#englandswp

[bloodhawkmicah]

The Answer || Ada & Micah

He'd made it. Oddly enough, Micah had somehow made it to the final stage of the tournament. It was to be a horse race around Nottingham, he'd been informed this morning. The fastest racer wins. Micah had some horse riding experience, but not enough to say he was by any means expert at it. But he could hold his own, and he was hoping for nothing embarrassing to happen. Even if he lost, it would be better if he lost with some dignity. Micah was still sore from the fight he'd nearly lost, his body aching with wounds that didn't have time to heal nearly at all before they embarked on this race. He knew it was against only one other competitor. A girl. But he hadn't seen her yet.

Micah was nervous, of course, but somehow not as nervous as he had been for the earlier rounds. It was as if they had boosted his confidence without him even realizing it. Of course he was still worried of disappointment if he lost, but he knew that it was already nearly a miracle that he had made it this far. Surely all the people he wasn't worried about impressing would feel that way too. H'ed managed to get to the final round, beating out people with much more experience and who were much more capable than he. If he could do that, wasn't that enough? He hoped he could still convince himself of that if he lost this round, instead of beating himself up for it.

He had chosen a different attire altogether for this round. In the past three he'd worn he expensive gifts from  the Bloodhawks, as if somehow flaunting that would make him appear better. But toy he was wearing clothes he had gotten himself from a market in Monir. The trousers he'd stolen, but the tunic he'd paid for. They were by no means the rags he had used to wear, but they weren't nearly as pretentious as his Bloodhawk attire. He felt more comfortable in them though, more like his real self. Somehow he felt that was important for the race. Not only would comfort make riding the horse a little easier, but if he did win there would be soesnse of pride that he hadn't lost all  of his old self.

It was time. Micah could stall and worry no longer. He walked to his horse as instructed, running his slender hand down its back gently before he mounted it with a grunt, looking over then to catch sight of his opponent. She was beautiful, even he had to admit. A woman. A voluptuous woman with full feminine curves and dark, seductive features. Even he couldn't help but be distracted by her for a moment. Then he realized there was something eerily familiar about her. He'd seen her before, he thought. But he couldn't quite put his mind to it. Where he'd seen her or why. The more he looked at her the more a chill began to inch down his spine. He shook his head of the thoughts, looking down at his horse. He had to keep his mind completely focused on himself and the race and how he planned to win. He couldn't let himself get distracted enough that it would cost him the race. He may lose, but he won't lose of a silly mistake like that. No, Micah thought, he'd outgrown those days.

[bloodhawkmicah]

Micah’s Reckoning, pt. 3

Micah swallowed. He was surprised he'd made it this far, but his success had not served to quench his nerves. Quite the opposite. The higher he climbed the harder he would fall, he thought, and he was expecting this fall to hurt quite a bit. The daggers were cold and hard as he slid them into their shierth and hooked them onto his belt. His breath was light and short, his hands cold nd slick with sweat, his muscles sore nd eyes dark from staying up at all hours to train. This was the rough he'd been thinking about this whole time. He hadn't know n he would get this far and now that he had, all he wanted was to prove to the Bloodhawks that he could be just like the Klugs. To prove to Shiloh that he could be a warrior of his kind one day. To prove to himself that he was no longer the weak little scout.  

Brock's voice reprimanded the boy in his mind. The elder constantly insisted that Micah waas more than capable of great things, and worthy of his place in the BLoodhawks, but the boy had his doubts. He just couldn't help but feel like he was the weak one, the baby, the "scout". How Micah had grown to hate that word. He wanted it replaced, and warrior put in it's place, or something likewise powerful and commanding. That is what Micah truly wanted. Power. He wanted to be known as something strong. He wanted to be something strong.

"Mr. Dawson. It's your time." he heard from behind him. "Yes, sir. I'll be out in a moment. " Micah shooed him away, glancing dn at himself.. His body had changed drastically, even over the latest short spend of time. In preparation, he'd pushed it to thlimit and it was visible even underneath his black attire. He hopeShiloh would be proud. He hoped Beau was proud. He hoped Brock wasn't watching too closely.

Knowing he could not waste too much time, the boy exited the room with one last deep breath and followed the escorts to the ring. The sun was hot this day, But it didn't much affect Micah. He was use to all sorts of nature conditions, growing up without a roof over his head much. But one look at his opponent across the ring and he cursed. It was a man, a very large man. He could outweigh Micah's brute force easily. And Micah guessed he  had much more experience in tournament's by the reaction of the crowd when he stepped out. Great, and experienced crowd favorite.He swallowed, preparing to lose.

He'd brought his silver dagger and the one he had attempted to steal from Brock once, only to end up getting it rewarded to him for escaping the guard's bonds. They both held special places in his heart and reminded him of connections that comforted him. Made him feel just the slightest bit stronger. His heart was beating so loud into his ears that he didn't even notice when it was announced for them to start. It wasn't until he felt the force of the other man collide with his body that he was pulled out of his trance. The wind was knocked out of him as he was pressed against the side of the ring. Micah fumbled for a dagger, pulling out the silver one after a few quick moments of struggling. He didn't want to strike him this quickly, as it would only serve to anger him. And anger always seemed to strengthen people. But it was a comfort to have the dagger in his hand.

The younger boy searched for a way out of the other man's grip, as if he didn't find it soon the man would finish him humiliatingly fast. It was then that Micah realized he could use his size to his advantage somewhat. Micah was smaller and faster than this man. At least he assumed his smaller size would make him even the slightest bit quicker. Indeed, Micah was known for being quite fast and flitting in and out of mosty unreached places. All he had to do to escape was find a small hole and weasel his way through it. It was just like when he would fit himself through the jagged openings of broken windows. He just hoped what muscle he had gained in preparation for the tournament didn't effect his size too much and he was still able to squeeze through places as small as he thought he could.

It was then that he noticed the man's stance was rather wide. Maybe he could slip through if he was quick enough. With a grunt, Micah wiggled out of the man's grip and dove through his legs. Surprisingly, he fit. Then he rolled to his feet, blindly running in the opposite direction. He wasn't sure of a plan and the best thing he knew was to keep running. They continued like this for some time. The larger man would catch him and land some blows and Micah would slip away and run until he was caught again. But the boy was getting tired. Having stayed up nearly all night the nights before this, his body was certainly not in prime condition despite being in the best physical shape of his life. And the longer he continued running and escaping, the more his exhaustion took hold.

Micah was running across the ring when he tripped, colliding with the dirt roughly. He couldn't scramble to his feet fast enough before he felt the other man on top of him, already pounding into any bare space on his body. This was it. He was going to lose. Completely humiliated. What would everyone think? What would he tell Shiloh? Was Brock watching this mess? How would he be punished for such a horrible failure? Finally enough was enough. With an exasperated yell, Micah brought the butt of the dagger towards the man's forehead with more force than he thought he could muster. And then he felt the mans weight collapse on top of him, knocked out.

The boy slithered out from under him, bloody and exhausted, and started limping to the stadium door. He wasn't sure if the fight was over or not, but he was certain that he was getting out of this while he had the chance. Then the crowd erupted in thunderous applause and he turned around, blood in his eyes as he heard it be announced that he had won and would be competing in the final round. He smiled, then staggered, falling to the ground beneath him. He was weak and pitiful looking, but he'd somehow managed to win, wondering what force outside of his power had been on his side today.

[bloodhawkmicah]

Micah’s Reckoning, pt.2

This was the stage of competition Micah felt the most prepared for. Despite that he had only played darts a few times, and all in preparation for this tournament, he felt the most confident in this skill. He'd fallen in love with his throwing knives and used them almost daily alongside his other self made training regiments. Darts had come naturally to him as it was very very similar to this favorite thing of his The nerves were still there, of course, as there was still just the possibility of failure and, subsequently, his mentor's disappointment. But it was easier to shun those thoughts away today than it had been any other day of the tournament. Micah, oddly enough, felt a sense of calm and confidence. He stood a little straighter, spoke a little louder and held his head a little higher. It was the Micah that the Bloodhawks would be thrilled to see. It was a Micah he himself wasn't very familiar with, but he was embracing it today.

Micah had spent what idle time he had while waiting for the competitors before him to finish practicing with his throwing knives and the wall in the room he had been told to wait in alone. It was all the preparation he needed and wanted. If he tried anymore he'd stress himself out. So now, as he looked at the target in front of him, standing parallel with his opponent, he was breathing easy, his palms dry and his expression relaxed.

It was hard to judge his opponents skill just by looking at her. There was no real physical giveaways of someone good at a skill like this. Micah knew his nimble fingers and past as a thief surely had something to do with his success in this skill, but that wasn't a giveaway by looking at him. So he tried not to worry himself too much with his opponent and focus only on himself. When it was signaled that it was time to start, he took a steady deep breath. They had five darts, so it wouldn't take them long. The one that got the most the closest to the center won. Simple enough. Micah waisted no time in throwing the first dart. Aiming and flicking it out shockingly quick. The darts were lighter than his throwing knives by just a little, but it was an adjustment to make. The dart landing on the inner edge of the second of the four tiers on the target. Safe, but he could do better. Micah grasped the second dart between slender fingers, forcing his eyes not to glance over at his opponent's target until all of his darts had been thrown. it was important that he wasn't distracted in this competition more than any. he threw the next two darts, both landing just barely in the very center tier of the target.

As Micah grasped the fourth dart, he glanced over at his opponents board, cursing himself for doing so and throwing the dart with a hint of abandon, and it landed in the third tier. He cursed under his breath. That was precisely why he was trying not to look over there. He thought of the woods surrounding his home, and the many trees he'd marked up with targets to calm his mind. He had once last dart and he couldn't risk it. He took a deep breath, releasing the dart calmly but with clear intentions. He smiled as it smacked into the board, right in the mark of dead center. Then he glance over at his opponents. He had three in the center tier, she only had two. He released a breath. He was moving on. 

[bloodhawkmicah]

Days of Reckoning, Pt. 1

The boy pressed his sweaty palms together, mumbling to himself under his breath. You could see the distress that painted his features from a mile away, despite his attempts to hide it. It was silly, he thought, to appear nervous for an arm wrestling match. But, in all truth, this was the round he felt most unprepared for. Darts he could handle, having experience with his favorite throwing knives, and he could handle combat with two small weapons like a pro, being that that was how he fought normally and what he was most trained in.  But none of the first round competitions were appealing to him. They all required to much brute force or were something that was completely foreign to him, like jousting or archery. But he'd chosen arm wrestling as the lesser of the evils, knowing he would not feel confident in the slightest as he entered into this first stage of the competition. He knew it was almost time for his round, but his palms just kept getting sweatier and sweatier. Dammit, he thought to himself, at this rate my opponent won't even be able to hold on to my hand. He would be a disgrace if he lost this first round. Not just to himself, but to the Bloodhawks, Shiloh and all of Athoria. He heard footsteps coming his way and knew they were to collect him for the competition. His time was up.

Micah took a deep breath, trying his hardest to iron out the tense creases of his forehead and dry out his swampy palms in order to not appear as nervous as he was. Maybe he'd be lucky and his opponent would be weaker than him. Or by some freak incident Micah would come out of this competition victorious. he hoped the world was on his side today. For he simply didn't know what he could do with himself if he got out of the tournament this early. For a boy who's self worth nowadays rested on how well he fought and who he could impress, this tournament was the pinnacle of his value in life. So it was imparitive for him to succeed. He wanted to be a good representative of Athoria, of the bloodhawks even if no one could know who they were. It was his chance to prove himself, even if people constantly insisted that he didn't need to do so. So when the knock came and the door opened, a guard entering, he took one last deep breath and wordlessly followed him.

He was dressed in clothes he'd been given by Brock, wearing his arrowhead necklace from Shiloh beneath his shirt. he had a collection of letters from all of the bloodhawks hidden in a pouch underneath the waistband of his trousers, hoping to feel their support. He was ready, or as ready as he'd ever be.

Micah stepped out into the ring, where a wooden table and two stools sat alone. There was a buzzing noise emitting from the crowd that got louder as he and his opponent emerged into the light. He once again wiped his nimble hands on his thighs, hoping for them to stay dry as he took a seat. He glanced up at the crowd, scanning for familiar faces but was unable to see much distinction between the bodies in the glare of the sunlight. In a way that helped. He wouldn't be able to see his mentor's look of disappointment if he failed. Finally, he looked at his opponent. It was a young man. Micah believed even a year or so younger than he. He was slender much like Micah had been, and looked absolutely terrified.  It was all too much like looking into a time warp. He took a deep breath, pushing thoughts o the past to the back of his mind. This moment would be over before he knew it and he didn't have time for petty emotions. He leaned forward, putting his arm out where he was told to and feeling the younger boy's boney fingers latch around his. "Sorry, kid." he whispered, fairly confident that he would win. As even though he didn't look too strong himself, he was certain that kid was weaker. And he was right, as it didn't take long for him to feel their hands collide against the table, with his on top. And while it was a relief that the competition he'd been so worried about had been so easy, he was also saddened as he looked at the young boy's face. He would try to find him later. Somehow teach him how to better himself. It was the least he could do.

But he'd won. He couldn't quite believe it had been so easy, worried that this was all some weird dream. But it was real and he was moving on in the competition, a proud and conflicted smile stretching across his cheeks