Fable - Ask The New Generation

[Edric]

Outside Vel Anir - Dreadlord Academy

Edric sat on the edge of the central courtyard, a rock bouncing in his palm as he stared ahead.

His eyes were practically glazed over, staring through the dozens of combatants arrayed against one another. Most of them were his age, or around there, some holding swords, others axes, and still others just shields. This was a common enough thing, even after all the changes a year ago. They were softer now, but still Dreadlords, and thus the sparring was important.

At least that was what the Proctors said.

Once, a simple round of training could end up with one combatant...or both, ending up in the infirmary. The Proctors had taken great pride in pushing them, and forcing them to push each other. Now such a thing was rare. Things were supposed to be less brutal now.

They were still set against one another, still practiced for hours on end, but the violence was less so. Much of their time in the training yard was spent under the watchful eyes of one of the new Proctors. It was hard to take things too far, not like the old days. Edric had been the last to send someone to the infirmary, an act that had seen him punished.

Of course, that was not to say that all the Proctors were of such a mind. It had been one of them who'd encouraged Edric to educate his now infirm opponent.

Things were different, but still the same.

It was a fact that had not escaped any of them. There were no naive Dreadlords, not in their group. They were perhaps the last Class to endure the tortures of old, and even now half of them expected that this was all some sort of elaborate ruse. Edric wasn't one of them, he knew that this 'new way' was here to stay, but he despised it.

"Edric."​

His eyes seemed to focus, his gaze flickering to the right as a girl with blonde hair approached him. Talea was her name, born in Vel Luin. She was in his class, and one of the strongest in it. Her magic was a disease of sort, an infection. A single touch and she would burrow into the mind, seize it, and turn you into little less than a puppet. A puppet that would then spread it's plague.

Edric liked Talea.

"Is this how you're spending your free period, sitting on a rock?"​

Free period. The fact that such a thing even existed at the Academy was an utterly contemptible mystery. "I'm observing."

Edric said with a gesture to the training field.

"What for? Not like you're going to have to kill one of them to graduate. Besides, I thought you weren't allowed to spar for a while?"​

He scowled slightly. That had been part of his punishment. A backward sort of thing placed upon him by the Head of the Academy. Two years ago they would have praised him for what he'd, given him his own room. Now he was being punished for it. A grunt escaped him, his head turning back towards the field.

"Aren't you cheerful."​

Talea said with a roll of her eyes.

 

[Noel]

You could never underestimate anyone at the academy. It was a lesson Noel had learned the hard way seven years back. Playing with your opponent, showing off to your peers, it was a fool’s errand that allowed your lessers a chance to claw their way back into a fight. She had the scar on her calf to prove it.

Ever since that blunder she had learned to be swift and merciless. Take out your rival with precision, ideally before they realized the bout had even begun. This was a lesson the proctors literally beat into her after her first loss and there was no amount of free periods or soft extracurriculars that would ever unlearn that lesson.

Some of her classmates used the free period to read, tend to their wounds, or lounge around on the edge of the courtyard. To Noel that was an absurd idea. There was no such thing as ‘free periods’ when you were aiming for the top, for perfection.

Noel wrapped her fingers around her metal staff until the whites overtook her knuckles. A grin formed one microsecond before her motions became a blur. She feinted high and when the other academy student raised his blade to parry she shoved her backhand downwards and towards his ankles. In an instant his feet gave out and he collapsed into a heap, she spun her staff and plant it hard onto his chest, causing the wind to rush from his lungs.

It was over swiftly. No mercy. Precise.

”Lucky,” she whispered. Had it been a year prior she would’ve formed the platinum rod into a spear and left him with a gaping wound. A mark of shame to show the proctors that he’d lost. That he’d been weak.

In this ‘new’ Vel Anir he’d simply writhe around until he caught his breath. Only those who paid attention knowing of his failure.

Her weapon went limp and the metallic silver wrapped itself around her torso and up her body like an elaborate piece of jewelry.

Off in the distance her chestnut irises caught sight of Edric and she shook her head in disapproval. Sends one kid to the infirmary and he thinks he can just waste the day away. A hand brushed a lock of black hair behind her ear as she made her way to the archery range, not wanting to pay Talea more than a second’s thought.

If only because Talea was one of the few at the academy that Noel truly feared.

Reaching the archery range Noel grabbed a chalice of water, taking stock of her surroundings before she tried to improve her ability to fling metal scraps into wood.

 

[Vance Calgrave]

Playing with your opponent, showing off to your peers, it was what Vance did best. He wore a boastful smirk as he parried his opponents sword with his own, directed it to the side, and stepped forward to elbow the young boy in the face.

"Be quicker," he chided, standing relaxed while his adversary wiped the blood from their nose and rose to their feet. They came at him angrily, clumsily, playing into his hands as he stepped to the side, tripped them, and hammered the pommel of his sword into their back.

"Still. Too. Slow." He tapped his boot tauntingly against the lad's foot, but as he did the boy whirled his legs around, twisting himself up and around with shocking speed. Vance hardly leaned back in time, and he felt the wind off the heel passing barely an inch from his nose. A moment later his opponent was attacking again, and he found himself being driven backwards.

He wasn't smiling anymore, instead being forced to actually focus on keeping his enemy's sword away from him. He parried once, twice, and then ducked under a wide and wild swing. He snarled, feeling his hair stand on end as his blade crackled to life. He slammed the edge against the boy's stomach with a flash and a plume of smoke as lightning discharged, sending his foe flying backwards into the sand.

"No magic!" barked their sparring proctor, stepping forwards to admonish Vance with a hard look. "You are practicing the art of swordplay!"

"Sorry," Vance said without looking sorry at all, and he kicked his heel into the ground with a loud pop as the copper grounding rod that ran down the back of his calf hit the sand and dispersed the lingering charge. The proctor drew close, "You cannot rely solely on your magic. If you can't defeat your enemy with a sword alone you are not fit to be a foot soldier, let alone a Dreadlord."

"Yes sir." Were this one of the old proctors Vance would have had the sense to be nervous, to show nothing but respect. But this old man was one of the new faculty, one of the softer, "kinder" sort that had swept in after the "glorious revolution." He was dismissed, and he walked away without another word, mouthing "too slow" at his still-sitting opponent with an infuriating smile.

These new sparring drills were a joke. Why the hell wouldn't they use all the power at their disposal in a fight? He kicked a stray stone and smoothed down his hair, only to have it stand back up disobediently with a few crackles between it and the thin copper wires on his gloves.

He caught sight of Edric talking with that Talea girl. She gave him the creeps, and he remembered vividly the lessons where she had used her infection against him. Lessons like that were a thing of the past, in her case he was grateful.

"Hey Edric! Why don't you come here and give me a real challenge?"

 

[Mars Pallatrix]

"Schwarz is excellent, as always."

"Hm."

A pair of Proctors stood above the courtyard on the Academy's old ramparts. The newer of the two paid close attention to the sparring below and dutifully scratched notes on parchment with a quill. The other faced away, his right hand resting on the parapet before him and his gaze sweeping over the cove beneath the castle. On the opposite end of the inlet, atop a sheer cliff, was a tower. Those that ventured out to it would happen across the scattered bones of countless Initiates that littered the beach beneath the lonely building. They'd long since been picked clean of the flesh that had once stubbornly clung to them, courtesy of the gulls.

It was a monument of a bygone age.

The younger Proctor, a sergeant of the Guard, said something, and Pallatrix turned his attention back towards the courtyard. Calgrave had been scolded, and only that. Not even a slap on the wrist. Some still abided by the old ways and fell in line, and then others, like Vance, took full advantage of the present and actively encroached on what was acceptable and not.

"If he listened, the boy would excel in his class," the sergeant said, quill scritch-scratching as he regarded Vance.

"He used to," Pallatrix said plainly and descended from the ramparts to wander the grounds. His Proctor's coat, black with gold trim, fluttered at his heels as a breeze passed over the courtyard. His stride was strong and purposeful, but he came to an abrupt stop.

"Hey Edric! Why don't you come here and give me a real challenge?"

"Initiate Calgrave," he spoke with a dreadful timbre. "Initiate Edric is prohibited from sparring." Pallatrix's verdant gaze was an acid that chewed through skin and bone, down to the marrow. "If you desire a challenge, perhaps I should oblige you."

 

[Silka]

The blind girl sat cross legged upon one of the platforms that surrounded the sparring arena. She was alone, and that was nothing unusual. Nor was the small smile of concentration on her lips as she too observed the drills in the pit. She may not have been able to see them, her white eyes wide and worthless behind her mask, but as she listened to every detail of her classmates practice, she studied her opponents strengths and weaknesses without even knowing what they looked like.

She heard every laboured breath, every grunt of exertion, every misstep and scuff of feet slipping in gravel, she listened to weapons clash and fists collide and could hear the mistakes they made before they made them. What she heard noticeably less of however, were the screams, and she couldn't help but agree with the mutterings of peers and proctors she'd heard.. The screams were necessary, the suffering was vital, the pain was pivotal - in creating the most powerful Dreadlord.

Silka had finished her sparring hours ago, and the sweat had finally dried, her body now tense with cold as she'd sat in the same place for far too long, but she was used to the cold now. She was human, they all were. They bled when they were wounded, they got hungry without food, they felt cold and heat and when water filled their lungs they drowned, when exhaustion spread into their bones they collapsed. Survival was a skill just as important as wielding a weapon or any sort of power. Those things were secondary. She doubted the Proctors would force them to sit out in the snow without a fire or pelt this year, but she'd do it herself anyway.

The girl's head turned slightly as she heard a new set of boots crunch against the gravel floor. Proctor Pallatrix. By only the sound of his stride alone, she could tell before he spoke, and when he did speak up, Silka straightened to attention, as though about to listen to a very important lesson.

 

[Liza Newcastle]

"H-HEY! Wait! I'm not ready yet!" Liza clumsily dodged her opponent's attack, the tip of his narrowly missing her neck. "Not even armed yet..." she grumbled and retrieved her sword off the ground. It was larger than any she had used before, and she could barely lift it even with both hands.

The Proctors knew she was physically weak, so why was she being forced to use such a massive sword? Was this all a game to them? Were they trying to humiliate her even more? Wasn't it enough for them that she already had to spend the majority of her free period sparring precisely because she had failed so miserably at that exact thing the period before? Apparently the next logical step for somebody who couldn't handle a large heavy sword is to just go bigger.

"Time...out..." Liza gasped after a few moments of struggling against her opponent and the sword. Heaving the sword away, she drew a small knife and made a small cut on her palm. As the blood dripped from the wound, it coalesced into a thin narrow blade the length of her forearm. The disapproving glare of the supervising Proctor burned into the back of her head as she got a better grip on her new blade, but they said nothing.

Liza had grown and developed her skills so much over the last year. Ever since the revolution and the introduction of new Proctors, she hadn't been spending her time getting kicked around by the Proctors and classmates so she could actually work on refining her skills. Thanks to the new, nicer Proctors, Liza no longer felt as weak and worthless as she once did, though she was still seen as being near the bottom of her class.

Now that she had a weapon she was used to, Liza felt much more in control and even got in a few lucky hits. This newfound control was short-lived however, as she became distracted by a pair fighting nearby. She watched in awe as a young woman mercilessly beat her opponent with a metal staff. What was her name again? Noel, wasn't it?

A sharp pain erupted across Liza's back as the flat side of her opponent's blade slammed into her and she collapsed onto her hands and knees. "Shoulda been paying attention you stupid bitch!" he jeered. A sharp, viscous kick to the side sent Liza rolling onto her back, gasping for air. "Worthless little..." Another kick to the side and her opponent laughed to himself before sauntering off.

As Liza lay sprawled out on the ground, her sword collapsed into a fluid tendril which she pull back into her body. She sat up and reached into her pocket for a small roll of bandages and wrapped her hand.

"Initiate Newcastle!" a sharp commanding female voice suddenly spoke from behind her. "You are to report here every free period until I, or another Proctor tell you otherwise!" A loud sigh escaped from between Liza's lips. "Yes Ma'am." With another sigh, she stood and gathered her things.

Liza noticed a couple of her classmates sitting near the edge of the courtyard and waved. "Edric! Talea!" she called happily, already pushing the failed sparring match out of her head. Liza hastily began making her way over to them. The thought of whether they even liked her or not didn't enter her mind. To Liza it didn't matter. She was determined to befriend all of her classmates by the time they left the academy.

 

[Evangeline]

Clack-clack, clack! Clack-clack, clack!

Sharp-heeled shoes and an elegant cane sounded their report upon the tile floor of an Academy hallway. Much had changed in the last year, both for Vel Anir and for Evangeline D'amour. Just as her home was no longer the harsh, militant dystopia it once was, she was no longer a warrior fighting for the glory and honor of her House. Now she had turned to something perhaps more noble: teaching those that would one day take her place.

There was some level of shame she held in her heart. This wasn't what she'd ever pictured for herself, that was certain, and new to the position as she was she was still finding her footing in the world of academia. New clothes and a new hairdo gave her a much more formal look than perhaps she was used to, and walking under the support of a cane was something to which she felt she'd never fully adjust. Yet, in spite of all these changes, Eva was still Eva, and Eva was the very picture of grace.

She exhaled softly as her distinctive footsteps carried her to the end of the hall and to the edge of the courtyard where students now gathered to spar. What a splendid, marked change this was already. In her time here she recalled students regularly being forced to dismember each other on these very grounds, the gravel of the yard soaked with the blood of her classmates. It somehow felt so much more...academic already, no longer a place of raw violence, but of learning. Good. That was how it should have always been.

For a few moments she was content to observe from the sidelines. It didn't take long before she had to fight back a frown. This was an older group, after all, and old habits tended to die hard. The tinge of ruthlessness still lingered among this lot. Competition was fine, healthy even under the right circumstances, but camaraderie would be what was most important to these initiates going forward -- at least, if she had anything to do with it. Still, she noted the more interesting sights as she scanned the courtyard.

An already grizzled looking young man sitting on a rock, being admonished by a young woman for...something.

A raven-haired girl who could apparently manipulate metal, flattening a sparring partner. A fascinating ability, one that could be quite versatile if honed properly, to be sure.

A young woman in a metal mask sitting far at the edge of the yard, by her lonesome and tilting her head subtly about as things happened around her.

On the higher end of Eva's scale of grievances was watching as a girl with short, reddish hair was apparently being brutalized by a classmate while the proctors in charge failed to properly step in on the situation. Old habits, indeed...she'd have to reprimand the offending party in time, but at least the girl seemed to bounce back quickly from the beating before bouncing off to meet up with some of her other classmates.

And finally, of particular interest, a fiery haired student with a penchant for what looked to be electricity magic. There was a brashness in his swordplay, a certain impatience that reminded her of...well, herself at his age. Eva was ready to move closer as the fight drew to a close when she overheard something rather bothersome.

"You cannot rely solely on your magic. If you can't defeat your enemy with a sword alone you are not fit to be a foot soldier, let alone a Dreadlord."

Such a tired and archaic way of thinking. There was much work to be done in this Academy if it was to be made into the shining beacon that House Pirian -- no, that Vel Anir deserved it to be. Evangeline continued her march forward, cane aiding her in finding purchase across the loose gravel, when an unfortunately familiar voice met her ears, somehow managing to be even more bothersome than the previous proctor's inane drivel.

"If you desire a challenge, perhaps I should oblige you."

Mars Pallatrix. He had been fairly new to the Academy when Evangeline had attended, but he had quickly garnered a reputation for being fairly brutal in his methods. He did not pull punches, and in fact she had recalled him pushing a few students to the point of needing intensive care on more than once occasion. Evangeline couldn't help but immediately feel a rising sense of revulsion at the sight and sound of him. To her, Mars represented almost everything that was wrong with the way the Academy was once run.

Evangeline cleared her throat and tapped her cane against the ground. She sought to catch the older proctor's venomous gaze with a far softer one of her own, hiding her distaste for him behind a veneer of calm, collected poise.
"Proctor Pallatrix," She addressed him with as much respect and tact as she could muster, holding one hand politely across the small of her back and the other atop the cross-shaped head of her cane. "I should think such a thing beneath a man of your stature. Perhaps, if such instruction is necessary, you might leave it to a martial spellcraft instructor such as myself instead?"

 

[Edric]

Edric stood almost the second that Vance Calgrave spoke to him. A broad smile touched his lips, fingers flexing as though he were already grabbing for a sword. "You sure? You're going to need more than a spark to beat me!"

Well, he could, but unlike the sap that had just been beaten Edric wouldn't stay on the ground. At least not for long.

A broad grin spread across his face as he took a single step forward, only for the expression to suddenly turned into a scowl when Mars Pallatrix spoke. the Initiates head whipped up towards the Proctor, a scowl tugging at his lips as the man denied him the opportunity he'd been craving.

"Aww...poor baby."​

Talea spoke from behind him, his head whipping around in an instant.

The blonde only smiled, having now perched herself upon the boulder that Edric had been occupying. A wide smile beamed on her face, wink pulling at her left eye for just a brief second before her head turned and she raised a hand to wave.

"Hi Liza!"​

A genuine spark of joy seemed to flicker through Talea as she greeted Liza Newcastle. The infectious Dreadlord seemed to have a penchant for making friends, not the least bit helped by the fact that those that didn't want to be her friend could often be convinced with her magics.

It was one of the reasons so many people disliked her, didn't speak to her. Was her attitude an act? A game? Had they already been infected? It was a constant thought with those surrounding her, a fact Talea was not unaware of.

"You need to focus more." Edric commented, deciding that if he himself could not fight, then he would live vicariously through others. "You're going to get yourself killed if you can't even pay attention for a second sparring session."

Talea let out a 'tsk' behind him.

"Don't mind him, he's just mad they won't let him fight."​

Edric shot the other girl a glare, lips thinning as he glanced towards the Proctor pissing match going on. "Whose that?"

He asked with a nod towards Evangeline.

 

[Noel]

Initiate Newcastle normally couldn’t fight her way out of a paper bag so it was refreshing to see her land a few hits. Of course, after she had finished her match the short-haired girl ran off to do what she did best… chitchat.

Noel gulped down the cup of water, exhaling the instant the cool liquid cleared her throat. Vance was being arrogant, as per usual, and the blind initiate sat alone. At least, she claimed to be blind. The way she moved and acted had always caused Noel to suspect that it was an act. Maybe a ploy to disarm her rivals and catch them unawares.

The midnight-haired dreadlord placed her cup down and stared down the archery range, fashioned a single shard of metal into a thin dart, and sent it sailing towards the target. A few centimeters off the bullseye, not good enough.

Normally she’d have drowned out the chatter of her fellow students and focused on her own training. Especially when it involved that insufferable showboat Vance. But this time was different, this time one of the newer proctors was calling out a one who had been at the academy for years.

In a fluid motion the dart down range flew back towards Initiate Schwarz and looped itself into a bracelet on her wrist while she inched towards the commotion. Giving a simple nod to her classmates that were already there.

Proctor Pallatrix had been a great teacher, pushing them to be stronger since they were children. That was why they were all here after all. Noel had little experience with Proctor D’amour, however seeing the two instructors disagree over teaching methods wouldn’t be nearly as enjoyable as watching Pallatrix put Vance in his place.

”See what you’ve done now?” she whispered at the lightning slinger. Arms crossed with an annoyed crease on her forehead forming.

Her arms tightened further as she overheard the two on the rock converse. Noel looked over her shoulder at the pair. ”Proctor D’amour ,” she answered Edric unbidden. ”The other proctors said she fought in the revolution.” For a few seconds she stared at Liza and the pair on the boulder, failing to comprehend how anyone could get so close to Talea. Had they never been subjected to that vile infection of hers?

 

[Vance Calgrave]

Vance returned Edric’s grin. He liked the gruff kid, as much as one could “like” anybody at this place. Edric was a ferocious fighter and seemed to revel in violence even more than Calgrave himself. The pair of them had clashed more than a few times in their schooling, at instructors’ commands or otherwise. Edric’s unique talents made him the perfect whetstone for sharpening his skills, and he suspected the energy-sponge saw him in much the same way.

He had half formed a retort when Proctor Pallatrix’s voice sliced through the static. Vance’s face fell immediately, and he turned rigid and pale towards his instructor. Mars was not a new instructor, and not someone Vance had any desire to cross.

“I would not presume to be a match for you, sir,” he said with practiced steadiness. The last thing a student should ever show to an instructor was fear, though the small electric arc that ran between two of his hairs gave away his nervousness. He wasn’t much more relaxed at the prospect of engaging Proctor D’Amour. She probably wouldn’t kill him, but he assumed she could still beat him senseless.

”See what you’ve done now?”

He pursed his lips and shot a damning glare at Noel, unable to say what he would have liked while under the attention of two instructors. Though in truth he probably wouldn’t have said much. For whatever cruel and frustrating reason the metal-heads who had made his restraints had thought it was a good idea to weave a big hunk of platinum right into the center of his chestpiece. Platinum, an extremely rare and expensive metal and the only metal that Noel could manipulate at will. Every time she walked by he was acutely aware of how close that plate was to his heart, and how thin his clothing felt beneath it.

”The other proctors said she fought in the revolution.”

Shit. He hadn’t known that, and now he wasn’t sure if he’d rather suffer whatever punishments Pallatrix had in mind for him. The Revolution? The clash of dreadlord vs dreadlord that nearly destroyed the city? If Eva had fought, and survived, then she had undoubtedly killed several fully realized battlemages.

Vance stood at attention while his immediate fate was debated over, and a few sparks sputtered between his boots and the ground.

 

[Mars Pallatrix]

"I would not presume to be a match for you, sir."

Yapping pup with no bite. A year ago, Vance Calgrave was almost fearsome, but now he talked better than he fought. Pallatrix opened his mouth to speak, but another voice interjected.

"Proctor Pallatrix, I should think such a thing beneath a man of your stature. Perhaps, if such instruction is necessary, you might leave it to a martial spellcraft instructor such as myself instead?"

The senior Proctor turned to face the approaching woman. She strode gracefully, dignity incarnate, and maintained an aura of superiority that commanded respect.

"D'amour." So it was that the Herald of the Change arrived during the afternoon sparring lessons. Those that came from the Guard perked up at her arrival. A strong ally and arm of the Republic had arrived at last. "Neither privilege nor prestige remains with those that administrate this Academy, Proctor D'amour." As an oppressive, discomforting silence fell between the battlemages, Mars switched his venomous gaze between Vance and Evangeline. "If you find yourself up to the task after such a long journey, I am without doubt that the Initiates would relish the opportunity to witness the capabilities of a martial spellcraft instructor such as yourself. What say you, Calgrave?" He flashed a piercing glare at the silent Vance.

"CLASS. FALL IN."

Immediately, several sets of hurried footfalls disturbed the courtyard's well-kept ground as the Initiate Dreadlords formed up and stood at attention behind Mars, whose hard features remain unstirred as he kept his steely gaze trained on Evangeline. The veteran Proctor folded his arms behind his back. Many things have changed.

Some remained the same.

 

[Cersi Llewelyn]

"Ha! Can't use your powers now, Super Bitch," Hans taunted. "You're nothing without em', and I'm gonna prove it."

Cersi offered no response save to draw her sword. She wasn't one for banter or posturing. Why, when she had crushed anyone and anything that had ever stood against her? She could crush Hans just the same, powers or no, and if he ever thought to call her a bitch again, she'd rip out his tongue.

They were but one pair of many such students facing off across the sparring grounds. It was a common sight at the academy, students facing each other with live steel. That no students were being carted off on gurneys, bloody and broken, was exceedingly uncommon. Since the revolution, everything had changed. Cersi didn't yet know if it was for the better or the worse. Only time would tell.

Hans rushed her, no doubt hoping to overwhelm her with his size and strength. Without her power, she wasn't particularly strong or fast, but her skill had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with hours upon hours of practice. Hans was a middling swordsman, and better with a spear besides. His attack, when it came, seemed to her as if he was moving at walking speed. She could read his intent with contemptuous ease.

She wanted him to know how little he meant to her. He came at her with a powerful overhead slash. She barely moved, using his strength against him to parry his blade with the slightest flick of her wrist. Then, with a vicious riposte, she wrapped his knuckles and knocked his sword clean from his hand. A heartbeat later and her blade was at his neck. His eyes widened with fear as he saw the intent in her face.

Cersi scoffed. "I'm not going to kill you, coward. You aren't worth the effort." But she wanted to. She wanted to crush his useless head like a grape. But then she'd have his brains all over her fingers, and last time she'd crushed someone's head she'd gotten some of it in her mouth.

Just thinking about it made her sick to her stomach.

There was a commotion. Not students, she saw as she turned. Proctors. Proctor Pallatrix, one of her favorites among the old guard, and Proctor D'amour, perhaps the most put together woman that Cersi had ever seen in life. She drifted into the air, just a dozen feet or so to get a better look, idly wondering if the proctor had a hidden talent for perfection. D'amour looked immaculate, as always. But what were they saying?

"CLASS. FALL IN," came Proctor Pallatrix's deep voice.

Were they about to fight? Cersi didn't waste any time flying over. She was still hovering a few inches off the ground as she stood at attention.

 

[Evangeline]

Murmurs and idle gossip washed over the crowd of students like an ocean breeze through reeds. It seemed that her deeds and name had earned her something of a reputation even before she'd truly made herself known as a proctor. Good. These students would learn quickly that hers was a name to be respected.

Evangeline offered a smile, first to her fellow proctor, then to her student. It was polite and prim, but it did little to bely the sly look in her eye. She was no stranger to Pallatrix' intimidation, and it was clear that time had not stymied his ability to unnerve with just a look. For him, she knew, it wasn't so much about what he said, but what he meant. While the senior proctor may have had some level of regard for Eva, she knew by his inflection that he wasn't particularly pleased with her intrusion. Perhaps that tickled her, just a bit.

Still, that guileful gaze fell upon Vance. She tightened her posture slightly at the elder proctor's barking, but made no sign of breaking her composure. As order and silence fell over the ranks of the students, she addressed the boy.
"Initiate Calgrave, was it? Come. Let us make this something of a demonstration." She spoke with dignity and authority, in a voice that carried across the courtyard but did not fall harsh upon the ears. Her eyes briefly left their lock with Vance's to seek the proctor's that had earlier admonished the young man, only briefly making contact before returning to the student once more. "I believe your earlier instructor stated something of a misnomer: that a warrior must be able to rely solely on their martial skill in order to find success on the field of battle."

She looked to each side to loosely address the other students as she spoke now, and for the first time came to rest her other hand atop the elegant, silver-clad cane her right palm had been resting on.
"While that may be true for the rank and file, it is an ideology that I am afraid we Dreadlords cannot share. Thusly, I would ask that you, for the sake of your fellow students and assuming you can do so without harming them..." Her gaze shifted to one not of coyness, but of determination as she made to finish, and that gaze narrowed upon Vance once more. While she took no offensive or defensive posture, were he of any amount of wit, there would be no mistaking the sincerity of her next declaration.

"...Come at me with everything you have."

 

[Henk]

Henk had not been spending the little free time offered to him interacting with his classmates or practicing his techniques. He rarely did either of those things unless directed to, but it was not out of malice towards his fellow students or negligence to his studies. On the contrary, these brief moments of peace that had only recently been inserted into his daily routine had only served to increase his performance. In these scant moments to himself, he could breathe, he could watch the clouds as they passed overhead, unbound by a predetermined fate or a destiny chosen for them against their will.

In only moments they would leave his sight, drifting out of the city, out towards the distant lands and oceans far beyond. In another time, in another place, he would have liked to see what the clouds saw, to feel the wind against his spine as he soared high.

But his place was here, among the ranks of the Dreadlords. Revolution had not changed his destiny, and Henk knew better than to struggle against the undertow of his own shadow. The young man was wrapped tightly in a long ragged black coat, his arms and hands wrapped in additional cloth sleeves held on by buckles. A small trinket tumbled against his fingers as he toyed with it; a charm made from chipped stone in the shape of a bird.

He'd always been somewhat different than his peers, a fact that often had him singled out before the revolution. Even now, there were those wary of him, who saw him as an anomaly. Henk did not enjoy fighting, he found no satisfaction in the learning and use of his magic.

But it made those around him happy. It made them look at him with something other than confusion or distaste. Henk thrived on that, on belonging. So he would fight. He would be the weapon they wanted him to be, for it was they who were his family, every single Dreadlord here, and none else.


"CLASS. FALL IN."

Immediately he rose to his feet, turning to look at the Proctor calling attention. Pallatrix, Henk held back a grimace. The former First Rank was far from Henk's favorite instructor; he found the retired Dreadlord's methods to be dated, unnecessarily extreme. Opinions kept to himself, of course. Beside him was Proctor D'Amour, a beautiful young woman whom Henk held a great deal more respect for. Nevertheless they were both his superiors, and Henk tucked his arms tightly as he moved to stand before the Proctors with his others.

 

[Eleanor]

Eleanor had always preferred sparring with her fellow initiates except today she preferred to watch. She was in one of the moods that could go from sarcasm to full-blown rage within five seconds so she decided to sit out any training matches for now. Last year, she would have made another initiate take a long break in the infirmary, but things had changed now. She had to hold back now and if she did actually hurt someone, she got in trouble. It was a bunch of bullshit. Because of this, she ended up taking more days off this last year than she had in her entire life.

Ella sat cross legged on the ground and watched the matches while passing a rock between her hands. The rock never touched her palm as she used her telekinetic power to keep it in the air. She really wanted to spar, but she also really wanted to fling a huge piece of something hard at someone’s head. She could not do the latter so she would also refrain from the former.

Ella ended up tuning everything out around her. She did not notice Edric or Talea, but she did notice Noel as she stalked towards the archery range. Ella’s lip curled into a sneer and she hoped the Noel would not notice her. The girl had bullied Ella right after the revolutionary changes for her simple association with Zana Vjollca. No one was angrier with Zana than herself, but she seemed to get the looks and the punishment for her former mentors’ actions in the revolution. Under the old regime, the two women would have settled this in the ring with one landing in the infirmary and the other showing their superiority. Not anymore. Again, it was a bunch of bullshit.

Once Noel was out of eyeshot, Ella immediately started to take in her surroundings and noticed some new faces that she had not seen previously. Time to leave, she thought and rose to her feet. Too many people and she was starting to feel irritated for absolutely no reason. No one had even spoken to her. She was almost to the exit of the training yard when she heard Proctor Pallatrix.

"CLASS. FALL IN."

Ella cursed and fell into step with her fellow initiates that were on their way to follow the order. Ella, herself, stood at attention with her class and waited.

 

[Vance Calgrave]

Vance swallowed. This was not what he had planned for his afternoon at all. Sparring with students was one thing but an instructor? Surely they could not expect him to win, so he would just have to try and survive. What say he? This was bullshit is what say he, but he had absolutely no choice.

But now the students were gathering. And... why shouldn't they? He stood a bit taller and fixed his face under their gazes. Perhaps this wasn't so bad after all. Yeah, he'd get his ass handed to him, but that was expected. Everyone knew he couldn't win, all he had to do was last as long as possible. If he did last, if he did manage to hold his ground for even a minute, why, he'd prove himself against not only a proctor, but a revolutionary. The sparks dancing about his temples faded. He could take a beating, gods knew they all could.

"Initiate Calgrave, was it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I believe your instructor stated something of a misnomer..."

Well, well, now she was speaking his language. One of the worst changes that had come in the past year was their association with common, mundane soldiers. The very idea that he was on level ground with one of them was insulting. Why should he hide his power? When would he ever not use it? His arrogant smirk had returned, and he was feeling vindicated in his trouncing of his earlier opponent.

His expression faltered for only one second at Eva's request. Only one second showed the surprise and doubt that came with being asked to full on attack her. The cocky mask resumed itself quickly. Don't let them see you are afraid. Everyone was watching. What better chance to show them all what he was capable of?

He widened his stance, and small arcs of electricity danced around him. They clung to the metal rods and wires that adorned his clothing, occasionally breaking off into sparks. His knees bent, and he drew his hands to the right across his chest. His sword was held horizontal, pointing left across his front and aimed directly at Evangeline. Three white-blue arcs of lightning simmered lazily between it and the ground, one after the other.

He took a deep breath, recalling the meditations he had practiced for over a decade. Focus it inward, channel it within your body. Don't let it out until you need to. The sparks and discharges around him lessoned, and the lightning fizzled down to a low crackle around the blade of his sword.

Everything he had. Now or never.

He darted forwards with a yell and a shimmer of sparks in his wake. Fine threads of lightning trailed his movements as he closed in at speed. He had always been quick, even with the metal harnesses. He swung his blade in an arc to the side, and its length was doubled by a matching slash of blue electricity, cracking out like a whip from its tip.

A stray bolt cracked loudly and burnt the ground by some of the onlookers' feet, and the copper rod on his right arm fizzled as it worked to contain the current.

 

[Evangeline]

On one hand, Evangeline appreciated the high level of respect that was being offered from this initiate. He knew very little of her other than what rumors he'd likely heard and that she was his superior, but having worked with so many fully fledged Dreadlords from other houses she was used to being the constant subject of irreverence, even from her inferiors. It was a good sign that that particular behavior seemed to be acquired after graduation these days.

On the other hand, she didn't much like the initial and immediate fear that he expressed. It was like watching a hand-shy puppy recoil at the slightest of mistakes. That wasn't particularly healthy in her eyes, even if this was a military school for all intents and purposes. This was an older class, however, and reactions like these were to be expected, she supposed.

Even so, the moment the young man realized he'd essentially been let off his rather tight leash all of his bravado seemed to return in spades. She met his smirk with a polite smile of her own, knowing full well that even when permitted the full extent of his abilities he wouldn't be able to hold a candle to a Second Level with over a decade of experience. This was, after all, a demonstration.

Evangeline watched carefully as Vance honored her request, observing his every muscle twitch as he prepared for and eventually let loose his attack. There was passion and enthusiasm behind his swing, and certainly a level of measurement and practice that came with it. He was serious--and hopeful. That much she admired, even appreciated. It almost seemed a shame to crush his aspirations in this moment...but Eva had a point to prove and students to attract.

The Dreadlord-turned-proctor didn't move as Vance's strike drew near her. She didn't even blink. She maintained absolute focus and composure as the lightning-charged blow came to singe and slash her flesh. Or, at least, that's what it looked like to the untrained eye and the unobservant.

As the dust would come to settle and the electric charge from Vance's attack would come to dissipate, the proctor cocked her head, cleared her throat and asked politely:
"Hmm. Just where were you aiming, initiate?"
For as the dust settled and the electric charge from the attack dissipated, all would come to realize that Evangeline was standing in the exact posture she had been, still leaning on her cane...15 feet back from where Vance had attempted to cut through her, utterly untouched by the attack. Knowing, piercing blue eyes fell upon the initiate, a ghost of a smile inviting him to try again.

 

[Mars Pallatrix]

The air buzzed with electricity. A wild tendril of lightning flashed through the space between the duelists and spectators, buzzing straight past Pallatrix and cracking against the soft earth behind him. The Proctor did not flinch.

Evangeline posed a point that Mars found himself in agreeance with. Dreadlords possessed a wealth of power that separated them from mere footsoldiers. They were the insurmountable wall against which countless would-be invaders have broken themselves.

Still, there were lessons for swordplay, lessons for magic, and lessons for both. Mars Pallatrix taught many subjects at the Academy, but what he believed was most important was discipline. Practice only what you are told, when you are told.

The veteran Proctor raised his left hand and made four quick gestures to erect a rudimentary ward between the ongoing spar and onlookers.

 

[Meredith]

The sounds of sparring reached every corner, making Meredith curl her lip in distaste. It was noisy, the yelling, the cursing, the bullshit. She had her fill of lessons on it, and was not eager to join the other students in such a tedious and exhausting task.

Instead she sat, back against a tree. Her head was tilted back, red hair falling well past her shoulders. She was hoping to glean any sort of peace she could find in this desolate place. She largely avoided other students, distanced herself on purpose.

Her hands and arms were gloved, on fact nearly every inch of her was covered in clothing. So much as one brush of skin on skin and she'd be reeling with a power that was not her own. It always left a sour taste in her mouth.

It wasn't too long and a voice echoed across the courtyard. Pallatrix, of course it was. She sighed heavily and rose to her feet easily. She did as was told, finding herself between two classmates she attempted desperately to avoid touching.

 

[Edric]

Edric was about to say something else when he heard Proctor Pellatrix shout to fall in.

A moment of hesitation crossed his features, lips thinning.

The Young Dreadlord bristled slightly at what was about to happen. Things like this had been common a year passed. Proctor's taking to the field and teaching lessons to errant students. Those matches had often ended in blood and broken bones. Edric himself had suffered through more than one such 'match', and each time he'd been like a child swinging his arms in the wind.

He doubted that this time it would be the same.

This 'Eva' woman was assuredly stronger than Vance, she'd fought in the revolution and was a full-fledged Dreadlord after all. Yet things were different now. There was no way they would let the Initiate be snapped in two.

Not anymore.

Edric frowned for a moment, not moving from his spot but watching as the two began their bout. His eyes flickering to follow Vance...and then losing Eva in the smoke.

Lips pressed together as the dust slightly cleared, the Dreadlord now standing back by nearly fifteen feet. A frown touched Edric's face, his fingers twitching.

A thread of jealousy flickered through him.

 

[Noel]

As soon as Proctor Pallatrix called for the class to fall into formation Noel fell silent and as rigid as a tree. It was a skill she had perfected years ago, when the punishment for poor posture had been an hour in the stockades.

Across the huddled masses of initiates, nearer to Evangeline, she caught a glimpse of Eleanor. At one point they’d been cordial enough to each other. A certain level of respect paid, a mutual understanding. But after the revolution Noel couldn’t look at Ella the same way. She’d been the little apprentice of Zana and Noel’s baser instincts had taken over when she needed to vent some of her frustrations.

Of course, it had been a few months since she’d treated her fellow classmate with bitterness yet some wounds didn’t recover overnight, if ever.

Suddenly, her thoughts were interrupted by the violence in the center of the student gathering.

Vance had, predictably, charged with reckless abandon. Seemingly going full force and giving it his all despite it being the very beginning of the fight. Noel had expected Proctor D’amour to parry the blow. Maybe she’d absorb it somehow. There was no telling what kind of magic the teacher possessed.

Instead, Noel blinked several times trying to process what had happened. Somehow it appeared as if Evangeline D’amour had teleported out of harm’s way. Noel knew that wasn’t possible but began wracking her brain to understand exactly how it had happened.

The fact she might’ve missed the accelerated movement didn’t sit well with her. She needed to be better than that.

 

[Vance Calgrave]

For half a moment Vance thought he had hit her. She hadn’t moved, his blade had not been parried, there was no other possibility. Something about it didn’t feel right, though. The lightning had crackled through the dust unimpeded, and there had been no telltale noise of pain from his opponent, nor any smell of singed hair and leather. He couldn’t have just struck her so easily, could he?

No, he saw with a sinking hard and a notable twitch of surprise. He hadn’t hit her, he hadn’t even come close. Possibilities reeled in his mind. Had she somehow pushed him back? Had she used an illusion to seem closer at first? She did not appear to have moved and yet...

She was toying with him. A cooler-headed student would not have let it get to them. A smarter duelist would have thought about things a bit longer. Vance was not cool-headed, and the conclusion he drew was a simple one: he need to strike faster.

He saw Pallatrix’ protective field shimmer into being and huffed a small sigh of amusement. It was like they were telling him to unleash more power. All too happy to oblige, the arcane arcs danced down his arms once more and he slashed once, twice, three times in quick succession. On each swing a blue-white arc flashed out, like an instantaneous spiderweb reaching from his sword to the edge of the barrier.

 

[Evangeline]

A curious eyebrow raised as Evangeline traced the mild shimmer of the barrier Pallatrix had cast. A quaint thing it was, but the gesture didn't go unnoticed by the younger proctor. If anything, such a notion was odd to Evangeline, that Mars might play by the new rules. In the past he would've let the other students fry; after all, any initiate too slow or foolish to get out of the way would've been deemed an unworthy candidate back then. She'd have to talk to him later, pick his brain a bit.

Icy eyes fell back upon Vance. The confusion on his face was easy to read, but it was quickly replaced by that same gusto he'd expressed before. This one wasn't so easily deterred, but his haste made him sloppy. Fast muscle fibers in the proctors body began to tighten the moment she saw his body begin to shift forward. Acceleration activated a second time, and with blinding speed Evangeline sidestepped, observed the initiate's technique, then slipped back to a spot near where she had started.

The young man's magic was impressive. It reminded Eva of another Dreadlord, one Florinthe, formerly of House Luana. She, too, had a penchant for storm magic, but Vance...his was a bit more volatile, more primal. There was a fury to it that matched his own aggression. That would need to be tempered, for certain...notes for later, she decided.

Alas, there was only so much room to back up within the impromptu dueling ring that they'd chosen for this little demonstration, so the proctor was forced to break the illusion. By the third swing she was forced to move, not out of the way, but behind Vance. Once there, she took a fraction of a second to examine his form and posture. An odd bend at the knee and an overly wide stance -- sloppy, indeed.
"Mind your footing, Initiate Calgrave." She instructed from her sudden new position, dust still settling in her wake.

Then, with a sharp *crack* she delivered a simple blow with her cane to the crook of the boy's knee. She'd hoped he'd fall to a kneel, if only to give him a corrective example.
"And what was it you said earlier? Ah, yes..." Her tone harshened slightly, her glance narrowing to a glare. "Be quicker."

 

[Arne]

Arne hobbled through the gate at the edge of the courtyard, his gaze flickering in search.

The sound of a fight echoed out, and quickly drew his gaze towards the center of square. There he saw the gathered students, and proctors, all arrayed within a circle. They were all watching something at the center, what he presumed to be a fight of some sort.

Lips thinned for a moment, trying to recall some of what the new 'Headmaster' had told him.

Sparring wasn't supposed to be a spectacle anymore, unlike how it had been in his day. It was now just a teaching tool, something to show the initiates what could happen in battle.

The old Dreadlord shook his head, dismissing the thought with a look of disgust as he headed towards the crowd.

As he approached he quickly found a blockade of students standing in front of them, the Initiates so tightly arrayed they might as well have been a wall. His hand waved, first from one side to the other. Looks of shock cast backwards as teenagers were genially shoved aside by seemingly nothing. Some looked aghast, angry even, yet as soon as they laid eyes upon Arne their open mouths snapped shut.

A simple smile was all they received, not a single word spoken as Arne made his way through the crowd. Eventually he found his place between two Initiates, standing at the side of Eleanor and Meredith. He didn't look at either of them, but peered into the center of the circle where Vance and Evangline fought. "Huh."

Arne mused out loud.

"Which one is winning?" He asked the two girls besides him. "I'm not familiar with all the Initiates yet."

It was hard to tell if he was joking.

 

[Kristen Pirian]

Kristen Pirian stood rigidly at attention in formation along with the other initiates, watching the duel between Vance and Proctor D'amour (Evangeline!) herself. Always in formation like this she felt nervous. Well, to be clear, she felt nervous here in the Academy most of the time--it was just especially so in formation. Because she tended to be among those whose heads peeked up and above the rest. Coincidentally, like Vance. She would've liked to be able to blend in with all of the others, to be no one special, to be more likely to catch the wandering eye of a Proctor looking to demonstrate something ghastly on. But it was never going to be that way.

One year.

Kristen had been at the Academy for one year, entering shortly after the success of the Revolution and establishment of the Republic. First she had come when she was fifteen (highly unorthodox, highly irregular, it still bothered her)...yet there were others who had been here since they were five. Five. She could scarcely believe it. Kristen was accustomed only to seeing the end result of the Academy, the graduated Dreadlords; she saw only the finished pot, not the brutal molding of the clay. She had assumed it to be not so different from her own academic studies as a noble. Sure, the Dreadlords were military, but they were not the foot soldiers of the Anirian Guard (what was the vernacular name for them? Grunts?). Wouldn't they be treated like officers? Like lords, and like ladies?

She had no idea.

Four heads down from her right now in the formation was "Bull." So far as Kristen knew, he did not have any other name. He was two years older than her, big and stocky build, like the farmers who labored for House Pirian. He was one of the first students she had, naively, tried to befriend when she first arrived at the Academy. She had walked up to him, smiling brightly. She greeted him, introduced herself, curtsied, waited to hear his response. Bull just stared at her. He seemed to be staring right through her. Then he came forward, clapped a big, heavy hand on her shoulder to get her to bend down just a touch, he leaned in, and said into her ear, "If you were here a year ago, I would have eaten one of your ears." And then he started licking the ear he'd whispered into, his tongue hot and slimy with saliva, coiling around her earlobe before diving straight into the canal and shuttering out all sound save that of a wet and sticky smacking. A nearby Proctor rushed over, put both hands on Bull, and in a flash slammed the big boy to the ground and drove a knee into his chest, saying in a firm tone to him something to the effect of We don't do that here anymore. Kristen couldn't be quite sure of the exact wording of the Proctor's reprimand. She had been in shock for a good hour after that.

She had...no idea.

The Academy was far more different than she could have imagined. It was more than simply the lack of being called "my Lady Kristen." It was more than simply the tough training regimen, the ache that followed from it seeping through her muscles and setting, seemingly, into her bones. It was more than simply the harsh rigidity and totalized immersion of military life that far surpassed the formality expected of a noblewoman.

It was the tacit knowledge that, a year ago, things had been such a way so as to produce initiates like Bull, like Edric, like Noel, like Cersi, and, she supposed, like Vance. What...what had they been doing to them here? And each and every Proctor, by extension, all had to endure and survive the Academy as it had been before the Republic. Poor Evangeline! Kristen never even knew!

And, as well, Kristen herself would never know any of the brutalities that Evangeline, that all of the initiates in formation around her, had known. She had entered the Academy too late. No amount of credit for prior education in reading, writing, mathematics, and so forth could make up for it. Not even close. It was all that she could do to be here in the environment in which she now found herself, to do the best that she could, and to not fail her House and bring shame upon them. She believed in what her family told her, that she could be an inspiration for the new generation of Dreadlords--those that would swear to protect the Republic. That she could be the first of noble blood to swear that oath.

But that was going to take a lot of work. A lot of work. One year she had been here...which meant she was, roughly speaking, tenfold behind the progress of all of her peers. And the Academy was adamant with House Pirian that the standards for graduation not be lowered, even though they tried for a special exception; if they had been, Kristen would have felt even more guilty, for such wasn't as things should be, and had always been.

One year. Taken one day at a time.

And today, sparring day, watching Vance duel against Proctor D'amour, it wasn't so bad. At least in this moment. At least, until, it was her turn to enter the arena.