Private Tales Training Day with Faramund: Petra

[Faramund]

It was a warm day at Astenvale Monastery. The sun was out, the birds were singing, and the squires, those most unruly creatures, were training. Syr Faramund, known simply as "the Mund" by many, oversaw the day's training. 'Watch your left!' He bellowed, channelling his inner sergeant to make his voice as commanding as he could. 'Your left, boy! You- oh, never mind!'

Striding from his place in the shade, the big knight came to loom over his charges as they finished another bout of full contact sparring. 'Have to say I'm quite disappointed in you, Tovarik,' he said, sighing as he offered out a hand to the fallen squire. Accepting the offer of assistance, Squire Tovarik let out a pained gasp as the knight pulled him to his feet.

'Ouch, ouch, ouch!' he exclaimed, rubbing his battered shoulder as if that would alleviate him of his problems. Shooting the squire he had partnered with a dirty look, Tovarik said, 'Damn dirty goblin bloody near took my arm off!'

'Had these been proper blades, she likely would have,' Faramund commented, frowning at the lad's choice of words. Stern features turned to regard the other squire he had been landed with for the day. His frown disappeared. 'Squire Gruki here's set to be a right menace one day, if she can perfect her footwork.' Smiling down at the young half-orc, Faramund allowed her an admiring nod.

To say the match had been anything other than a one-sided slaughter would have been a lie. Gruki had mopped the floor with Tovarik, and in doing so had marked herself as a potential candidate for knighthood. If she could get her footwork down, of course. 'Think you can do that, lass?' Faramund asked, his head on a tilt.

'I can certainly try, Syr Mun-... Syr Faramund!' Blushing deeply, the short half-orc hid her face behind a bow. Syr Tovarik scoffed. 'And you!' Faramund wheeled on the squire. 'You need to work on your cardio. A few swings in and you're already panting like a fat merchant on his way up the brothel steps!' Shying away, Squire Tovarik dipped his head in meek acknowledgement. 'Yes, Syr,' he replied, failing to meet his instructor's eyes. Faramund sighed.

He didn't enjoy berating squires -okay, maybe a little- but the Gods knew it was certainly necessary. The sooner they learned their lessons, and perfected their craft, the sooner they could go about serving the Order outside of the Monastery grounds.

'Listen you two,' Faramund said, rubbing at his eyes. 'I know there's not much sport in these sessions, but believe me when I say you'll benefit more from an arse-kicking in the yard than you will from one on the road.' Gazing down at the squires, the big knight continued, 'the world can be a dangerous place. It won't always treat you kindly. Learning to take punishment as well as mete it out is important if you want to survive. Damned if I don't want you too.'

Another smile, this time well received.

'Keep practicing during your free time, and I'm sure the two of you will soon become forces to be reckoned with.' Faramund grinned as he noticed the sour look on Tovarik's face. 'Now, now, don't get all in huff!' The Knight laughed. 'Once you've got your breathing and cardio down, we can move on to the more advanced techniques. For now, practice!'

Clapping his hands, Faramund inclined his head towards the paved courtyard's arched entrance. 'Right! Time you two were about your other duties.' Smiling, he took the training blades he had given Gruki and Tovarik back, held them in the crook of his arms. 'Bye now!' Gruki waved to him as she picked up her possessions and followed Tovarik from the yard. Despite the taller squire's shortcomings, Faramund could sense the potential in him, too.

It was just a shame it was proving so difficult to find.

Stretching his limbs, the big dawnling let out a deep sigh as he turned his gaze to the sky. Blue, and as bottomless as the oceans to the south, Faramund was surprised to see nary a cloud in the sky. Hmm, what now? he thought, returning to his spot in the shade. The practice blades, made of a heavy wood, still rested in his arms. It seemed a pity that there was no-one around to use them.

It was then he heard the footsteps.

Petra Darthinian

 

[Petra Darthinian]

She wasn't sure if it was her own animalistic nature or the gradual influence of a beast that now thrummed through her veins. But Petra found herself watching Faramund stalk closer with the anticipation of a great hunting cat. And just like one, she sat on a perch within the tree that the Knight and the squires had been using as a reprieve from the steady beating of the hot sun. She had been dozing lazily amongst the foilage, allowing the breeze to lull her into a nap, avoiding the exercises she knew she should practice as a Knight herself, when the inspiration to startle her friend pounced upon her. So instead, now she watched. Waiting for the perfect moment.

The gods delivered it to the song weaver when the Knight sent off his squires and he walked closer to her hiding place. She practically purred with mischievous excitement as he stood beneath her.

Carefully, she repositioned herself, hands steady on the bark beneath her where she sat, her dangling legs kept hidden by the leaves. And then the moment came when Faramund was looking up with his broad back away from her. And in a flurry of elvish grace, being purposefully loud, Petra swung herself so her legs were hooked onto the branch and she let herself hang upside down, her hair crowding around in a cloud of tangled ink.

"AH HAH! Were you searching for little 'ol me in that sky?" A devilish grin crinkled the corners of her eyes with mirth at what she hoped was his surprise. Her arms crossed her chest and their faces level. "In which case, consider your wish granted, big man. Care to try to fight yours truly then? I'm sorely in need of an ass-kicking."

She turned at the sound of loud footsteps, and Petra laughed softly to herself and waved at one of the library's scribes who appeared in their line of sight; it was obvious they had ventured out for the beautiful day, the footsteps they had heard being theirs, and a serendipitously marvelous tool for misdirection at that.

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

The footsteps were growing closer. Standing in the shade, practice blades hugged tight to his chest, Syr Faramund listened as they slowly but surely built in pitch. With his eyes on the gateway, and his mind on the training he had just conducted, he barely noticed the figure above him as they began to move.

The gentle breeze brought with it the sound of rustling leaves, and the distant sing-song conversations of winged beasts. Apart from the approaching footsteps, there was nothing else to be heard. No signs of warning. Nothing.

So, when Petra swung from the tree to dangle before him, Faramund was more than a little surprised. 'Petra?!' He spoke without thought, not quite keeping his tongue in check before it decided to start wagging. 'What the fuck are you doing here? And why are you up a tree?' Eyes wide, the dawnling shook his head in disbelief.

Laughter bubbled up from Faramund's belly, and the big knight nodded, yes. 'Imagine how shocked I was to find neither hide nor hair of you and Norvyk. Honestly, a day like this, you should be out making the most of it! Not hiding in trees, pouncing on big oafs like me.'

Smiling, he leaned the practice blades against the tree trunk, turned to face Petra.

'Come on,' he cooed, reaching out, like a father dealing with his infant child. 'Let's get you down from there.' Of course, he doubted the dusky-skinned elf needed help. She got herself up there, she can get herself down, Faramund thought, struggling to hide a grin as he met Petra's gaze.

'Come on! Gonna cause yourself a mischief, carrying on like this. And then what will friend Josai say?' Hanging that threat over Petra's head -or under it?- Faramund stepped closer. Sunlight danced between the leaves to bathe the two knights in strange, ever-shifting patterns of light and dark.

Petra, of course, was as blinding as ever. Not that the big man would tell her that. Oh, no!

'Yours truly could do with limbering up before her arse-kicking. What? Thought we'd skip straight to the fun part and avoid all the essentials?' Tsk, tsk, tsk, Petra. Tsk tsk, indeed.

Petra Darthinian

 

[Petra Darthinian]

The startled look on Faramund's face was reward enough as anything. Her cheeks warmed from her laughter and she grabbed lightly onto his offered hand before flipping herself to the ground.

She only stumbled back half a step, but righted herself quickly from the giddy momentum.

Dusting off her leathers, she pointed a playful glare at her friend and gestures above them to the foliage.

"Mischief? I should be the one asking why you're here. You had an entire field to beat on squires at. Yet instead you happened to pick my favorite napping tree to barge in on?"

She lifted her shoulders casually in a non-committal shrug. "My my, to think we'd let such rudeness go unanswered for? I guess I'll just have to beat some manners into you instead. Yeah?" Petra winked and traipsed away to stretch properly before they began their exercises.

 

[Faramund]

Standing tall, the big dawnling helped his friend to the ground. Nimble, as most elves were, Petra had no real difficulty with the dismount. Cat-quick, her feline eyes came to rest on Faramund as she dusted herself off.

Smiling, he weathered her feigned outrage with a shrug. Why not? he seemed to say, broad shoulders doing the talking for him.

Following Petra with his gaze, Faramund waited patiently in the shade as she went about getting ready for their bout. 'You can most certainly try!' He called after her, an amused glimmer in his eye. 'Just don't go getting Norvyk involved now, y'hear? Hate to have to kick his scaly ass, too!'

That was a joke, he told the dragon in his mind, moving to grab the practice blades in case the beastie didn't see it that way.

Petra Darthinian

 

[Petra Darthinian]

His remark pulled a throaty cackle from her. She threw her friend an exaggerated scowl over her shoulder as she stretched. "Ha! Yeah well, he only does that for fights I can't win on my own. It's called teamwork, Faramund. So there will be no need to fear the wrath of his mighty vengeance. Terrible as I'm sure his tantrum would be on my behalf."

Turning away with a cheeky toss of her curls, Petra smirked to herself—nothing like a little pre-spar foreplay.

She breathed through a brief series of calisthenic stretches until her body felt warm and loose. Magic sparking excitedly at the tips of her fingers as she rolled to her feet, more than ready to battle this skilled brute of a knight.

"Alright!" She beckoned with a challenging jut of her chin. "Come on then! Show me a thing or two. Gods know I'm rusty and better with magic than I am a blade."

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

'Tantrum sounds about right.' Faramund smiled. Keeping his gaze squarely above Petra's waist, the knight watched as the she-elf ran through the steps. He had warmed up earlier with the squires, so there was no need for him to join in just yet. Hefting the practise blades in his arms, the big dawnling decided to leave the choice of weapon to his opponent. Petra may have been the one to issue the challenge, true, and as such the choice should have gone to him.

But Faramund was a gentleman. Most of the time, at least.

'Don't worry, I'll be sure to go easy on you,' the knight grinned, stepping from the shade to face Petra in the open. 'Sabre or longsword? Take your pick.' Flipping the blades over, he offered them both hilt-first. Faramund usually fought with the former. Hopefully Petra hadn't been paying as much attention to him as he had to her. 'As for magic, well, use it if you wish. But be gentle!' he warned. 'I bruise easily.'

Doing his best to keep a straight face, Faramund would relinquish one of the blades to Petra. Distancing himself from his opponent, Faramund turned to level his sword at her. 'Ladies first!'

Petra Darthinian

 

[Petra Darthinian]

"Easy on me?! I'll have you know that you're not the first man who's regretted saying those words to me." She took the sabre with feigned indignation, the hilt settling comfortably into her grip. "Cheeky bastard." She threw at him for good measure.

Petra walked backwards a few steps and studied him from under kohl lashes. Watching him the way a jungle cat studies the stature of another predator. Confident, hesitant, and with no lack of respect for their fellow prowess.

And like any predators worth their merit, they circled each other. No sign of her normal mirth left on her face, instead replaced with a heavy focus as she watched Faramund and the sunlight gleaming along the polished edge of of his wooden sword. Her own sabre was light in her hand, the familiar weight bringing her comfort as she readjusted her fighting stance to accommodate the shift in his.

She knew where her weaknesses lay, but she didn't know Faramund's. Not yet at least. So in those brief moments she tried to study his every move, looking for signs of weakness or vulnerability. She feinted left, then right, testing his reactions, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

There.

The sound of wood crashing against wood echoed through the clearing as they began their dance of blades. Petra's movements were quick and fluid, her elvish grace giving her an edge over the human knight, where his was strength. Her sabre darted in and out, probing for an opening, while Faramund's sword swung in broad, powerful strokes, keeping her at bay.

Petra parried one of his attacks and countered with a swift strike, but Faramund was quick to deflect it. Leaving them facing each other closer than where they started.

 

[Faramund]

Petra chose the sabre, dashing the Knight Sworn's hopes in the time it took her to flourish it. 'Who said anything about regret?' Faramund's laughter echoed around the practice yard as they began to circle each other. It always started this way. Gauging your opponent well helped keep oneself out of the dirt, or else from winding up in the infirmary. 'Hope you know how to use that thing,' he called across to her, his attempt at mockery aimed at enticing her into rash action.

He stopped circling as the she-elf threw herself at him, blade first.

Turning her first attack aside, the dawnling drew back as she struck again. The curved blade brushed past his chest, missing by a matter of inches. Lunging forwards, he made to strike her chest, then her arm. But Petra was quick. Almost too quick. Wooden blades clacked together, and Faramund withdrew once more.

'Not bad!' He admired Petra from a safe distance. 'Where'd you learn to fight like that?'

Petra Darthinian

 

[Petra Darthinian]

She grinned, her eyes bright with the thrill of battle. "You know me, Faramund. Always keeping you on your toes if I can help it," she replied, her sabre held loosely at her side. "As for where I learned to fight like this, believe it or not, my sister was leaps better than I ever was." Inwardly, she grimaced that she even shared that precious bit of herself. She twirled the sabre in an arc as a glimpse of nervous energy. "But enough about me! Let's see what you've got, " she taunted.

She began circling him again slowly, analyzing their previous bout, she couldn't quite break his guard. But he flagged on his left a bit when she pressed him, an old injury perhaps? Now was as good a time as any to test her theory.

She lunged forward with her wooden blade, expecting his parry with ease, and following with her own. They exchanged blows, each one testing the other's skill and agility.

As they fought, Petra found herself lost in the rhythm of the spar, the sound of their wooden blades clacking together like a musical duet. She unconsciously began to hum softly to herself, her magic responding to the melody of the fight, the shuffling of their feet in the dirt filling her senses, becoming a symphony that she could not help but respond to. As the tempo picked up, Petra's breathing quickened and she felt a surge of magic within her.

It wasn't until she had to suddenly step back for fear of being overwhelmed, her chest heaving, that Petra realized what she had been doing. A faint golden glow emanated from her skin, fading as the music of the fight died down.

She looked up at Faramund, a sheepish smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Right, well... Can't say that that's ever happened before."

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

'By all means.' Slipping into the old game of cat and mouse, Faramund allowed Petra to stalk him around the yard. The initial bout had been a test of sorts. Now, Fara was prepared to face the real thing. 'You never told me you had a sister,' he said, trying to throw her off her game. 'Twin?' Crooking a grin, the dawnling saw Petra's eyes dart towards his left side, as if spotting something.

Clever girl, he mused, sweeping her sabre aside as she went on the offensive. Following it through, Fara brought his own blade around and down in a savage counter cut. Impact jarred up his arm as Petra parried. Strong as he was, the blow damn near opened her guard up. Petra, sensing how vulnerable she was, reacted quickly.

And so the dance began in earnest. Chasing her around the yard, and being chased himself on a few occasions, the two knights slashed and parried, thrust and counter-cut. As they fought, Fara began to notice a strange light emanating from Petra's skin. Soft as rays of sunlight, the Songweaver's subtle magicks were not lost on Faramund. 'Petra?' He called out, flinching as her sabre passed dangerously close to his face.

He said her name again, but the she-elf didn't seem to hear him. Caught up in her own little world, she began to press him back, each blow parried sending tendrils of pain shooting up his arm. Gritting his teeth, Fara turned and twisted aside, seeking to avoid her blade. 'What's the matter with you?' He asked, catching her sword a second before it chopped into his neck.

The dawnling's usually calm demeanour shifted in an instant, became something feral.

'Petra!' He barked, fury lacing his voice. 'Control yourself!'

And just like that, the second bout was over. "Right, well... Can't say that that's ever happened before," she said, smiling at him like nothing had happened. Lowering his blade, Faramund watched her with a look of concern. 'Yeah,' he agreed, 'can't say I've ever seen you move like that either.' Raising his sword, Faramund inspected the edge, showed it to Petra.

'Nearly severed the thing in half.' And me with it, the knight thought grimly, noticing that he had begun to sweat something fierce. 'You uh... have any ideas what that was? Any idea at all?' Staring across at her, he asked, 'Wasn't the whole "sister" thing, was it?' He grinned to alleviate some of the tension. 'I assure you, my intentions were strictly honourable.'

Petra Darthinian

 

[Petra Darthinian]

His tone and the state of his sword had shame and confusion washing over her and settle in her gut, causing her to hesitate but a moment before striding to her friend. Petra sheepishly traced the dented edges of the wooden blade he showed to her and noted the sweat that dampened his skin.

"I-I... I didn't realize. I was just trying to..." She closed her eyes and attempted to remember the place she had retreated to while they fought. All she could think of was the synchronous movements between her heart, her sabre, and the sound of his labored breath when he came too close. It was music to her all the same. "I wasn't angry... I was... And then my sister? I..." She stopped flailing for an explanation and opened her eyes to look at him beseechingly, placing a concerned hand on his shoulder and scanning his face for any residual anger. "I am  so sorry. Did I hurt you?"

 

[Faramund]

Getting a hold on his anger, the big man shook his head. 'Just my pride,' he said, removing Petra's hand from his shoulder and taking a step back. He knew she hadn't meant to fight as fiercely as she had. Funnily enough, that was the part that concerned him most. 'You moved like a woman possessed,' he told her, exchanging his practise sword in favour of another, less chipped one.

'Are you sure that's never happened before?' he asked, giving his new blade a few swings to familiarise himself. 'I only ask 'cause you seemed to be... natural at it.' Faramund smiled. It wasn't quite a compliment, but it was close. The only thing holding him back was the fact she had nearly cut his throat with a wooden goddamn sword.

Taking a breath, Faramund met Petra's eye. Like it or not, he knew she would never have hurt him willingly. Well, not badly. Still, it was something to look into. 'Whatever the case may be, don't worry too much about it. I've been around long enough to know when someone's trying to kill me for real. Frankly, I probably deserved it.'

Grinning, he gave the she-elf a quick salute with his weapon. 'Another bout?' Faramund offered, hoping that Petra would take his words to heart and forgive herself for the brief lapse in control. 'No magic this time, mind! Just you, me and the dragon peering down his nose at us.'

Looking up to Norvyk's hiding place, Faramund winked as the storm dragon turned his predatory gaze towards him. Yeah, that's right! Can't hide from me, big boy!

Petra Darthinian

 

[Petra Darthinian]

Her hand fell against empty air as he walked away, fingers curling in an echo of the uncomfortable pang in her chest at the sight of his back. She had a brief moment where the anxiety threatened to eat at her nerves. But she cleared her throat before it could take her voice with it. That may have been warranted in her past, but this was now, this was Faramund. Besides, she was a dragon rider, damnit. And a Knight to boot. Was she really going to let a little fumble hold her back?

That fumble almost hurt our friend. Came an unbidden nefarious voice in her mind. Not on purpose. She snarled back. It had been... well, she wasn't sure. Never could she remember a time when the music controlled her or her magic and not the other way around. Perhaps what he had said about her sister had bothered her. Just not in the way that he had thought.

Absently, she watched him, lost in thought until he stood in front of her with a new sword.

'Another bout?' He had asked. So he meant it then? Not to worry?

Petra followed his gaze upwards to the sight of her dragon. Always present when needed, whether wanted or not. The thought made her smile and take the first big breath since they had begun their spar.

She briefly closed her eyes and committed herself to a clear head. Faramund deserved her full attention in battle.

In the next breath, she had tossed her sabre aside, taking a thin leather strap from her wrist and using it to wrap and tie up her hair into the semblance of an orderly ponytail. Another breath and she held a strong stance, hands up, her knees bent and golden eyes trained on the imposing man across from her.

"Ready when you are, sugarplum."

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

Faramund's brows lifted as Petra threw aside her sword. For a moment, he thought she might have decided to call it quits. But then she took up a fighting stance and all started making sense. Mostly. 'Are you sure that's the best idea, Little Lark?' he thought of asking her, only to shrug and place his own weapon aside. 'Okay, then.' Petra, for all her ageless beauty, was a grown woman who could think for herself.

She was free to make her own mistakes. If a royal ass whooping is what she sought, well, who was Faramund to stop her?

Raising his meaty hands, the knight of dawn balled them into fists. With a few small, precise steps, he began to close on Petra. Hope you know what you're doing, he thought, smiling at the woman. Stepping into the first of her kicks, Fara went for the grapple. The difference in strength between them was large enough that the dawnling knew it to be his biggest advantage. That and his speed.

But Petra was quick, too!

Pulling away from him before he could get a proper hold on her, the she-elf countered with a quick left. Turning his head, Fara robbed the punch of much of its force before doing the same, missing Petra's head by inches as she weaved aside. The frizz of her hair brushed his knuckles, and the big man grinned as they parted. Despite having been at it for a mere few seconds, he was already beginning to feel like he had missed something somewhere.

"Fight time" was known to do that.

Circling each other, the two fighters weighed the odds before clashing once more. Another low kick to open. Fara blocked with his shin, then raised his guard to stop the high blow. Lashing out with his right boot, Fara swept Petra's lone leg out from beneath her. The elf ate dirt, and Faramund frowned as he helped her up. 'You're distracted,' he said, sensing that something wasn't quite right. Reaching up, he brushed the dirt from her shoulders.

'What's on your mind?'

Petra Darthinian

 

[Petra Darthinian]

He was being too gentle. Fighting her yes, but treating her with too much care. Like she mattered. Like she would break.

She spit blood into the dirt, having bitten the inside of her lip when she fell. Turning back to regard him with a measured stare, ignoring the sweat that rolled down her forehead and down her neck.

Her eye twitched at his question. She didn't want to admit that there was something wrong. That bringing up her sister had brought up the same shame she had buried decades before in the tree citadels of Fal-Addas with booze and drugs and parties and endless days within the great libraries within. Reading to learn, reading to escape.

She didn't want those nightmares to find her again, when she had battled so hard to take those broken shards and store them in the dark corners of her heart. Bleeding her slowly with each beat she lived with this guilt.

"No, Faramund." She quipped in a measured tone, her eyes flashing, "Nothing is on my mind. Only that you are too slow and easily distracted." Her taunt pointed at the way his eyes followed the track of her perspiration. She smirked knowingly.

Without warning, she jumped back and kicked him squarely in the solar plexus, knocking the wind from him and taking advantage of his stumble by following with fists. Determined to goad him, to lose herself in his anger and shift their sparring into something more serious.

And to her relief, he rose to her challenge. Faramund's blows became heavy and painful, and Petra was taking hit after hit. Ah yes, there was the shift she had needed.

She tried to counter with a few punches of her own, but Faramund easily blocked them, sending Petra stumbling backward. She knew that punches weren't her strong suit, his technique was superior, but she couldn't resist trying.

Instead, Petra focused on using her legs, kicking out at Faramund with all her strength. She aimed for his knees, his stomach, his ribs, anything that would give her an advantage. The man was quick to respond, dodging most of her kicks and blocking the ones that landed.

But as they fought, she purposefully left openings that he would take, and take he did. She hit the ground again, but rolled up with another swinging kick into his side.

She could feel Norvyk's alarm, trying to reach her, to calm her. But she shut him out. For once, the elf didn't want to be calmed. To be placated and soothed. She wanted to be allowed to let loose. For this pain to be beat out of her. To pay her penance for each pound of flesh.

"GODDAMNIT, Fara. Is that all you got? Hit. Me. Harder. For fuck's sake. Come on!" She would say through her bared teeth.

Unable to stop herself from pushing him; could feel how unfair she was being. It felt like she was watching herself from the outside. Watching herself unravel. But maybe if he punished her enough, she would be cleansed of this guilt.

And she could finally allow herself to break, convinced that only then would she know peace.

 

[Faramund]

Petra's kick hit him in the solar plexus, driving the wind from his lungs as sure as any blade could. What the actual- 'Fuck are you... doing?' Raising his arms to defend his head, Faramund weathered the flurry of punches like a mountain weathering a storm. Blocking a wild swing, Faramund responded with a quick jab. His fist caught Petra in the mouth, left her reeling.

Tapping into his anger, Fara gave her a taste of her own medicine.

It was only later he realised just how far he had been willing to go in that moment. Hitting her in the stomach and chest, the so-called knight treated Petra with the disdain she felt she deserved. Her kicks were feeble, her punches even more so. What the fuck were you hoping to achieve? he thought, hammering her thick skull with his left before thumping her in the gut. Why the fuck would you do that to me? ME!

Petra staggered away from him, still stubbornly clinging on to consciousness. As if she had something to prove!

Bitter, hurt in more ways than one, Faramund listened to her pathetic mewling with all the poise of an executioner. She wanted him to hit her harder? After all of that? He had been pulling his punches to begin with! And those openings... he knew when someone was toying with him.

Taking a breath to cool his temper, Faramund answered her plea. 'Fine!' Throwing himself forward, the big knight wound up for the finishing blow. Petra cast her arms wide, not even trying to stop it.

The slap hit her on the cheek, as soft and gentle as a lover's caress. It was the weakest hit Faramund had dealt all day. 'There!' he barked. 'Happy?' Stepping away from her, Faramund turned away as if just looking at her was an offense to his eyes. It wasn't. But she didn't know that. What was this all for? he asked himself, running his hand through his hair, annoyed. 'Get what you were looking for, did you? You fucking idiot!'

He rounded on her. Apparently his anger wasn't quite quenched.

'Honestly, I don't know what's going through your head right now, but you need to wake the fuck up and talk to me before one of us gets hurt for real!' He stared at her then, his gaze unflinching despite the fresh bruises marring his face. Petra was sporting a few, too. Hers were much worse. 'I'm your goddamned friend, for fuck's sake!' Or at least I thought I was, Faramund thought cynically.

Clearly Petra felt different.

Did she?

Slowing his breathing the way he had been taught, the knight stooped to retrieve their fallen swords. 'Listen, I don't know why you think you deserve a beating. Don't know if that's the reason you came here in the first place. I thought it may have been to learn something, but clearly I'm the one with some learning to do.' He laughed callously. It didn't matter that he was barely able to look her in the eye. This was a mess of her making and, apparently, she was perfectly fine with it.

Fuck her! She wants to suffer so bad, somebody else can swing the sword.

'I'm done!' he said, slipping the blades back into their rack. 'You can sort yourself out.'

Petra Darthinian

 

[Petra Darthinian]

She hated herself for the sick sense of satisfaction she felt at his anger. Like, yes, you were right, Faramund. I deserve it. Persecute me as you will. But please, look at me. Dammnit. Lookatme.

Under that was nausea. It grew from the gaping hole that had bottomed out in her gut from the one thing she couldn't handle. His disappointment. It stole the air in her lungs and she didn't think she could breathe until he looked at her again.

A buffet of wind on mighty wings had her turning to look at her dragon. Norvyk had landed a good distance away and was watching her silently. Her head still quiet of him after she had shut him out. The emptiness in her mind without his presence felt vacuous and she idly touched her chest to make sure there wasn't a physical manifestation of her pain bleeding onto everything. That their bond was still there.

A moment passed and it answered her with a warm glow inside her chest, and the elf swallowed the heavy relief that tried to choke her.

Deep breath. Make this as right as you can.

Her eyes glued to Faramund's back as she quietly approached, like she would a wild animal caught in a trap, noting the angry tension in his shoulders. Flinching when the rack rattled from the force he was using to put away the practice swords. Even now, he was trying to be considerate and clean up and the guilt weighed her down and made her words feel heavy in her mouth, as if she no longer was strong enough to use them.

Yet when Petra saw a small bleeding gash on his temple and knew it was her fault, it outweighed everything else.

She took a deep breath, steadying herself. "In all these years, I think all I ever wanted was for someone to yell at me over Nihkita's death," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, yet close enough he would hear. "No one would tell me it was my fault. And I hated them for it. Hated myself for it."

When he stopped what he was doing, she grew bolder, although he still refused to look at her. But she could tell she had his attention once more.

Clearing her throat, she continued, "I'm not trying to give you an excuse, but it is a reason, Faramund. I thought it would get easier with time. But all it has taught me is to be bitter and unforgiving with myself. That everyone deserves peace except for me. And I see now that that hurts the people I care about."

At the word care, she delicately extended her arm, until the palm of her scaled hand cupped his cheek. She was ready for him to knock it away. For some form of final rejection from him. None came, so she drew closer and shut her eyes.

Focusing inward, she began to hum a fragile melody. It was the melody of a song that she had heard in her youth. It was the tale of two lovers who had found themselves on the wrong sides of a war. How they were both great warriors, champions amongst their people. And so it was ordered that they duel to the death to decide the victor at the last great battle between these nations. Neither could best the other. They fought a full day and a full night. Until both had landed a killing blow and died in the arms of the other. Their ghosts staying behind to watch the armies that still decided to fight. And fight they did, until there was no one left to celebrate.

It was a tale that warned against pyrrhic victories and unbending pride. Later, she would wonder why she chose that one amongst many.

But as she hummed this melody, she struggled to try and heal his wounds. She found she had to pour more magic into the song to quicken the healing of the bruises that stained his skin. Despite the strain, she poured her sorrow and her regret into it, letting it weave its way through Faramund's body, as much as it would allow her.

Slowly but surely, the bruises on Faramund's face began to fade, not completely, but most of whatever cuts and scrapes he had collected, stitched together.

When her melody finally ended, Petra opened her eyes, tears trying to cloud her vision. And it was with some dismay that she noted that she hadn't been able to heal the cut on his temple, although the bleeding had stopped at the very least.

She dropped her hand, afraid he would shirk away and scorn her touch if it was there for longer than was necessary. The thought rallying against the memory of them at the palace of the sky elves together. The memory pushed the image of a time when he had grabbed her hand without fear, without disgust. Like, look, see? Here is proof. It is there. Hold onto it.

Feeling the weight of distance between them, despite standing so close, she offered, "I couldn't completely heal the cut on your temple," she smirked self-deprecatingly, absently wiping away at a mutinous tear. "But what's one more scar between us?"

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

'You didn't hurt me, Petra,' Faramund replied, shaking his head slowly. Even now he struggled to meet her eye. His own, downcast and full of anger, studied the hands he had used to bruise and batter his friend. Blood stained his palms, working into the little lines that some spiritual experts claimed spoke of his future. You will have a long life. You will know heartbreak at least once. You will have four kids. You will hurt someone you care about...

And there it was.

Turning to face Petra, Faramund showed her the backs of his hands. The knuckles of each had were badly grazed from where he had hit her, again and again in the hope of quelling some idiotic anger that she had provoked. It was all so... foolish. Faramund hated himself for giving in so easily.

'You didn't hurt me, Petra.' He repeated himself, his voice a dull rumble in his throat. 'I hurt me.' Raising his head, he looked the she-elf in the eye. A mistake, that. As soon as he saw the damage he had inflicted, the guilt and anger and regret stormed back in, overwhelming him in a heartbeat. Gods, am I pitiful! the knight thought, looking away from her. What kind of man abuses his friends like that? The weak kind, that's who!

And he was weak. So weak that a single cheap shot from Petra had sparked off the tinder surrounding his soul. Honestly, he was a chump. The biggest, most braindead chump to have ever stained these hallowed training grounds with his blood. He-

Faramund's thoughts were interrupted by a hand brushing his chin and cheek.

Guiding his attention back to her, Petra began to hum a slow, melodic tune. Her touch was surprisingly gentle for someone who had suffered so much in so short a time. Singing now, the dawnling listened as the songweaver worked her magic. Slowly, his wounds began to heal. The pain creasing his features, setting his wounds to run bloodily down his face, eased. They did not heal though, for few alive possessed the magicks needed to bypass Faramund's stubbornness.

Otherwise known as his high resistance to magic.

The joke brought a sly smile to his face. Closing his eyes, he clasped Petra's scaled hand in his own, squeezed it gently. 'That's enough,' he told her, removing her touch from his skin. Warm, like dragon's blood, the sensation was sorely missed as he let go. 'Save you energies for someone who needs them. Namely, you.' He nodded at her. Despite the fact she had nearly taken his throat out with a sword, the dawnling harboured no ill will towards the storm-rider.

If anything, he hated himself. For the pain he had caused Petra, and the dragon she was bonded to. But also for the simple fact that Petra was the sole bearer of his shame.

Guess I'm a knight, after all. The truth made him want to puke. 'Tell me about it,' he chuckled, though the sound rang hollow when compared to Petra's beautiful singing. His gaze darkened. 'I'm... sorry.' He apologised to her, hearing his own words for the lame excuse they were. To show he meant it, the big knight stepped forwards...

To take Petra in his arms.

'I'm sorry that you felt this had to happen,' he spoke softly in her ear, 'and I'm sorry that I was fool enough to give you what you wanted.' Holding her close, the dawnling cursed himself ragged. He had never been good with words, even after receiving several lessons on diplomacy. Oh, to be human... fallible in every way. The thought made him sigh, but it amused him, too.

'Next time you go looking for a right proper punch-up, let me know,' he said, relinquishing his hold on her. 'We'll pop down to the nearest tavern, have a few drinks, throw a few insults.' He smiled, then. For once, it didn't feel forced. 'Have ourselves a whale of a time, so we will!'

Petra Darthinian

 

[Petra Darthinian]

How unusual and tragic they were. The air was still heavy with the weight of their raw and turbulent interaction, she hoped that each word and blow would serve a purpose in the marks they left.

And yet she would be lying if she said she wasn't startled by his embrace. Little did he know how long it had been since she had allowed anyone to hold her so intimately. Not even as a lover. But as a person who craved comfort, and the safety that came with that. So it was too soon that the breath of his whispering regrets left the hollow of her ear. The mark of their passing like a hot brand on the side of her cheek, a warmth that was sorely missed.

Petra had thought herself strong, resilient even, but Faramund had managed to unearth her vulnerabilities with disconcerting ease. And she felt unsteady on her feet for the first time in years.

'Next time you go looking for a right proper punch-up, let me know,' he said, relinquishing his hold on her. 'We'll pop down to the nearest tavern, have a few drinks, throw a few insults.' He smiled, then. 'Have ourselves a whale of a time, so we will!'

There it was. The practiced charm that he could bring to any situation. The songweaver appreciated the lengths to which he went to bring some levity after the transparency they had weathered with the other. It helped her rally a steadying breath, before answering the light she hoped she saw in his face.

"For myself? No, my friend. I will bear my wounds. I think that's only fair," Offering a half-hearted smile, on this she would not budge. "But if anyone asks, I fell from Norvyk for neglecting to use my saddle, eh?"

"And I'll do you one better." As she spoke, she began to back up, backward into the shadow of her dragon who had quietly prowled closer. His great wings casting her into shadow. "If you're up for a challenge, how about this: I'll weave a bawdy tune at a run-down tavern, a tune mind you, that insults someone's mother or other, while you valiantly defend me from their wrath..." A reconciliatory grin split her bruised mouth. "And then you can teach me how to throw that nasty left hook you have."

Petra's eyes gleamed with a mischievous spark as she mounted her saddle, forgoing the safety straps. After so much heavy emotion, she craved to feel free from its burden. To feel the wind rushing through her hair and the thrill of danger as they took flight and left all earthly troubles behind.

"Until then, may your punches land like thunder and your insults cut like the sharpest blade!"

With that, Petra tightened her grip on Norvyk's reins and urged him forward. The storm dragon paused for but a moment to level an unreadable gaze at Faramund. Another heartbeat before he spread his wings and launched into the sky, carrying them both away, her unbridled laughter echoing in the wind.

Faramund