Private Tales Proven Finesse

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Olvir

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Vel Cirak
Amell Quillon

Olvir's foot shifted.

The blade flickered left.

Sparks flew.

Each beat of the heart was less than a second passed. Each thunderous sound within his ear was another moment that seemed to skip forward. Adrenaline surged through his veins. Pulsing, pumping. Fingers felt slick on the hilt of his sword, sweat pooling on his palms as he darted to the right. A curse echoed from his opponent, but it was already too late.

Ollie's sword seemed to shift in an instant.

It darted upward, and then suddenly swung down as his whole body moved into a pivot. The blade swung, and then with a clatter of armor smacked against his for once, twice, and then a quick third time. There was a loud thunk, and then the armored man in front of him fell onto the ground. Stunned by the solid blows he'd managed to land.

"Yes!" The young Noble called, thrusting up his hands in victory as the tournament judges blew their whistle and declared him the victor. The crowd gathered around them let out a cheer, though more than a few of the Guardsmen in the audience jeered as the young Noble overcame their fellow. Ollie ignored them, practically beaming.

The Sword Tournament of Vel Cirak was a well known event all over Anirian Lands.

Not quite as famous as some of the bouts in other cities, the tournament in Vel Cirak was nontheless a qualifier for the Championship in Vel Anir later this year. That was why Ollie was here. He had missed out on the other competitions, and this was his last chance to actually make it. So far he had won two of his five fights, and would need to win two more in order to qualify.

Something he was well on his way to doing.

With a smug look on his face the young Noble strutted from the field, beaming wide as a woman from the sidelines threw her lingerie from the crowd. Fingers snatching the bolt of cloth from the air with a wide grin.
 
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Amell Quillon

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Icy blue eyes were staring down into a glass of deep bronze, the sour smell tickling Amell’s nose before he finally brought the glass to his lips and took a full swig. He wasn’t a man unused to the taste of alcohol, but he was a man unused to the taste of finer liquor. It may be something he’d need to get used to while he was currently on a dreadfully long vacation.

At least he could tell his old man that he was busy sightseeing before he would need to arrive home and be nagged on about his duties as the oldest son of Quillon. Amell liked to think that his duties as captain took more prevalence than just his birthright but his father was more stubborn than an ass on a hot summer day.

Sitting around the field where the fights was taking place, only one in particular really seemed to catch Amell’s attention. He had been in the guard for thirteen years, had hardly taken time to do anything else but fight and train and oversee others grow as well. Many times in these sword tournaments, plenty of riff-raff could join in.

So when someone of skill was fighting…

What’s his name?” Amell had been quiet, but he is voice commanded attention. Even when Amell was trying not to sound as serious, the authority in his tone was clear. He looked around at those seated beside him until someone finally spoke up.

“The youngest son of House Weiroon, Olvir—“ Amell smiled, and the person stammered the rest of their words. As any man who was thirty or older, the blonde man finished his drink knowing full well he’d need to flush it out a bit with some water— or even more alcohol— before he got a headache. That could wait, however, as he began to make his way over to where Olvir was head.

His father should be proud, looks like he was doing his nobility duties as well.

Standing at his full height, wearing his “nice” uniform signaling his rank within the guard, Amell was quick to cut Olvir off before he scurried off and away somewhere.

You have good swordsmanship.” An affable expression and tone as Amell looked down at Olvir and expressed the compliment. And good was a compliment, especially coming from someone who thought pragmatically about one’s skills and abilities.

Olvir
 
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Olvir

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Olvir was busy stuffing the bolt of cloth into the hem of his trousers, not looking up when Amell spoke to him.

His head almost immediately shot towards the voice, his body half staggering as he nearly fell into the other Nobleman. Ollie didn't recognize the man of course, but he had been educated enough to know the uniform for what it was.

Unlike most citizens, he had not entered the Guard.

His father had made a deal, paid a fortune, and managed to send Ollie away to Alliria for 'study'. Despite his objections, Sebastian had made sure that he only 'lost' one of his children to the Guard. Refusing to give up another, even if it was against his own wishes.

Despite that, Ollie still knew the rank of the man standing before him and he quickly straightened. "Ah, thank you Sir."

He smiled.

"Just beginners luck, I'm sure." It most certainly wasn't, but the man whom he'd beaten had been from the Guard. Just like the man in front of him. Olvir didn't want there to be any hard feelings, specifically with someone of Amell's rank. "Are you taking part in the tournament?"

It was an open bout after all.
 
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Amell Quillon

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Amell’s smile didn’t falter, although a pale blonde brow did raise up quizzically. He took note of the lingerie hanging out on Olvir’s side, and couldn’t help but think back to his days as a young man. It was a very brief moment, and to detract from it, Amell held out a hand for Olvir to shake.

Captain Amell Quillon. There’s no such thing as beginner’s luck,” he said resolutely, but his eyes were easy on the young man. “It’s something the old dogs like to say to discourage the young ones from their hubris.” His icy blue eyes then flickered away from Olvir, looking behind him to see the rest of the rest of the fighters beginning to take place to spar. The unmistakable clash of steal followed with grunts and stomping feet was a sound that Amell had grown accustomed to, even more accustomed to than silence.

It wasn’t my plan to join.” A wry smile appeared and as a wistful look came into Amell’s eyes. “But participating is more fun than watching.” His hand went to his hip, but grasped at nothing. There was no hilt to curve his fingers around, no sword to protect him. He missed the familiar weight, the constant reminder of his best friend.

I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name. You’re…?
 
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Olvir

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Olvir shook the Guardsman's hand, figuring it was probably better to do so.

He had absolutely no interest in adding any more insult to the injury he had already dealt. From what he'd heard of the crowd people were already displeased by his victory. Perhaps if he could add this Amell Qui-

Wait shit, did he say Quillon?

The name flickered through his mind almost instantly. Sparking lessons that his father had forced him to take. He knew this man's family, the name. He was of a minor house, one that stemmed it's influence from Urahil. Fingers tightened for a brief moment, but he didn't let his features flicker even for a moment.

Least he thought so. "Olvir Weiroon."

He said stiffly.

"I certainly hope you're right about beginners luck." The young man offered in jest. "I'd like to win this thing."

Ollie spoke with a smile, though realized he didn't mean it in jest. He really did want to win this tournament.
 
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Amell Quillon

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Amell’s handshake was firm, curt and most importantly, a rather modest one. No dick-slinging contest over who had a stronger grip or a bigger hand. It was exactly how it should be— until it was time for Amell to feign surprise. It wasn’t overtly dramatic, but he made sure to raise his brows up and have his lips part slightly in surprise. His hand left go of Olvir’s.

A large smile came forth.

The youngest son of House Weiroon,” he exclaimed, and then amiably clapped a hand onto his shoulder. “I never would have guessed with how tall you are! Your sister and mother must be straining their necks every time they have to look up at you.” He said jovially enough before nodding his head at Olvir.

I’m sure you can,” a calculating glint could be seen then for just a moment in his blue eyes. Clasping his hands behind his back, Amell walked around Olvir similarly to how a vulture walked around a piece of meat it was eyeing. “Not sure I can say you’re a beginner. You’re young so you haven’t completely filled out yet, but you’re nothing to scoff at. You plan on participating in the tournament in the City?” He asked.
 
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Olvir

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"Ah, yeah." Olvir said with a chuckle. "Inherited my grandfather's genes, is what my mother says."

He was without a doubt the tallest of the Weiroon's. The only one he didn't tower over was Adonis who stood at about the same height as him. Ollie was pretty sure that his height was one of the only reasons people actually offered him any respect.

Ollie was the baby after all.

That was part of why he was here, a chance to prove himself. To show that he was more than just the kid. "I hope to."

He told Amell, half craning his neck as the man slowly paced around him. A sense of nerves drawing over the back of his neck. "I'll have to win my next two bouts first."
 
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Amell Quillon

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Amell came back around to face Olvir again, the same amiable expression on his face. He then pointed at the piece of lingerie sticking out from his trousers, leaning over a bit as he lowered his voice.

You should wash that before having too much fun with it. Those not of nobility don’t bathe often. Unless you like the musty ones.” A slight chuckle before he leaned back, righting himself back up to his full height. “You can win the next two, I’m sure. I’m sure your father will be impressed to know his son is facing off in the Championship.” The easy smile faltered into one more serious.

If you’d like, Olvir, I could offer a few pointers.” He looked around. There were a few wooden swords lying around, used for practice. “Even a little practice spar, just in case.” His icy eyes came back from the small training ring to rest onto Ollie. “But, I wouldn’t want to tire you out at all. Who can say what your next two or three opponents will be like.”

Olvir
 
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Olvir

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Olvir glanced down at the bolt of silk in his belt. "I...well..I wasn't going to...er...yes, sure. Wash it."

His cheeks colored as he spoke, though on the inside he was fucking dying. Catching the panties had seemed like a good idea, but now he felt like a fucking idiot in front of Amell. He cleared his throat, trying to seem at least a little grown up.

"Yes." He said almost eagerly. "A spar might be good."

Ollie was eager to move the subject along from the cloth still tucked into his belt.

He already knew that his father wouldn't be impressed even if he did win. But this wasn't about Sebastian Weiroon. This was about his siblings, about Vel Anir. He needed to show that he was good for something, that he could do this. "Keep me warmed up."

His shoulders rolled, as though he were stretching. "I can handle whoever else comes my way."

Olvir said confidently, a spark of self assurance flickering. One that he had tried to hide before.
 
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Amell Quillon

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Amell gestured to the practice ring before he headed over in that direction. He didn’t bend over to pick up a heavy wooden sword, instead he knelt down to pick it up. He had to favor his lower back right now, as much as possible at least. He looked over at Ollie, a knowing smile on his face.

It’s fine to be confident, Olvir,” Amell said. Rolling back his shoulders, he put his body into position. His feet were placed apart, his knees bent, his abdomen tight. He moved the sword in a few easy vertical then horizontal slashes, testing the weight of the wooden sword. The length and weight of it was different than what he was used to, but he made adjustments quickly enough as he stabbed at the air, moving around and swinging it along with his movements as if he were in a match with someone else. He was fluid and smooth, impeccable with his footwork as he started mini-drills of stepping back and stepping forward, going side to side and arcing the wooden blade around him.

It’s being cocksure that men your age need to worry about. If you have little faith in yourself you overestimate your opponents.” He angled himself to face Olvir, waiting for the signal from the younger man that they could begin. Amell wouldn’t move first, he would wait for the noble to make the first move, to have the first strike. “Never exert more energy than needed. Especially when in the ring.

Olvir
 
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Olvir

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Ollie followed along with Amell to the practice ring. Placing the tournament sword that he had been holding against one of the wooden beams.

In bouts like these it was disallowed to use your own blade, and that counted doubly so for Olvir. The Relic that he carried was magical, at least that was what the Proctors of this tournament had told him, and thus was even more dangerous.

He’d not quite understood, and still didn’t in truth. As far as he was aware the thing was just a sword. Red with a nice hilt, but just a sword.

Either way Ollie bent down and snapped up one of the wooden blades from around the practice rink. Picking it up and flipping it over in his hand as he half turned and faced Amell. ”Ahh…i guess i just didn’t want to be Uncouth.”

The younger noble admitted. His stance was different than Amell’s, not quite as smooth, but no less graceful. It was obvious to any trained swordsman that Olvir had not been trained in the Anirian style.

Least not fully. ”It’s Guardsmen I’m beating.”

Fingers tightened around the hilt of his practice blade.

”They don’t quite seem to like it.” The very second he finished speaking, Ollie darted forward. He moved with a surprising swiftness for someone of his size. Closing the distance between himself and Amell in the span of a breath. His sword quickly feinted low, and then came sweeping up.
 
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Amell Quillon

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There was always a shiver of thrill that Amell felt whenever he was in the ring. The anticipation was more sweet than it was bitter, even now as Amell felt he was a fully matured adult. An adult with responsibilities not only for his name but also for his position that he believed he had created for himself. A gleam of excitement was evident in his icy blue eyes, and as he held is sword in a much more leisurely fashion, Amell Quillon was ready.

For while he could discern that Olvir’s stance was unusual, he was still a captain of the northern army, and there was something that he had learned there that only the soldiers of the north would know: win by any means necessary. Considering this wasn’t an official match, and that Amell truly felt this would be beneficial for Olvir, the large man only grinned as he watched Olvir moved.

Talent. That was unmistakenable. But also hardwork was woven into the younger man’s handiwork, even Amell could appreciate that.

“The Guardsmen don’t like it because they’re forced to face reality. Only the hungry will triumph. That is the way of the world.”

Which was why when Amell parried Olvir’s diagonal swipe and forced his sword outside, the blonde stepped in close towards the young man. With his free hand, Amell took hold of Olvir’s shoulder, grabbing at any sort of fabric and armor to secure his hold before he pulled him in close. Without warning the captain was bringing down his own forehead to crack against the boy’s.

A somber yet resolute look on Amell’s face. A expression that embodied hunger like no other.

Olvir
 
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Olvir

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A forehead smashed into his face. His body breaking free from Amell's grasp as overwhelming strength pulled back.

Almost immediately Ollie recoiled, pain lancing through his face for not the first time in two weeks. A string of curses echoed from his lips, and he nearly stumbled over himself as he found himself backed into the fence around them. "Fuck fuck!"

Free hand clutched his head.

"Kress!" Fingers darted away from his face, noting the slight drip of blood that Amell's apparently much harder skull had drawn from his head. "What the fuck was that!"

Ollie demanded. "That's not tournament legal!"

The Noble complained, knowing full well that he'd be kicked out of the competition if he tried anything close to that.
 

Amell Quillon

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Amell’s face was an impassable wall, entirely unflappable even as he looked at Olvir and heard his grievances. Amell licked his thumb, coming up and over to Olvir, his sword arm entirely lax.

Forgive me,” the blonde man said smoothly, and with the pad of his thumb wiped up along the thin trail of blood. Looking into Olvir’s eyes he wiped his stained thumb onto the shoulder of Olvir’s garment, smearing the blood along the span of the young man’s shoulder.

Bad habit of mine, you see, I can’t help the urge to fight dirty sometimes. I’m sorry for hurting you.” It was then that a much kinder look came into Olvir’s icy blue eyes. “I just forgot you aren’t a new recruit.” There was a pause and Amell stepped away, going back to his original position.

Humor me once more, will you? I promise this time, the only thing to move will be my feet and my sword.” Amell said. He waited, not yet going into his stance from before or even lifting up his sword to face Olvir. For really, if Olvir refused, Amell wouldn’t push him further than this. Of course, he was curious to see Olvir’s resolve, or if he had any.

Olvir
 
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Olvir

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Olvir took half a startled step back as Amell touched him, clearly almost batting him away before he decided to freeze in place.

A frown flickered over his features, and he looked the decidedly...odd Guardsmen in the eyes. Lips pressed into thin lines. Fingers tightened around the wooden sword hilt as the Captain stepped back to his place in the ring. "I..."

For a moment he trailed off, his other hand drawing back his hair to keep it from falling into place.

A strange sort of discomfort settled into his chest, as though he were missing something. As though the man in front of him was playing a game that he did not know the rules of. His mind flickered back to what Adonis had told him, the tutelage of his brother on other nobles.

"Everyone has their tricks Ollie, their traps. You won't always know what they are, but if you know they're coming, it'll at least help."

The Advice was about the only good thing his brother had always done for him, but he tried to remember it now.

Ollie's fingers flickered. The sword turned in his hand, and he gave Amell a curt not in answer. He took on that same, oddly disjointed stance, and then stepped forward. His blade came up from up high, that same disturbingly swift movement.

He cut down towards Amell, then sliced his sword right at the last moment.