wasted upon the magus initially, lost as he was in the centuries that had gone before, but as the encounter escalated, the sorcery of scoundrels brought him violently back to the present; as though blood had just been brandished before a shark.

Ascending out of the annals of history, as much as the chair which caged their ancient carcass, the creature that craved conjuration allowed their restraint to waver, just for a moment, until gravity itself quailed; sucking Kamil backwards toward the waiting maw of Melchior, as it sapped the sorcery from the air. Indomitable, inexorable, the force that furled about the fiend's frame threatened to crush them, breaking bluster and bone alike, until they collided with a sickening crack against the swordsman's pillar of plate; a sight alone that would have subdued many immediate instincts of revenge.

It was the words that followed this event, however, as the cloak careened toward the carpet and unveiled the warrior, which truly gave others cause for concern; because any thoughts of summoning the guard evaporated like smoke, when they saw the burnished banner of the Blackguard standing proudly on their breast, and heard the avenue the assailant would pursue when pressed. “Looks like you just assaulted an officer, scum.”

 

[Silka]

Her lack of air was a distracting dilemma indeed. Silka's fingers clawed at her own throat in panic, but there was nothing there but her own skin to be torn away. Her mouth was wide open, a feeble chick waiting to greedily consume whatever it could, but there was nothing. Feet thumped at the rickety walls, her slight little self writhing in struggle against Kamil's mental hold on her. Her heart struck a staccato in her chest, every beat of it loud in her ears, though not as loud as her own voice screaming at her to focus.

After years of training, the pain she'd suffered and the tests and trials she'd surpassed, she was not about to die in a bar fight. But his grasp was so tenacious, and her energy was fast fading, that she could feel her eyelids grow heavy underneath her mask. Again surrounding flames flickered in response to her dulling effort to grasp some semblance of power, and then suddenly, she fell.

Sweet air rushed into her lungs as she clattered unceremoniously to the floor, dragging in every ragged lungful and coughing them back out. Silka could hear only fractions of the commotion above the pounding pulse in her head and her own choked rasps, but from what she could tell, the attention had been directed away from her. Kamil's rage was a given, but the raised voices of his friends' defence quickly died when they realised who had intervened, and it was quickly clear that they were not the sorts of friends to be counted on in a time of need, judging by the several pairs of boots she heard rushing toward the tavern door.

Silka's hand flourished at her side as soon as she had enough air in her lungs to calm herself, and the hearth snuffed itself out, lending its energy to the shield she cast around herself to ward of further attack. She remained where she'd fallen, tucked away in the corner of the tavern as she listened..

There was something about the sound of Kamil's pain that she found herself compensated by, so much so that it caused her lips to kick upward at the corner in a rare show of smug satisfaction. It sounded too like the air had been knocked out of him, and she breathed a little easier again, savouring the freedom to do so.

Blackguard.. she'd heard murmured here and there, and her head tilted slightly, a little more curious to hear what was being said, and if she recognised the voice.

"Fuck you." Kamil spat from where he lay squirming on the floor, attempting to get back to his feet. He'd be afraid, just like his brother had been afraid, but they weren't the sort of family to allow common sense to get in the way of keeping face. They weren't brave, they were bullies, and they were idiots who's father had wealth and friends in high places.

"Looks like you just made a big mistake." the young man growled, clutching at his ribs. "You'll pay." he said, and stumbled back toward the door, not daring take his gaze from the guard. Some of the other patrons had returned to their drinks, discussions and dice, but most still stood staring in anticipation of a decent brawl.

 

[Melchior]

Often, respect is rendered not through the righteousness of someone's convictions, but how quickly their corruption is quashed.

Bravado, brash and bright, a weapon wielded by Kamil to cow or conquer combatants in the past, a tool twisted by threats, which writhed through the air and sought to subdue adversaries beneath their weight; as though they were waves weathering the bedrock of society.

Thrust upon this latest enemy though, the cadet's consequences clung to Melchior as feebly as sailors smashed upon the shore, for he was not the sand that submitted to the sea, no he was the relentless rock, the dread which devoured ships men thought safe, until naught remained, but bleached and broken bone.

When Silka's slender form slipped unceremoniously toward the floor then, the magus' eyes lingered there, studying the shroud which secreted her own from sight, whilst the youth continued their cavalcade of curses; believing their boasts would dissuade her saviour from prosecuting their dalliances that day. The truth, they'd find, was far more terrible than they'd dreamed.

Rumour reported that the Blackguard were cold, that their methods were calculated, rather than cruel, such was their efficiency on the battlefield; but yet the swordsman had a soft-spot for beauties, beggers and broken things, a flaw which found him furled about danger more often than he'd like to admit.

The door deigned to deny Kamil that night, as limbs that longed for release suddenly reversed, propelled by a power so primordial it was difficult to perceive; because though Melchior's attention never neglected Silka for a second, her malefactor marched mechanically back toward the two and tumbled to their knees, controlled like some foul puppet by the magister's might.

“Apologise dog”, the magus intoned, appearing to demand reparations for the wrong that they had wrought upon him, at least in the eyes of the onlookers, but doubtless Silka would suspect her slight was the real cause for this compulsion; a command coerced through the microscopic sorcery upon Kamil's skeleton, which marred their marrow on a molecular level and mired them in unimaginable pain.

The effect of the endeavour was as subtle as it was sinister, a subdermal sword with which to slice the snake, whenever they tried to deviate from Melchior's manipulation; little did they know that such tampering would leave them dead by dawn, as their structure was smothered by slow and systematic haemorrhaging.

It was a devilish way to die, a deed which the blackguard didn't dwell on for a moment, as he dismissed them without a second thought; offering Silka a gauntled hand and addressing her like he would any other student. “Are you alright? I'd be honoured if you'd accompany me to that table and tell me news of the academy”.

 

[Silka]

Apologise he did. Several times over in fact, the ruffian's wrangled apology quaking with terror and twisted with pain. Silka said nothing, her slender fingers splayed across the bruised skin around her throat as still she savoured every shaky breath she took.

Her head tilted ever-so-slightly as she listened to the Blackguard stride over to her, her body taut with tension as she considered that Kamil may not have been the only one to find himself subject to chastisement. The girl held up the shield, which appeared as nothing more than an iridescent ripple on the air surrounding her and yet held all the strength of wrought iron.

She did consider that his concern might have been a con, and thus it took her a moment or two to consider the request. Subtly, she let out a soft series of clicks with her tongue, such sound told her of his stance, and of the hand held out to her. The shield dissipated and she reached up with a nod to take the offered aid, allowing him to help her to her feet.

"Thank you..I'm just fine." she answered in the softest of voices, a ghost of a smile as ever on her lips. It was generally the sort that unnerved people, but she was simply trying to be friendly. She wasn't used to talking to people at all, really. Her proctors, perhaps, but her fellow students generally tried to keep out of her way, not that she minded.

"I am Silka." she sang softly. That was how people usually started conversations, wasn't it?

 

[Melchior]

Friendship is fostered through many facets, from first flirtation, to the fleeting forlornness of a farewell; and yet usually, it is forged upon a foundation which both parties share.

Shaping a shield from sorcery, Silka girded herself against further assault as Melchior approached, birthing a barrier which seemed so innocuous it was nigh invisible to the naked eye; but though the average interloper might have overlooked such artifice, its boundaries were laid bare before the Blackguard's saffron gaze.

Emanations of energy danced upon the air, like slender strands of webbing weaved by spiders, a potent palisade which gave him pause, and afforded the woman enough time to construct a canvass from clicks; a technique so tangible that it doubtless depicted him as an armoured attendant, a warrior that wielded not steel, but instead proffered a palm in greeting.

Silence stretched for a moment or two, as the woman assessed his arrival and then, as if a decision were wrought wordlessly amidst the glimmer of a smile, her defences dissipated; allowing the magus to haul her upward with his hand, a manoeuvre which presented his physique, without overtly imposing it upon her. As his muscles tensed though, he couldn't help but reflect upon her bruised and battered body, an image which invoked neither disdain nor desire, but instead a kindled kinship of sorts; for his adolescence in the academy had yielded similar sights, as peers poked at his alien abilities as well.

Men so often fear what they do not understand, and judging by curses that had crept from Kamil, before Melchior had intervened at least, some students were willing to employ any excuse to establish their superiority; a mistake most would not live to regret, if the swordsman had any say in the matter. Rather than squander Silka's gift then, he sought to encourage it, to bolster another deemed broken by society, like he too had once been branded, and so that is where their conversation began, as words writhed in retort in answer to her introduction.

“I am known as Melchior, Blade of the West, and sometimes, even guest lecturer as well”, a statement which might have sparked slight embers of recognition within the woman; for although she herself may have never attended one of his presentations, his advice about countering the arcane would have been discussed amongst the proctors, and perhaps the wider faculty as well.

The strangest thing about the man's speech, however, was not that they held a honorific within the Blackguard itself, nor that they spoke at the academy, but instead if Silka had ever studied the annals of the Anirian guard, she would realize that there had only ever been one such title within their ranks; a thing that dated back to the Elven Wars some four hundred years before.

“What brought you to this endearing establishment tonight?”

 

[Silka]

"Melchior.." she repeated the whisper with an undertone of familiarity. She seemed to stare back at him from behind her mask, but though she couldn't physically see what he looked like, she could tell much by listening. Even smells could tell her a lot about a person, and so she quietly smiled as she studied him in her own little way.

She had most certainly heard the title he mentioned before, in a lecture no doubt, but even if she'd failed to recognise it, it spoke of his acclaimed notoriety. Silka was sure there were many blades in the West, and so to be named so singularly piqued her interest.

"I think I remember you.." she smiled wistfully, letting out another sudden series of clicks which told her that her path to the corner table was clear. She pulled herself up onto the tall stool and faced him again, her head tilting toward her reason for being here.

"Hm.. The music and songs can be quite wonderful." she answered with a rare, warm smile and settled her hands atop the table again, feeling the vibration of the lute that played and the voices that sang along side it. "I did not intend on causing trouble..." Silka shrugged sorrowfully. "But nor did I intend on making friends." she chuckled. She generally tried to avoid both, but she was not accustomed to being rude when the rare occasion occurred that one wanted to speak with her. Then again, it didn't generally take too long for those she spoke with to become unnerved and slip away as silently as they could.

Silka's nose wrinkled in a wince as she swallowed, the skin around her throat growing darker with bruising. There was no anger, nor emotional pain or distress. It was something she had grown quite used to, and whilst she could handle herself, the intervention had been refreshing.

"What brings you to this endeari.... This place doesn't smell endearing." Silka frowned.

 

[Melchior]

Often peril is both plague, as much as it is possibility; depending upon whose toes tread the trail it unveils.

Imbibing the odours which emanated from the entity bathed in black, Silka's senses would be greeted with a variety of scents, from the sinister smell of steel, to the surprising symphony of fragrant Falwood; for the forest's fauna clung to Melchior's flesh, as though the memory of his passage lingered still, despite the leagues he had conquered across the cobbled city of late as well.

In truth the woman saw much, because whilst her eyes might not engage with the world like her peers, the manner in which her tongue caressed the air with clicks, coupled with a heightened sense of smell, doubtless painted a portrait of the magus which he oft concealed; a man that played at monster, whose heart was yet wooed by something in those woods.

Pursuing the pupil to their table, as though eager to develop their dialogue further, the magus secured a second stool and then sequestered both sword and shield beside its leg; adopting a more relaxed posture, as he sought to indulge his intellect for once, rather than the bloodshed which his anger bequeathed in place of patience most nights.

Nodding along to her initial response, before remembering that such gestures were moot if not sculpted by her sonar, Melchior found himself opening up far more than he normally would, as circumstance coaxed their conversation onward; a moment of mirth the two companions shared, when Silka teased the topic of trouble, and he quipped, “I find it frequents those with talent more often than not “.

“Friendships though, are forged in the most unlikeliest of places, in my experience”, he continued, studying her slender frame thoughtfully and allowing his gaze to rest upon her ample eye-mask; as though instead of being deterred by her differences, he was strangely compelled to court their curiosities, one connoisseur of conjuration to another.

A hearty laugh danced upon the air in the wake of Silka's disdain, as she challenged the validity of his earlier observation; a sentiment which spread into the response which spilled like wine from his lips. “Haha, you remind me a lot of Wilfred you know”, and here he paused for a moment to slowly jerk a gauntlet toward the statue of the founder of the lonely lamb, a student who found their fortune training in trade, rather than sorcery, and went on to become one of the most famous merchants Vel Anir had ever seen. “He always possessed a penchant for poking holes in the status quo, though he never questioned the coin I leant him to fund this little enterprise of his”, he smiled, knowing well his statement might manifest more queries than conclusions in the woman's keen mind.

“I suppose the anniversary of his death brings me back, because although i'm often overlooked by his many descendants now, the delectable décor always takes me back to a simpler time”. It was, perhaps, the first time that Silka might discern a hint of sorrow in his voice, a fleeting frailty which vanished as quickly as it had appeared, as Melchior pressed the inquiry onward. “Tell me though, how your gift works, and if you'd like some wine?”

 

[Silka]

The blind girl had indeed already taken in much information about the man from the little details. The sound of his voice, the scents he wore, the way in which he spoke, how heavy his feet tread the creaky floorboards and the discomfort he seemed to cause in those situated nearby, judging by how their conversations either halted or quieted to a simmer.

She fixed him with the same half-smile, allowing him to speak without interruption, and whilst he did she noted the warmth in his laugh and the sombre dip in his tone. As frightening as the Blackguard seemed to be, and whilst there was no disputing his strength and power, he was not cold, a thing that those with eyes would likely fail to see.

"I would not know of forging friendships, Ser.." she answered with neither mirth nor sorrow. Silka had always been.. strange, even before her lack of sight unnerved her peers. She enjoyed learning, and it took up most of her time growing up in the Academy. This was about the longest conversation she had had with another person in quite some time, and it had not been something that she had expected to find this night nor any other.

She found herself fixated on what he had said of Wilfred, a man whom he had known personally and who now had many descendants who apparently overlooked him now. Her brow dipped behind her mask in wonderment, but his question dragged her thoughts back to the present and she cleared her aching throat.

"It's a form of photomancy.. I can feel the energy from light and absorb it, store it, and use it for attack and defence. Using my abilities rendered me temporarily blind when I was younger, it made me weak and an easy target. Proctor Pallatrix took my sight, and I was trained to know my surroundings and never need the use of my eyes." she let out a quiet huff, though her small smile never faltered.

"And, yours? It sounded... quite terrible." she admitted "But.. the wonderful sort of terrible." she added with a bob of her head, and her lips curled until a small dimple appeared in her cheek.

 

[Melchior]

Bleak though many believe them to be, burdens may birth blessings, if one merely knows how to make them blossom.

Although blind, the insight invoked by Silka's speech was as keen as any scalpel, a sense which pierced Melchior's handsome features and obsidian plate; as though in the absence of sight, she were able to drill down to the core of his character, whilst the thoughts of others faltered, when faced with the bloodthirsty bulwark that the warrior girded themselves in.

Despite their relaxed demeanour, however, the magus was attentive and alert, even amongst the merriment which marred the minds of the other patrons that evening; after all once you've fought upon enough battlefields, the illusion of safety never sits so easily in one's heart again. As the two conversed then, and the stigmas of society slowly slipped away, only those nearest to their corner could calculate that the black blade Anathema rested readily within reach; a fact perhaps perceived by a waiter, when they eventually emerged and offered the two some wine.

Whether Silka supped upon Melchior's hospitality or not was entirely up to her, as the man made no further mention of the courtesy; deciding instead to pursue the potential of her power, as he deftly dragged a goblet from its perch and proceeded to peruse its produce with his tongue, a taste as exquisite as it was expensive.

“Pallatrix always was a shrewd scholar”, he commented, knowing well how weaknesses could be wielded as a weapon, if one but properly pressured a pupil; it was the harshest truth that any student learned at the academy, as privilege and propriety were pulverised by the proctors, in order to reshape the recruits and prepare them for war.

“Fascinating though, that you can lash light as though it were a living thing. Have you ever..explored the limits of your ability? Or did your tutors fear its ferocity?”, he inquired, as his mouth mirrored the woman's own and writhed into a semblance of a smile; though whether sinister or supportive, remained to be seen.

“Some believed me to be cursed”, he continued, casting his consciousness back to the time when he had entered the academy, and every mage within the corridor almost collapsed, “I do not manifest magic, I devour it, distort its dimensions and reshape reality to my will. It was devastatingly dangerous, before I learned to control it, before they sent me to slay enemy mages from one corner of the realm to the next.”

He did not reveal how he had to consume poison to dampen his powers, nor how this reprieve had been wrought not from the libraries of Vel Anir, but instead the wisdom of a witch which he had encountered many centuries ago now.

“The elven druids during the rebellion could not harm me, so you have nothing to fear here. You need not hold back and can be yourself”, he finished, once again referencing an event which transpired hundreds of years before, as if he were no mere man, but instead some beast of yore, summoned forth from the pages of history to speak solely with Silka.