[Aedirn] Fire at will

Because..defiance...fire...get it?

57th of Ymiden 717

The Gauthrel Plains reach from the coasts of western Idalos to the very edge of Ne'haer before meeting the forests surrounding Hiladrith. The Fields of Gauthrel can be a dangerous place, one that is home to the most deadliest of creatures. It holds many secrets in the history of the land and may offer rewards to those who choose to journey out into the wild plains. It is best not to wander out alone in these fields. Even caravans have been known to go missing.

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57th of Ymiden, arc 717
Kaelserad
Morning breaks


He had to admit, it was tough, only lying there in bed waiting to get better. He was feeling better, and most of the pain was gone, but the injuries remained and he was told to rest. He wanted to go out there, be out there, do things, not just sit waiting for something to happen, but alas, that was what he needed to do, for the cuts to his chest and back were simply too much for him, or for any mortal, to handle.

Alistair did a good job of patching him up, and Aeon was grateful for it, but he still hated the fact he was just supposed lay there and be quiet. He wasn’t good at lying down and being quiet. He was good at moving, and at killing things, as he had shown when he killed the Scalv Ziemia. What definitely didn’t help the golden-haired boy was the fact that the still-fresh wounds itched like nothing else, and he had to keep himself from opening them by scratching from boredom.

Eventually, actually, not that long after he got to the place, the young swordsman was too tired of simply lying down, not losing the irony for one bit. He shifted his balance from his right to his left foot just to get a feel for it, seeing how he hadn’t walked without assistance in a trial, maybe it was two? His weight seemed like a much more powerful force that pulled him down, attempting to drop him to his knees, as his wooden hand grabbed the shirt that stood waiting for when he did finally get up.

The shirt was already of bad enough quality, now it had a giant hole on the front, and one on the back, so it was pretty much gone. He would need to buy a new shirt, probably new pants too, considering he came so close to shitting these ones during his battle with the giant snake that he didn’t know whether he did it or not. Buying clothing, the only activity more boring than sitting and doing nothing, he thought.

Aeon put the black eyepatch around his head and over the hole where his left eye once stood, and covered his bare chest and back in a gray coat. His armor stood there, on a table not far from the bed, ripped completely open and unusable, and tears nearly came to his face at the sight. It was some of the best crafted leather one could acquire in all of Idalos, and it was gone just like that.

Opening the door to the outside, the boy was blinded by the morning rays of sunshine coming from the Ymiden sky. He was always a fan of colder weather, he thought as he stepped outside, not quite sure where he was going. Perhaps to find Fridgar and Alistair, perhaps to take a walk. In reality, he wasn’t relatively sure where he was. He knew what Aedirn was, but there didn’t seem to be a city around the building, only some trees and a lake.

Who even cared when Alistair could teleport him back to Uthaldria in an instant anyways, and there he was, the noble mage. Or at least the boy thought so, considering he could only see a black silhouette approaching him. He did, however, know that it wasn’t Fridgar, as the silhouette wasn’t tall enough, and the closer it got, the less it felt like it was Alistair who was approaching him. If it wasn’t Fridgar, nor Alistair, who could it be? The boy asked himself as he put one hand on his forehead to shield his eye from the sun.
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Robin breathed in the air. It was cool and crisp, despite the harsh morning sunlight. The Fields of Gauthrel were so strange. He was used to the never ending forests of Ne'haer, to the grain mazes of Treth, to the ocean, blue and shining and ongoing. Uthaldria was more a place of earth, stretched far into the horizon. He supposed it might be considered a harsh land, wild and untamed. He could appreciate the idea, even if it was one he didn't understand. Robin could only see it's beauty.

"It's never warm here, is it?" Robin asked, a familiar breeze accompanying him. It pushed him from behind, supportive, but unsure. It was an ocean breeze, a friend from Ne'haer. It promised sticky humidity and sun and wet heat, but he knew it was still thinking of home. This place was as strange to it as it was to him.

He sighed, his feet, naked against the russet earth, warmer than the air. "Do you know anything about the weather?" He asked, although he already knew the answer. The ground could tell him if it was healthy or dead. It spoke about the cities where people build on it, trampling it underneath grand piles of stone and glass. Robin could tell if it was comfortable or not, if it was ready to collapse or tremble or break. Earth was careful, only giving what it already knew. Wind was different; it would sing for hours about anything and everything if Robin listened.

It was then he saw someone approaching. It was a man, blonde and broken. He walked awkwardly, like a newborn discovering their legs for the first time. His clothes were rags, and upon closer inspection, he had an eye-patch and some kind of wooden hand. He remembered Alistair speaking about someone like that; but that person should be in the hospital.

"Should you be outside of the hospital?" Robin asked, although his voice held no concern. Whether this man wanted to risk his life or not wasn't his concern. "I'm Robin, Alistair's...," he paused, not entirely sure about his title. A student? Had he come for simply that? Would he leave once he felt more comfortable with his magic, spiriting himself back to the woods of the south? "He's my mentor. I think he mentioned you, in passing. You are, or were, a knight? A warrior?" Robin's voiced with layered with doubt and hesitation. The man, with golden hair and sharp jaw, seemed the picture, if it weren't for his injuries or current dress. He couldn't remember any hero stories where the protagonist had forsaken their shining armor for a ratty jacket.
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As the figure approached, it revealed a man not much taller than himself, only his appearance was rather different. He walked barefooted, paying no mind to the rocks which plagued the ground, and with no evident issues. He was like Korim, Aeon decided within trills after first seeing him as he lowered his hand. He was like Korim, at least in one aspect. He didn't dare compare this young man to the friend of his in anything else. He probably wasn't a master at shadowdancing, or at wielding a sword, or skinning an animal.

"Do you really care?" Aeon asked, not quite with a smirk, but on the edge of one, barely hanging on to his serious face. The man didn't seem to care much for anything, so why would he care whether or not the young swordsman was in his bed or not. Of course, his introduction was what revealed it. Alistair was his mentor, therefore the noble mage had probably sent him to check up on him. What great timing, he thought as he extended a hand, offering it to Robin.

"I'm Aeon, in case you didn't know that." He said, this time with a small smile on his scarred face. He turned around as to gaze into the lake while also paying attention to Robin. He was a doctor, surely, because what other kind of apprentice could Alistair have. And if he was a doctor, he was there to check up on him, which meant that he should know something about him. But he didn't seem to. He seemed as clueless as any other stranger on the street, so Aeon wondered, could he be?

"Mhm" He said, barely audible as he nodded at the man's question. He was all those things. He had been a knight, and was a warrior. If he really wasn't a doctor coming to check up on him, what kind of apprentice was he? "I'm sorry, I haven't heard of you, but I suppose you're a mage?" He said confidently. He was by now certain that Robin wasn't there to check up on him, and since the only two skills worth learning from Alistair that he knew of were medicine and magic, he supposed the answer was obvious.

"What brings you to the hospital, Robin?"
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"No," Robin shrugged, offering a sheepish grin. There wasn't any reason to lie. "You don't seem too comfortable out here," he cocked his head, his voice colored in light curiosity. The man was obviously supposed to be at bed rest. He limped, struggling under his own weight. His face scarred, as his arms, and Robin guessed the rest of him was marred with permanent battle memory. The man had light hair and light eyes. His features were prominent, obvious, and chiseled.

The wind danced between them, rolling between his own fingers; it was playing off Robin's own emotions, calm, if a bit unsure. The lake besides them called lazily, promising refreshment, protection. It sang of the fish that swam, of the algae that collected on the rocks on the hazy bottom. It was always a comfort, having his friends so near.

"Aeon," he echoed, the name all vowels and pleasant. A good name, he decided. "I didn't know," he smiled, sincere and simple. "I'm Robin," he added, an afterthought. His daggers glinted in the sun, steel and new. It was obvious they were largely unused - even the leather that adorn the handle seemed fresh. He was obviously no warrior, no hunter.

So he had been a knight. A nod, and that was it. Weren't they all the same, heroes? All action and so few words. It only made sense that Aeon would be the same. "I don't think I would call myself a mage. I know some magic, but I am no great power," he said, humble, but true. The elements were his friends, his family, but not weapons. Robin, alone, was a fragile thing, weak. He would always admit this readily. He was not a fighter. Yet.

"I didn't want to be inside. I feel more...at ease, outside," his eyes squinted as a flare of sunlight reflected off the lake. "I wasn't planning on coming to the hospital, but...," Robin paused, his expression thoughtful. Alistair was offering him all the tools to better his relationship with four, but he needed to learn to fight. He had bought the dagger for a reason. "I suppose it's serendipity, meeting you. I want to learn how to fight. With steel," he motioned towards his daggers. Perhaps, if anything, the man could show him, or talk him through a technique. "You couldn't spar, or perhaps I'm underestimating you. At the very least you could critique me form?"
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Perhaps he was right, Aeon thought, he wasn't quite comfortable on his feet, and his eyes were burning from the sudden sunshine. But at least he was less uncomfortable outside than while he was in a bed, waiting for the ceiling to crack and fall down onto him. He prefered pain over boredom, which was something most people would disagree with. Pain was simply easier to handle, faster, while boredom lingered on for a longer time.

No great power, huh? It was weird, hearing that come from a mage. Mages were all powerful in Aeon's eye, and therefore hearing one which was humble about himself was simply weird to him. Perhaps he only just learned of magic, and that was why he wasn't confident about his abilities, and why he needed a mentor. He was still most likely more powerful than the boy himself, he just had yet to realise it.

So he enjoyed the outside. Aeon could respect that. The young swordsman himself was planning on taking an aimless walk around the lake, most likely, therefore it was no strange thing that this man did so himself. His hair was messy, but not long, his appearance was earthly, but not cheap, and there was something else strange about his stature, to the point where Aeon felt irritated he couldn't know what it was. The man beside him acted almost like he was a part of the nature around him, and not better than it.

"To learn to fight with steel you have to learn to fight with wood, you know." Aeon said, a similar thing had been said to him an arc ago by his mentor. The killing blow wasn't everything in a fight, neither was the technique. Fighting, for a master of it, was an art in which the paintbrush was steel and the paint was only red. It was clear that this man didn't understand that, as he was just a beginner.

"Alright. I can't critique your form, for I'm not a teacher, but I can show you how to be better. Attack me. Try to kill me." Aeon said, moving his right foot around so he was facing the man. It took effort to move, but he needn't move his body to beat this man of nature, he only needed to move his arms. Perhaps only one of them. If Robin rejected the young swordsman's offer, he would insist, stating that the best way to learn was through real experience. And if he decided to attack, in the golden-haired boy's hand there would appear a wooden longsword, forming itself out of thin air, ready to block any incoming attack and strike back at him with relative ease and not too much power. Robin would realise soon enough that he wasn't facing just a warrior, but one of the best swordsmen of his generation.
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A grin bent his lips, pink and plump. The wind kicked up, not yet a gale, but heavier than a breeze. It fed off his excitement, his nervous hesitation; Aeon was confident. The broken man, limp and all, still stood strong. "I only have steel," he answered, shrugging. He was sure he wouldn't do the man anymore harm -- it didn't seem possible. The wind pushed at him, eager, and he stumbled forward, knives in hand. He ground his heal into the earth, feet wide, one in front of the other: an offensive stance.

The Willow Woods Outpost had managed to teach him one thing or two. He knew to be successful with his daggers he needed to be quick. Flexibility was key, and he needed to get in range. His daggers weren't especially long, but he did have two of them. He frowned, only then realizing that Aeon hadn't any weapon of his own. Robin was more confused than concerned. Would the knight be fighting him only with his hands?

"Good, then. I need to get better," he nodded, eyes narrowing. He'd learned to look for weak spots. Aeon had a limp. He left eye was covered with a black patch. His left hand seemed to be wood, a prosthetic Robin assumed. His body seemed similar to his own -- build for speed instead of strength. His clothes were loose, comfortable like Robin's own.

He breathed in, out, in again. His body stretched taunt, the wind itself seemed to wait in anticipation -- which, of course, it did.

And then he jumped.

A long sword. Sudden and wooden, smooth and ringed like the inside of one of the hulking oaks back in the Willow Woods. Their weapons connected, contacted, clank. "Mage," an accusation, but in jest. Robin was still smiling, a small laugh escaping through his lips. The wind bellowed between them, and Robin moved back, the earth moving with his feet, perfecting his balance.

Again, he tried, but from the left. He swung his right dagger up, while his left hand went down. It was obvious he was guessing, that he was more instinctual than trained. A fool fighting against a legend.
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Do what you can with what you have, Aeon supposed, as that was one of the more important lessons Ryqos had taught him. As he looked upon the other man, an unexpected breeze, a wind rather, came cutting his cheeks and watering his eye. There was no doubting it, Robin was a mage of nature, similarly to how Korim was. The wind blew at his will, and the ground moved at his feet, which was something important to note for the fight. Robin would win if it ever came to their footing alone, so the golden-haired boy needed to make sure he stayed away from longer engagements and bindings.

Robin seemed to be observing him, that was good, he adopted a stance, that was good, but he was predictable in his attack. It only really took Aeon a trill or two to figure out where the man would strike before he blocked and pushed him away. He could feel the wind stop and begin again as he did so, almost as if it gasped in surprise. What a strange thing to think, the boy thought about his thinking.

”Even if I was, should you not have been expecting it?” It was part of the Expect the unexpected deal that came with fighting, but he wouldn’t go too far into it. It was boring theory of how one needed to be mentally prepared for the most ridiculous outcome imaginable, just in case it happened. Which was dumb, but often it proved itself to be true, like in this situation. He needn't explain to Robin how he wasn't a mage and the hand along with the power was a gift of the forests.

Aeon smirked in the brief moment of relaxation he had. He hadn’t fought with a blade versus a blade in a long time, and he was enjoying the sparring. Even if he was about to lose, considering he could barely move without assistance. The man opposite him was smart, smarter than your average Jim, as he attempted to hit him from two different spots, but once again, the boy would be victorious as he moved to the right, his wooden stick clashing against the two steel blades at the same time.

The pain was there, following him, not letting him get away for a moment. You should be resting, the pain said as Aeon moved to switch original places with Robin. Realistically, the mage had no chances of winning against the far superior opponent, even in the state that he was in, but Idalos wasn’t a world of realism. It was a world of magic, and therefore the one that utilised it won.

”Your stance is fine. Your moves are predictable. Your grip on the blades is too light. Grip them tighter, and try moving from one attack into another without stopping. So slash, and immediately thrust with your other blade.” Aeon said. Just because Robin had all the tools to win at his disposal didn’t mean the boy was going to point them out to him. What he said were tips, but they would never get him victory versus someone of superior skill and more experience.
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Aeon was impressive. Despite his apparent injuries, he met his blades easily. His movements were natural, seamless. Robin guessed having his weapon attached to his wrist helped; he was surprised when the knight hinted that he wasn't a mage. The defiar was no expert, certainly not, but he was suspicious that a hand that turned into a long sword could be anything but magic. Still, Aeon was right -- he should be expecting spells. The better he prepared, the better he would be.

And he was predictable. "So move faster?" Robin asked, his grip tightening around the leather handles of his daggers. It rubbed uncomfortably against his skin. He wondered, if he looked at Aeon hands -- hand -- would it be calloused? He mimicked Aeon's stance as they switched places.

The earth molded to his footsteps, and to Robin's confusion, shaped to Aeon's as well. It was a soft sound, a whisper, barely audible, but he heard it all the same. The knight wasn't a defiar, he knew that, but it was strange. The elements had never accommodated another in his presence. He smiled, lips split and teeth showing. "So strike faster, hold the blades tighter, and don't stop," he echoed Aeon's criticisms.

He moved again, quicker, swinging. He tried a feint, the result clumsy. He stumbled, his left blade reaching towards Aeon's left shoulder, his swipe off, missing completely. He wasn't used to the weight of his daggers, even if it wasn't much. Robin sighed, trying again. This time, he tried a feint for the right. It was obvious, but he spun around, awkwardly, bringing the dagger around to the knight's left side.
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Aeon nodded. Moving faster would help with predictability, and even if Robin didn't get how to be more unpredictable at first, moving faster even with predictable moves couldn't hurt his chances. In fact, many rapier users only relied on their speed to defeat every single opponent, as he had learned while training with Ryqos. Alas, that would only be successful with opponents of a lower level of skill than him, but Robin could try. Sparring wasn't about winning, after all, it was about training, and getting better.

The man opposite him moved faster now, attempting to feint, and even being successful at one point. He was a quick learner, his grip had improved significantly, and Aeon doubted he could disarm him if he tried at that point. Before, all it would take was a strike to the wrist and Robin surely would've dropped his blade, but not now. He didn't quite understand the man, if he was being honest with himself. A mage that tried so hard to fight without magic? Wasn't the point of magic to enhance a man's ordinary skills, not to just exist without being used?

Unfortunately for Robin, his opponent wasn't some bandit or a beast that could be manipulated with a simple trick like feinting. It would take more than just switching the blade's direction quickly to beat Aeon, and the boy knew this. He was cocky, in reality, as he blocked his opponent's attack. Another one came swiftly, and just as he was about to turn his sword to block that one as well, it turned out to be another feint. The young swordsman jumped backwards as best as he could without hurting himself through his ruined body and barely avoided Robin's attack. The mage had managed to scratch his coat. Impressive, he thought.

"Very good." Aeon said, huffing. He was beginning to get tired. He didn't yet have the energy he used to, as he had to recover from his injuries still. "One more time, then we'll call it a trial. If you want, you can come tomorrow, and I'll probably be a better teacher once I've rested more." He said, readying his stick for yet another incoming attack from the man. If he once more attacked simply, without moving with the assistance of magic, his attack would be blocked, but who knew, perhaps Robin had changed his mind and decided it was worth it to use his ether a little bit to defeat his proud opponent.
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"I'd be happy to meet again," Robin nodded, breathing heavy. He was having fun, his blades sharp and ready. His muscles felt stretched and warm. He rolled his shoulders, once, twice, and then breathed in. His brow was shiny with sweat. Robin had always exercised, but the activity was generally playful, more spontaneous. In sparring, he was careful, his every movement planned. He listened to Aeon, he watched and mirrored, everything done with purpose.

The earth shifted again to their movements. It flattened and split, rounding itself when needed. "The earth likes you," he said, throwaway words. If Aeon asked, he couldn't explain. The four were their own personalities, and Aeon had won the ground's favor, somehow. Robin wondered if the boon would last outside his magical influence.

He breathed in, out, in, then out again. The wind spun and twisted, rolling between his fingers. There was always a temptation to do more, to use them, to force them to act in his favor. He wouldn't, for their sake and his. Robin couldn't imagine hurting them, or demanding obedience from his friends. "So once more and we're done. I'll make sure it's a good one," he winked, and then he struck.

Robin went right first, no feint, deliberate and intentional. His other followed. He hoped to overpower Aeon with a single hit. If their blows hit, Robin would stumbled, surprised by the man's strength.

In the end, he would put away his daggers, and offer Aeon his hand. "Thank you, for this. I really do need to become a better fighter. You said we might be able to meet tomorrow?
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