Berrod Armstrong had not seen when the Highlander landed on his right flank. Rather, he'd felt it; the way the hair on his face and body prickled with the slight disturbance in the air about him. It was only a split-tick afterward that the yellow of the other Highlander's cyclas registered in his peripheral vision -- though the familiar garb did not at all mitigate his alarm.Â
He had simply been practicing -- no, not quite practicing, that was just a fringe benefit. He had been working off the recent frustration that  plagued him for the past few suns. The fiasco had started with a Lalafell client, and ended up in an ambush from which he and Athe barely escaped. The very memory of having to run away fretted him greatly, and so he opted to pour his anger into something constructive. His visitor however, had managed to erase the entire affair from his mind in an instant.
Berrod wasn't particularly proud of the manner in which he darted away from the other Highlander, but he knew full well that it was perhaps very wise. One ambush was more than what he had tolerance for in such a short space of time; two would be downright unacceptable.
With some distance between them he was able to get a good look at the man. Even for a Highlander the fellow was huge, and towered over Berrod by half a fulm. His skin was dark brown and littered with scars of various sizes. He seem crafted more of stone than born of flesh, from the stiff appearance of his skin to his statuesque, gargantuan build. The cyclas upon his body was well kept but clearly worn from battle. Scratches and dents showed even through the polish on his gloves and boots, though the feather on his headdress was new. He was the very image of a member of the Fists.
It was for that reason Berrod addressed him in an almost reverent fashion. The redhead clasped his left fist into his right palm at chest level, then bowed slightly at the waist. "Brother."
In comparison to the other, Berrod was a far sight less elegant. In his dusty white slops with a lack of shoes he seemed quite like a vagrant -- and that did not even take into account the ruddy, unshaven scruff of a few days along his jaw. The neatest thing about his appearance was the tied tail at the back of his head that kept his hair in check, though that was soaked with sweat just like the rest of him. A horizontal purple bruise marked his bare chest almost from nipple to nipple-- the sore prize he had received from the recent ambush. Regardless of it all, he stood proudly and presented himself as best as he could.
The other monk inclined his head slightly to the left, and a hint of intrigue shone in his eyes. "You bowed to me," he observed. His voice was as deep a reverberation as  Berrod's, though the speech was slower. "An odd thing for a self-crowned King."
The monk's words set off resounding warning klaxons in Berrod's head. He made no effort to keep the wariness out of his body language; tension seized his frame. The demand that followed was very direct. "Who are you?"
The dark-skinned monk smiled, but it was not a pleasant smile by any account. "Let us first examine who you are," he countered, "Berrod Armstrong. Refugee, taken in at some point by a remnant of the fist...whose heart you must have broken terribly when you became a damned bandit no better than the ones you grew up struggling against. You survived the Calamity and continued your ways, which eventually landed you in a life of destitution in Ul'Dah. Thus came your rise from rags to riches, which saw you cavorting about with your buggering-mates on each arm, a pretense of caring for my people and my homeland, and a claim to something no sensible member of the resistance will allow."
Berrod had meanwhile done his best to keep his composure; the knowledge the other man had demonstrated regarding him was not something gained overnight. He kept his face even, though quite a bit of color left it. "I wish only to work with the resistance toward a common goal, not undermine them."
"Do you, Berrod Armstrong?" The monk contested, "Is that what you believe? Is that what your paltry alms to my brothers in the streets of Ul'Dah have convinced you of? Do you think that your blood or your knowledge make that a thing to take for granted? Is that why you feel content to return to your lavish home, eat heartily, drink merrily and then retire to gargle the balls of your pet Gridanians?"
The words cut through Berrod like a hot blade, with each slash removing a chunk of his pride and purpose. Nevertheless, the other monk continued, "Because those who fight and die every day in the name of my homeland and my people may not share the same view."
Berrod found himself at a momentary loss for words. What the other monk spoke of -- it had occasionally niggled at him, but it was just a doubt in the back of his mind that his own arrogance had become very effective at crushing. He was accustomed to being a man who was followed, and if the path he chose offered hope, why would they not follow? Having his efforts to help aid the refugees on the streets called paltry had a severe effect on him. Were the care packages not enough? Were the food hampers insufficient? Was the employment he offered through retainership no good? Doubt near suffocated him, and the other monk began to appear to him as an avatar of terrible truth.Â
Yet...something was amiss. Berrod knew himself, and he knew that he usually took great pride in his efforts, even if they were a little. When he lived on the streets he did what he could for his fellow refugees. When he terrorized the sands of the desert he had done it for their sake. He knew that he would not allow his life's passion to be so casually belittled, and was very accustomed to feeling anger before doubt and despair. His ambition to claim the throne was only intended if no one worthy was willing and the people needed it of him, otherwise he would dedicate his life to serving the one who would ascend. Why then, did he feel so crushed by a few words from a stranger?
Words...
Words. Voice. Sound. Air. Throat.
The realization hit him like a charging Aurochs; the other monk was using the power of the fifth against him! Through his voice he had sought to lay Berrod's will low. Berrod reeled; he had never witnessed this application of it before. There was a point of further confusion, however. An open, active chakra was something that always shone like a beacon in the night to him. He sensed nothing from this man.
His thoughts must have registered plainly upon his face, for the other monk offered him a mildly astonished look. It was odd how the man's worn and solid features seemed capable of such child-like wonder. "Ohh? You sense it?" his eyes narrowed in further scrutiny. "Ah, no...you're guessing. I can see it in your eyes. How accurately, I wonder?"
"How are you doing that without me seeing it?" Berrod demanded. It took considerable willpower to even speak in the voice's wake.
The other monk levelled a stare at him that may have usually been reserved for a dullard of a child. "A man tends to be unable to see when his eye is closed," he offered thoughtfully. "Though some men remain blind anyway."
Berrod comprehended the statement at once, and suddenly knew what he had to do. Already he had begun directing his aether between his eyes, and prepared to open the sixth with it, he would surely see through the other's trickery, and show the bastard some tricks of his own.
The dark skinned monk continued to observe him; an arrangement of pitying scorn folded his face. Then he vanished.
No more tricks. Open the sixth, the mi--
Berrod was not exactly sure if he saw the monk before the great, dark hand grasped his face into its palm. He felt the activation violently interrupted, then saw brilliant explosions of color behind his own obscured vision. Agony ripped through the entire back side of his body; he had been slammed down onto the ground, and savagely so.Â
"I have heard your praises among a few," the monk murmured. The disappointment in his voice was palpable. Berrod had not yet regained his senses enough to properly realize that he laid sprawled on his back beneath the yellow clad man, bleeding from the back of his head with the monk's palm still gripping his face. "But...you could not even sense my chakras, much less resonate with them. The time it took for you to open yours, why the delay? Knowledgeable you may be, but your execution is shoddy. Your master would be ashamed to see this."
The mention of Berrod's master incensed him. Though he could not see, the Highlander's fist raised to deliver retibution, aiming at a guess with intent to snap his assailant's arm at the elbow.
He did not get the chance. Before  his fist could even connect, he felt a very gentle palm upon his stomach...followed by the maddeningly excruciating ordeal of having nigh every bone in his body shattered. Thankfully he only had to endure it for a moment before darkness took him.Â
Those nearby, however, reported a tremendous and concussive upheaval that pelted dust and rocks several yalms into the air, though it was mostly dismissed as a mining detonation or yet another overly eager thaumaturge initiate.
He had simply been practicing -- no, not quite practicing, that was just a fringe benefit. He had been working off the recent frustration that  plagued him for the past few suns. The fiasco had started with a Lalafell client, and ended up in an ambush from which he and Athe barely escaped. The very memory of having to run away fretted him greatly, and so he opted to pour his anger into something constructive. His visitor however, had managed to erase the entire affair from his mind in an instant.
Berrod wasn't particularly proud of the manner in which he darted away from the other Highlander, but he knew full well that it was perhaps very wise. One ambush was more than what he had tolerance for in such a short space of time; two would be downright unacceptable.
With some distance between them he was able to get a good look at the man. Even for a Highlander the fellow was huge, and towered over Berrod by half a fulm. His skin was dark brown and littered with scars of various sizes. He seem crafted more of stone than born of flesh, from the stiff appearance of his skin to his statuesque, gargantuan build. The cyclas upon his body was well kept but clearly worn from battle. Scratches and dents showed even through the polish on his gloves and boots, though the feather on his headdress was new. He was the very image of a member of the Fists.
It was for that reason Berrod addressed him in an almost reverent fashion. The redhead clasped his left fist into his right palm at chest level, then bowed slightly at the waist. "Brother."
In comparison to the other, Berrod was a far sight less elegant. In his dusty white slops with a lack of shoes he seemed quite like a vagrant -- and that did not even take into account the ruddy, unshaven scruff of a few days along his jaw. The neatest thing about his appearance was the tied tail at the back of his head that kept his hair in check, though that was soaked with sweat just like the rest of him. A horizontal purple bruise marked his bare chest almost from nipple to nipple-- the sore prize he had received from the recent ambush. Regardless of it all, he stood proudly and presented himself as best as he could.
The other monk inclined his head slightly to the left, and a hint of intrigue shone in his eyes. "You bowed to me," he observed. His voice was as deep a reverberation as  Berrod's, though the speech was slower. "An odd thing for a self-crowned King."
The monk's words set off resounding warning klaxons in Berrod's head. He made no effort to keep the wariness out of his body language; tension seized his frame. The demand that followed was very direct. "Who are you?"
The dark-skinned monk smiled, but it was not a pleasant smile by any account. "Let us first examine who you are," he countered, "Berrod Armstrong. Refugee, taken in at some point by a remnant of the fist...whose heart you must have broken terribly when you became a damned bandit no better than the ones you grew up struggling against. You survived the Calamity and continued your ways, which eventually landed you in a life of destitution in Ul'Dah. Thus came your rise from rags to riches, which saw you cavorting about with your buggering-mates on each arm, a pretense of caring for my people and my homeland, and a claim to something no sensible member of the resistance will allow."
Berrod had meanwhile done his best to keep his composure; the knowledge the other man had demonstrated regarding him was not something gained overnight. He kept his face even, though quite a bit of color left it. "I wish only to work with the resistance toward a common goal, not undermine them."
"Do you, Berrod Armstrong?" The monk contested, "Is that what you believe? Is that what your paltry alms to my brothers in the streets of Ul'Dah have convinced you of? Do you think that your blood or your knowledge make that a thing to take for granted? Is that why you feel content to return to your lavish home, eat heartily, drink merrily and then retire to gargle the balls of your pet Gridanians?"
The words cut through Berrod like a hot blade, with each slash removing a chunk of his pride and purpose. Nevertheless, the other monk continued, "Because those who fight and die every day in the name of my homeland and my people may not share the same view."
Berrod found himself at a momentary loss for words. What the other monk spoke of -- it had occasionally niggled at him, but it was just a doubt in the back of his mind that his own arrogance had become very effective at crushing. He was accustomed to being a man who was followed, and if the path he chose offered hope, why would they not follow? Having his efforts to help aid the refugees on the streets called paltry had a severe effect on him. Were the care packages not enough? Were the food hampers insufficient? Was the employment he offered through retainership no good? Doubt near suffocated him, and the other monk began to appear to him as an avatar of terrible truth.Â
Yet...something was amiss. Berrod knew himself, and he knew that he usually took great pride in his efforts, even if they were a little. When he lived on the streets he did what he could for his fellow refugees. When he terrorized the sands of the desert he had done it for their sake. He knew that he would not allow his life's passion to be so casually belittled, and was very accustomed to feeling anger before doubt and despair. His ambition to claim the throne was only intended if no one worthy was willing and the people needed it of him, otherwise he would dedicate his life to serving the one who would ascend. Why then, did he feel so crushed by a few words from a stranger?
Words...
Words. Voice. Sound. Air. Throat.
The realization hit him like a charging Aurochs; the other monk was using the power of the fifth against him! Through his voice he had sought to lay Berrod's will low. Berrod reeled; he had never witnessed this application of it before. There was a point of further confusion, however. An open, active chakra was something that always shone like a beacon in the night to him. He sensed nothing from this man.
His thoughts must have registered plainly upon his face, for the other monk offered him a mildly astonished look. It was odd how the man's worn and solid features seemed capable of such child-like wonder. "Ohh? You sense it?" his eyes narrowed in further scrutiny. "Ah, no...you're guessing. I can see it in your eyes. How accurately, I wonder?"
"How are you doing that without me seeing it?" Berrod demanded. It took considerable willpower to even speak in the voice's wake.
The other monk levelled a stare at him that may have usually been reserved for a dullard of a child. "A man tends to be unable to see when his eye is closed," he offered thoughtfully. "Though some men remain blind anyway."
Berrod comprehended the statement at once, and suddenly knew what he had to do. Already he had begun directing his aether between his eyes, and prepared to open the sixth with it, he would surely see through the other's trickery, and show the bastard some tricks of his own.
The dark skinned monk continued to observe him; an arrangement of pitying scorn folded his face. Then he vanished.
No more tricks. Open the sixth, the mi--
Berrod was not exactly sure if he saw the monk before the great, dark hand grasped his face into its palm. He felt the activation violently interrupted, then saw brilliant explosions of color behind his own obscured vision. Agony ripped through the entire back side of his body; he had been slammed down onto the ground, and savagely so.Â
"I have heard your praises among a few," the monk murmured. The disappointment in his voice was palpable. Berrod had not yet regained his senses enough to properly realize that he laid sprawled on his back beneath the yellow clad man, bleeding from the back of his head with the monk's palm still gripping his face. "But...you could not even sense my chakras, much less resonate with them. The time it took for you to open yours, why the delay? Knowledgeable you may be, but your execution is shoddy. Your master would be ashamed to see this."
The mention of Berrod's master incensed him. Though he could not see, the Highlander's fist raised to deliver retibution, aiming at a guess with intent to snap his assailant's arm at the elbow.
He did not get the chance. Before  his fist could even connect, he felt a very gentle palm upon his stomach...followed by the maddeningly excruciating ordeal of having nigh every bone in his body shattered. Thankfully he only had to endure it for a moment before darkness took him.Â
Those nearby, however, reported a tremendous and concussive upheaval that pelted dust and rocks several yalms into the air, though it was mostly dismissed as a mining detonation or yet another overly eager thaumaturge initiate.
![[Image: tumblr_ojgu7zoaag1robwlio1_540.png]](https://68.media.tumblr.com/80be4033cdf57fb6268473ef9ce37db6/tumblr_ojgu7zoaag1robwlio1_540.png)
