Fantasy RPG Forum - Standing Trials

The two circled each other, forms near perfect mirrors of the man they faced. Their steps were slow, measured, and whisper-soft as they shifted through the cut grass of the clearing. Neither combatant let their gaze wander from the other, eyes searching for the slightest sign of weakness. Rattigan could feel his heart hammer in his chest, fear and anxiety burning down his back. His breath was shallow, chest tight as the boy fought against his urge to run. His father wanted this fight, wanted to teach him some sort of lesson, and Rattigan had no way of resisting. If he ran, Farrix would catch him. If he refused, Farrix would beat him. No matter what he did, unless the Lothar fought, his father would find a way to punish him.

A breeze, quiet and cold, wandered lazily in the tense air between the two. Rattigan could feel the corpses of grass beneath his feat shift slightly, floating gently away in that thieving gust. He could see the monk's hair move in response to the wind, long tresses of a matted grey mane pushed backwards against his face. He saw his father's eyes, as cold as the morning air surrounding them, stare through his being. That glare hurt more than his bleeding lip and bruised jaw. It cut through the boy, shredding his love for the man, and filling him with the hurt that only a betrayed child could know.

With snarling fangs and grasping claws, Rattigan launched himself at the man. He abandoned the martial form that the monk had been trying to teach him, instead relying on the thundering instinct to strike at the person who was causing him such pain. His strikes were wild, untamed, and unrefined. Even as Farrix deftly moved away from the strike, Rattigan found himself swiftly on the man. He felt an aggression, raw and primal, rise from the pit of his stomach. Anger burned his blood his blood as he moved, and the Lotharro felt a fierceness that he had never known. Clawing towards Farrix, Rattigan found his movements sharper, faster, and stronger as he dipped into his anger. For the first time, the Lotharro felt rage against the man who had raised him.

He had never felt such hate. He had never felt so great.

Farrix ended that feeling with another powerful blow to his back. Rattigan could feel flesh ripple across this jaw as the monk now struck the opposite side of his face. Skin split underneath the blow, revealing blood red and raw. The monk was by means holding back, and in Rattigan's childish anger,
he couldn't realize that fighting Farrix wouldn't be enough. He would have to fight the way his father wanted; refined and precise not raging and wild.

"Hmph," the man grunted as he shook the blood from his fist. "At least you're trying to control the fight. But you'll never hit me like that. Just because you look like monster doesn't mean you have to fight like one." If it was Farrix's attempt to calm his adoptive son down, he was sorely failing. His words dug in like knives, needling the underneath Rattigan's skin. The boy launched himself at Farrix, again and again trying to work his way through the man's defenses. Each pounce he tried to slash, and at each slash Farrix had managed to evade. Frustration only made the boy try harder though, and soon the two found themselves in a chase; with Rattigan continually pushing the attack and Farrix easily diverting his advances. Rattigan would try to land a slash, and Farrix would simply guide the strike away from his body. It was like trying to grasp air. He could force his hands at it as much as he wanted, but every time he would pull away with nothing.

Exhaustion began to weigh down his limbs, his strikes coming slower and slower. Rattigan panted, his breath heavy and his small lungs heaving from effort. His young body wasn't built to do anything this long, much less try to fight someone twice his size and years his elder. His claws knifed lazily through the air as Farrix once again guided the blow away from himself. His frustration began to dimmer as his limbs began to lower, and it wasn't long before the boy was sitting on the ground.

Farrix hose to move then, his gnarled hands wrapping around Rattigan's throats, pressing only hard enough to give the threat of something dark. Rattigan felt himself lifted by the man, how tears welling in his eyes as he felt frustration and betrayal and exhaustion and adrenaline all whirlwind throughout his small frame. Farrix's glare had never left his eyes throughout the whole fight, and even now his hard eyes stared through Rattigan. The boy was lifted until he hung at eye level with the man.

"Lesson 2: Your body is a tool. A weapon to be wielded, not animal to let loose. Rage is the way of a Lotharro. You are better than those monsters-made-men. If you wish to hit me, you need to control coupled with aggression. Anything else will leave you in this position," Farrix growled, dropping the child and letting him land with a thud on the ground. The monk marched away from Rattigan, stopping at the pack he had brought and rifling through the bag. A bundle of white cloth hit Rattigan's face, and the boy looked down with surprise.

"Rest for now. In half a break we go again."

Bandages. For the wounds Farrix had inflicted upon him. And rest, for the burning soreness his muscles felt. It was not much, but the boy knew it was all the reprieve he was going to get.

Sucking air in sharply, Rattigan breathed through pain as he pressed his bandage harder against his wound. Glaring eyes bored towards the older man who sat quietly opposite to him on the far side of the field. The Lotharro wondered what the man was thinking. He wondered how he was feeling, having hurt the boy so. He wondered how was he going to beat him.

His father's greatest asset was his defense. He was a walking wall. No matter how hard Rattigan pressed, he would never break through. Even at his age, the small Lotharro was distinctly aware of the disadvantages he brought to the battlefield. He was weaker, inexperienced, and put against an opponent he had no chance of winning against. His father's willingness to use full force didn't help the matter. Rattigan had only just stopped the seeping blood from where his father's fist had landed, and the boy could feel bruises take swift shape on his soft skin. Attacking the way that felt natural wasn't going to help him. Instinct was his enemy in this. Farrix was prepared for wild claws and gnashing teeth.

No, if Rattigan wanted to strike his father and end this exercise, he knew what he had to do. He had to match the man in style and technique. Meet him in the middle, and show that he was teachable. That he wasn't what his adoptive father had called his race. Rattigan knew he was better than them, why else would his father take him in? He wouldn't be like them, he wouldn't be an animal. He would fight in a way that made the man who raised him proud.

Though, Rattigan wasn't sure he wanted what his father did anymore. Waves of anger still rolled down the boy's back, and the feeling of betrayal had not yet abated from the Lotharro's mind. Being that angry, and taking it out on Farrix, it had made him feel great. Whole, almost; in a way that he only felt in the rare, quiet moments where his father had praised him. This exercise, whatever it's point, had shown Farrix to be crueler than Rattigan knew. He had always known his father to be a hard man and a strict teacher, but the bloody gashes on his body spoke to a darker side of his master. Worse, the man had seemed to be enjoying hurt Rattigan.

A spark of anger burned in the pit of Rattigan's stomach, and his gaze turned from Farrix to the wide expanse of wilderness before him. The echoes of adrenaline still ran cold through his small body, all while his blood boiled at his adoptive father's cruel games. His claws pawed the ground with idle anticipation, tearing through dirt as if in preparation to move. Looking down at his hands, and then back to wide expanse before him, a shadow of an idea took root in his mind.

He could run. Right now. His father wasn't looking, and even if he was Rattigan wasn't sure he would care. He could run and be free, like the animals that Farrix compared him to. He could show his adoptive father and run farther than the man could even dream of. He could run until he found others of his kind, other Lotharro that knew what it was like to have the wild raging within them begging for release. His whole body tensed as the idea took hold, the thought itself urging him into action.

He took a step towards the woods, tall pine pillars calling him deeper towards freedom, and then felt a familiar hand land lightly on his shoulder.

"I'm not an easy man, I know that better than most," Farrix's gruff voice cascaded down from above. He was crouched, eyes now level with the boy's height. His hard features had softened as he spoke, and the calloused hands which had struck the boy now felt soft on his skin. "I demand much of people. I ask them to meet standards that some other monks might claim impossible. I'm stubborn and unyielding, but you know that already. Perhaps I have asked to much of you. Asked you to meet standards that no person, boy or man, should ever have to. But know this, I never act out of cruelty. I set these standards because I believe, I know, you have greatness in you. And I know it doesn't make sense to you now, and I know those woods call to you in a way I'll never understand, but if you trust me, I can take you to that greatness. If you trust in me, trust in your father, then you can become a greater tool for the Seven than I ever could be. So, I know it hurts, and I know a part of you might not like me very much right now, but I'm asking you to trust that I know what I'm doing. Can you do that? Can you trust your old man to carry out the Seven's plan?"

Maybe Rattigan should have just run. Maybe he should have trusted his instincts and taken off into those woods. Embraced wild that roared within him, and become a true Lotharro that day. Perhaps it would have saved him so much heartache in his future if he just tore off towards the unknown, and abandoned that old man in battleground he had made.

But he was young, and his father was his hero. He loved the Seven, and trusted in their guiding hand. So he ignored his instincts, and he shoved his anger deep down within himself. The little boy turned and, with hot tears stinging in his eyes, embraced his father. He was ashamed that he thought to run away. His father raised him better than that, Rattigan knew that to be true. He had been raised to face challenges, not run like rat caught in the kitchen.

"What's our next lesson?" he asked, his small arms still wrapped around Farric's neck. His voice was small and shaking, overwhelmed with the events of the day.

"That was the lesson boy," Farrix replied with a smile. "You learned the first lesson to winning any battle, and what every Warrick monk knows in their heart of hearts. Conquer yourself. In everything, every fight and every obstacle, the first enemy you need to defeat is yourself. Conquer yourself, Rattigan. Your fears, your doubts, your instincts. Promise me. Conquer everything."