716 Cylus 11
The Madam Graciana Moreno eyed him over the top of the book held daintily in one hand, a steaming teacup in her other. “Is everything… alright, darling?”
He wasn’t particularly talented at gauging other people’s emotions, even less so choosing his own, but there was one face that was as legible as any book, and far more familiar; Graciana was very clearly agitated. He’d been scratching at his foot intermittently for the past two breaks, and it seemed she’d finally had enough. “No. It feels like-“
Rather than finishing the sentence with words, the red bumps on his foot helpfully provided the conclusion via a display. With a wet, quiet thrip the marks on his foot erupted, and several small, dark, buzzing bodies shot up and out into the air. Mads winced, the sharp pain of his rupturing skin acute but short-lived; Graciana raised a brow and took a sip from her teacup.
The flies buzzed about for a handful of trills, observed by two pairs of bright grey eyes, before they expired, their bodies crumbling into an ashen dust and snuffing out their pervasive bombinations, leaving only the steady plit plit of the trickling trail of crimson that dripped from Mad’s heel down onto the cool, smooth stone floor below.
Graciana settled back into her seat, eyes once more returning to the pages of her book. “Well then.” 716 Cylus 20
“Again.” Calm, stern, but still carefully gentle of tone, Graciana’s voice ended the brief respite from sweat and bruises.
“You want I should really try to hit him, miss?”
“Madam.”
“Er, yeah. So you want me to knock his lights out, madam?”
Jaime – just “Jaime” – had been the pair’s third companion for the past five trials, arriving about a break after breakfast and staying through supper. He was a thick-built, brawny man, about a head and a half taller than Mads, who ate twice what he could. Unlike the far more sophisticated Graciana, whom Mads had never seen break into a sweat even once, Jaime seemed to be made more of water than anything else, at the rate he managed to lose it. Even out under the sunless sky, the ruddy bloodlights cast the muscled, bare skin of his body in a sheen.
And he stunk.
“For now,” Graciana, gracefully seated upon the weathered base of a long since crumbled pillar, stirred the contents of her teacup with a small silver spoon. “Please continue as before.”
“Alright.” Cracking his neck, Jaime turned a blocky toothed grin onto his reluctant opponent. There was a slight gap between his two front most teeth that could have been described as endearing had Mads cared to consider any aspect of the man in a positive light. Instead, he actively chose to dislike Jaime – which wasn’t difficult considering he was very, very tired of getting punched.
“I am ready when you a-“ Before he could finish his invitation they return to their spar, Jaime lurched forward with practised speed. It was too fast to avoid, and he had no real desire to accept a fist to the gut. With a pass of his hand, ether slid easily from his fingertips, hardening the air before him with a trill to spare before the thick knuckles slammed harmlessly against the barrier.
“Mads, darling, none of that now.” She raised a brow, but there was a modicum of amusement in her eyes that suggested her reprimand was hardly condemning.
Jaime wasn’t fazed – it wasn’t the first time Mads had used magic to compensate for his own relatively pathetic physicality. Instead, he followed up his initial strike with a wide roundhouse, fist flying toward the left side of the smaller blonde’s head.
Dropping his weight, Mads ducked down in time for Jaime’s arm to swing past him harmlessly, but there was no victory waiting for him. Using the momentum of his arm, Jaime twisted his body, foot leaving the ground behind him and knee swinging to slam firmly into Mad’s shoulder. He was sent sprawling over the uneven stone foundation of a building that had stood in its place some five hundred arcs ago; he curled his body inward as he bounced along the ground, absorbing most of the subsequent impacts with the firm muscle of his back, rather than the sharp angles of his knees and elbows.
“Better, Maddy!”
Rolling to his feet, he rose with a wobble. His head still spun, requiring him to blink several times in quick succession to find his bearings. Unfortunately for him, they were found a trill or two too late.
One moment he was standing, squinting through the red-murk of the darkness, searching for his sweaty, smelly opponent, the next he was back on the ground, wrapped up in arms and legs at least twice the size of his own and with barely a breath of air in his lungs left from the impact of the tackle. “Gotcha!”
Mads was many things. He was unusually calm in stressful situations. He was literate. He was especially interested in all things strange or peculiar. He was not flexible. A grimace involuntarily settling over his smothered features, Mads pushed back against the wide, wet, slippery expanse of chest that threatened to suffocate him, all while attempting to extract his legs from Jaime’s as the other man began to straighten out his own body, stretching Mads’ right along with him, every joint in his hips and knees and ankles shouting out in protest.
“Relax, Maddy. Thought we talked about this.” He could feel the warm breath of Jaime’s ensuing chuckle, but it was only a passing sensation, overshadowed by the quick, bouncing burst of the man’s chest smashing into his face several times in quick succession. He felt his own neck pop. “Come on, what are you supposed to do now?”
It was a question asked with no expectation of a verbal reply. Had Mads opened his mouth, he would have been met with nothing but a mouthful of wet salt – not something he was particularly keen on repeating after the first time he’d done so. Instead, he did indeed let his legs relax some as Jaime continued to stretch, his absurdly strong arms holding Mads in place, slowly squeezing the air out of him.
There was the briefest of moments when he felt the entrapping muscles around him relax; with an explosive amount of force, Mads frantically wriggled his way out of Jaime’s arms, gasping for air the moment he was released.
“Good!” As quickly as the grapple had begun, it ended. Jaime rose to stand, offering a large hand to help Mads to his feet with his wide, toothy grin plastered over his sweaty face. Accepting the offer, Mads was nearly lifted off of his feet but rose all the same. “Now…”
Again the strikes came, and again he did what he could to avoid them. Graciana’s rules prohibited him from returning a strike. After all the entire point of the past handful of trials of training had been specifically targeted to improve his ability to avoid being hit. Ever since his close brush with the aberrant, Graciana had made it a point that he improve not only his intellectual and magical capabilities but his physical prowess as well.
Had he been even a trill later in his escape from the chaotic conjunction, he might have lost much more than a few circular patches of skin from the top of his foot.
While he understood the purpose of what it was he was meant to be doing, it didn’t make any of it any easier. Jaime smelled like an animal – which was fitting for the way he conducted himself. He didn’t curb the strength of his punches, and though Graciana had allowed him several layers of protection, he’d still developed a fair share of bruises. Shields could only withstand so much abuse.
Shuffling backwards out of reach of a jab, Mads held up a hand, breath catching his lunges and his own sweat mingling with the rank sudor leavings of his opponent.
Graciana set her teacup aside and clapped her hands twice, the sharp sound both abrupt and commanding. “That will be enough for now, Jaime. Thank you.”
“Come on, Maddy. You can handle a little more.” The jeer was in good humour, Mads was certain, but it didn’t make it any less unappealing.
“No, thank you.” Limping over to where they’d set their water flasks, Mads drew several long swings.
“Well, at least stretch out. You’re gonna be sore as feck in the morning if you don’t.”
Jaime had said the same thing at the end of every session for the past four trials. Mads was sore. It had become a state of being. Stretching only helped so much, but he was well aware that the fact it helped at all made the act itself worth something. So, capping the flask and setting it back down upon the stone, Mads resigned himself to sitting on the cool ground beside his “instructor”, reaching for his toes, reaching for the sky, reaching reaching reaching.
All he really wanted to do was take a nap.
H
is foot still itched. It felt as though his very skin was crawling, and while he’d been able to ignore the sensation as a minor annoyance for the most part, it had steadily grown more and more prominent until it became the only thing he could think about. Reaching down, he scratched at the top of his foot, the sound of nail against skin loud in the relative quiet of the manor’s sunroom; for the briefest of moments, there was relief.The Madam Graciana Moreno eyed him over the top of the book held daintily in one hand, a steaming teacup in her other. “Is everything… alright, darling?”
He wasn’t particularly talented at gauging other people’s emotions, even less so choosing his own, but there was one face that was as legible as any book, and far more familiar; Graciana was very clearly agitated. He’d been scratching at his foot intermittently for the past two breaks, and it seemed she’d finally had enough. “No. It feels like-“
Rather than finishing the sentence with words, the red bumps on his foot helpfully provided the conclusion via a display. With a wet, quiet thrip the marks on his foot erupted, and several small, dark, buzzing bodies shot up and out into the air. Mads winced, the sharp pain of his rupturing skin acute but short-lived; Graciana raised a brow and took a sip from her teacup.
The flies buzzed about for a handful of trills, observed by two pairs of bright grey eyes, before they expired, their bodies crumbling into an ashen dust and snuffing out their pervasive bombinations, leaving only the steady plit plit of the trickling trail of crimson that dripped from Mad’s heel down onto the cool, smooth stone floor below.
Graciana settled back into her seat, eyes once more returning to the pages of her book. “Well then.” 716 Cylus 20
“Again.” Calm, stern, but still carefully gentle of tone, Graciana’s voice ended the brief respite from sweat and bruises.
“You want I should really try to hit him, miss?”
“Madam.”
“Er, yeah. So you want me to knock his lights out, madam?”
Jaime – just “Jaime” – had been the pair’s third companion for the past five trials, arriving about a break after breakfast and staying through supper. He was a thick-built, brawny man, about a head and a half taller than Mads, who ate twice what he could. Unlike the far more sophisticated Graciana, whom Mads had never seen break into a sweat even once, Jaime seemed to be made more of water than anything else, at the rate he managed to lose it. Even out under the sunless sky, the ruddy bloodlights cast the muscled, bare skin of his body in a sheen.
And he stunk.
“For now,” Graciana, gracefully seated upon the weathered base of a long since crumbled pillar, stirred the contents of her teacup with a small silver spoon. “Please continue as before.”
“Alright.” Cracking his neck, Jaime turned a blocky toothed grin onto his reluctant opponent. There was a slight gap between his two front most teeth that could have been described as endearing had Mads cared to consider any aspect of the man in a positive light. Instead, he actively chose to dislike Jaime – which wasn’t difficult considering he was very, very tired of getting punched.
“I am ready when you a-“ Before he could finish his invitation they return to their spar, Jaime lurched forward with practised speed. It was too fast to avoid, and he had no real desire to accept a fist to the gut. With a pass of his hand, ether slid easily from his fingertips, hardening the air before him with a trill to spare before the thick knuckles slammed harmlessly against the barrier.
“Mads, darling, none of that now.” She raised a brow, but there was a modicum of amusement in her eyes that suggested her reprimand was hardly condemning.
Jaime wasn’t fazed – it wasn’t the first time Mads had used magic to compensate for his own relatively pathetic physicality. Instead, he followed up his initial strike with a wide roundhouse, fist flying toward the left side of the smaller blonde’s head.
Dropping his weight, Mads ducked down in time for Jaime’s arm to swing past him harmlessly, but there was no victory waiting for him. Using the momentum of his arm, Jaime twisted his body, foot leaving the ground behind him and knee swinging to slam firmly into Mad’s shoulder. He was sent sprawling over the uneven stone foundation of a building that had stood in its place some five hundred arcs ago; he curled his body inward as he bounced along the ground, absorbing most of the subsequent impacts with the firm muscle of his back, rather than the sharp angles of his knees and elbows.
“Better, Maddy!”
Rolling to his feet, he rose with a wobble. His head still spun, requiring him to blink several times in quick succession to find his bearings. Unfortunately for him, they were found a trill or two too late.
One moment he was standing, squinting through the red-murk of the darkness, searching for his sweaty, smelly opponent, the next he was back on the ground, wrapped up in arms and legs at least twice the size of his own and with barely a breath of air in his lungs left from the impact of the tackle. “Gotcha!”
Mads was many things. He was unusually calm in stressful situations. He was literate. He was especially interested in all things strange or peculiar. He was not flexible. A grimace involuntarily settling over his smothered features, Mads pushed back against the wide, wet, slippery expanse of chest that threatened to suffocate him, all while attempting to extract his legs from Jaime’s as the other man began to straighten out his own body, stretching Mads’ right along with him, every joint in his hips and knees and ankles shouting out in protest.
“Relax, Maddy. Thought we talked about this.” He could feel the warm breath of Jaime’s ensuing chuckle, but it was only a passing sensation, overshadowed by the quick, bouncing burst of the man’s chest smashing into his face several times in quick succession. He felt his own neck pop. “Come on, what are you supposed to do now?”
It was a question asked with no expectation of a verbal reply. Had Mads opened his mouth, he would have been met with nothing but a mouthful of wet salt – not something he was particularly keen on repeating after the first time he’d done so. Instead, he did indeed let his legs relax some as Jaime continued to stretch, his absurdly strong arms holding Mads in place, slowly squeezing the air out of him.
There was the briefest of moments when he felt the entrapping muscles around him relax; with an explosive amount of force, Mads frantically wriggled his way out of Jaime’s arms, gasping for air the moment he was released.
“Good!” As quickly as the grapple had begun, it ended. Jaime rose to stand, offering a large hand to help Mads to his feet with his wide, toothy grin plastered over his sweaty face. Accepting the offer, Mads was nearly lifted off of his feet but rose all the same. “Now…”
Again the strikes came, and again he did what he could to avoid them. Graciana’s rules prohibited him from returning a strike. After all the entire point of the past handful of trials of training had been specifically targeted to improve his ability to avoid being hit. Ever since his close brush with the aberrant, Graciana had made it a point that he improve not only his intellectual and magical capabilities but his physical prowess as well.
Had he been even a trill later in his escape from the chaotic conjunction, he might have lost much more than a few circular patches of skin from the top of his foot.
While he understood the purpose of what it was he was meant to be doing, it didn’t make any of it any easier. Jaime smelled like an animal – which was fitting for the way he conducted himself. He didn’t curb the strength of his punches, and though Graciana had allowed him several layers of protection, he’d still developed a fair share of bruises. Shields could only withstand so much abuse.
Shuffling backwards out of reach of a jab, Mads held up a hand, breath catching his lunges and his own sweat mingling with the rank sudor leavings of his opponent.
Graciana set her teacup aside and clapped her hands twice, the sharp sound both abrupt and commanding. “That will be enough for now, Jaime. Thank you.”
“Come on, Maddy. You can handle a little more.” The jeer was in good humour, Mads was certain, but it didn’t make it any less unappealing.
“No, thank you.” Limping over to where they’d set their water flasks, Mads drew several long swings.
“Well, at least stretch out. You’re gonna be sore as feck in the morning if you don’t.”
Jaime had said the same thing at the end of every session for the past four trials. Mads was sore. It had become a state of being. Stretching only helped so much, but he was well aware that the fact it helped at all made the act itself worth something. So, capping the flask and setting it back down upon the stone, Mads resigned himself to sitting on the cool ground beside his “instructor”, reaching for his toes, reaching for the sky, reaching reaching reaching.
All he really wanted to do was take a nap.
