#travinter

[theravenandthepawn-blog]

Travinter Nucras - Chapter 2: Beating Hearts and Spilt Blood.

When fighting one's mind should be empty of all distractions, all meaningless weight, the slightest wayward thought might delay a life saving parry or the winning break in their stance. Though the years had dulled his discipline and his thoughts ran free. He considered himself, thought and pondered the circumstance of what it takes to make a man so capable of ending lives without so much as a single hesitation. Could he really consider himself the good as he gouged out the eyes of some young man trying to survive tooth and nail, even if he fellow into banditry? Was it his right to separate another from their head? His right to disembowel another solely because it served his needs and those against him were seen as criminals?  

"Wheres... Mora." he ask the last one still alive. Lifting him up against a tree. "There was word she was here." He would dig his fingers into the man's throat his fierce animalistic eyes boring into the younger bandit, blood spray clinging to his face and clothes.

"I don't know who that is you psycho!" He'd scream trying to claw at Travinter's face, trying to break free. "Get off me.... fucking monster!"  There would be silence as Travinter ran his sword up under the man's chin... blood flowing down his neck as he drew his sword and let him drop. The Adrenaline was fading... the pain in his joints started burning again, his lungs half filled with blood and phlegm. He'd double over hacking the crimson coated gunk onto the floor falling to one knee. Maybe he had more in common with the bodies that lay around him then he thought. Shite lungs, shite limbs, and shite eyes... hell he was half in the grave already at his age. Yet here he was chasing a woman he'd never be able to admit his feelings about.

Love? Was that even something he could feel between the decades of blood shed and battle? Was it loyalty to his friends... the way things ended maybe they were just allies of convenience. Hell who can say what drives a logical man as numb as he to pursue such folly. Maybe deep down the killing and fighting was all that could pierce the numbness... make him feel alive again. I suppose in the end all that can be said is it was important to him and that is all there really was to it.

His eyes blurred and his heavy breath could not keep up... the world spun and he fell to the floor. The blanket of darkness fell over him  as his final conscious thoughts left him. I'll need Tork after all.

[theravenandthepawn-blog]

Travinter Nucras - Chapter 1: A Breath of Fresh Pain.

The chill of the night washed away with the rising sun and the caw of the vigilant rooster. The aging man woke with a gasp of pain. Every breath a searing pain met with the taste of copper, the bitter taste of old wounds. Every bone ached, muscles sore, breath labored. He rose up from his bed slowly his body still laced with muscles even though his skin was a canvas of arcane tattoos and scars. He'd look at his callused hands weathered with age and hardship, blurred by failing vision Traviner would stumble to his feet. His left knee barely able to hold his body weight anymore he'd find his way to his cane to support himself.

He moved to the kitchen fetching the kettle he'd fill it with fresh water before setting it over the fire which he'd fumble about with for several minutes before lighting the damnable thing. He'd sit down his head occasionally a buzz of past memories. Faded, blurry, distorted by time and the bottle. They use to bring him pain, sadness, and regret. He was numb to them now. It would be a while before the kettle issued its whistle and he fetched himself a bowl of milled oats and a teapot preparing himself a rather meager breakfast. Food just didn't sit well with him anymore. The burns in his mouth and throat never really healed properly from that damnable dragon's breath. At this point he accepted the dead would never stop haunting him till death gave him peace. He sat in his home stomaching the bland tasteless food and the burn of hot tea till a sharp knock came at his door. Half the city was afraid of him and the other hated him, a knock was rare and never a good omen for the coming day. "I'm coming. Give me a moment." He'd quietly dawn a simple brown tunic and change into black trousers. Pull on his dinged breast plate, pauldrons, and greaves, donning his belt with his finely crafted long sword given form by his own hands he'd brush a hand over his shaved head of graying hair. Finally he'd make his way to the door coming to stare down the two guardsmen standing on his stoop. "Oi, sir Lord Zaleth issued us the command to tell you that um... Lady Mora has gone miss..." The guard would have been caught off as he pushed past slamming and locking his door he'd hurry to the stables around back, saddling up the walnut stallion he'd broken in himself back in the day. Now the old horse had taken the tolls of years, but still was a faithful and trusty mount for the most part. Travinter rode through the city chasing leads through the piety gangs that roamed where Mora lived. There was blood, there was pain, and rage. There was little that could break the numbness, the empty apathy that had come over him in his later years. It had always been Mora. If he found who took her, and as the case might be who hurt her... they'd wish for the mercy of death that would be an age of suffering away.