Berrod felt as if his face was going to explode.
It was true that he had quite a temper, but recently he had learned to still himself in the face of the many aggravating circumstances and provocations he faced on a daily basis. The not-so-simple ritual of breathing, thinking ahead, and remembering his place had served him well many a time. In that moment, that ritual was experiencing a critical failure.
The source of his ire was no less than his master, Ronsen Armstrong. Together they had traveled the dust-blasted landscape of the Fringes and entered the temple carved into the very mountainside by the first monk. The first Fist of Rhalgr. Schism was its name. Berrod had been told tales about it by Master Armstrong himself, but this was the first time he had ever laid eyes upon it – much less stepped inside. It was a dark, cold place, replete with the architectural stylings associated with the old order, including a statue of the Destroyer himself. The two Highlanders did not buy their entry easily; they were made to combat frigid spectres of spirits without rest, given corporeal form in one of the most horrifying fashions – bhoots. Nevertheless, the pair had persevered and their obstacles laid low. Berrod had felt a fresh exhilaration in the victory…until Master Armstrong chose then and there to have words with him on the very topic that would ever return.
“I am glad to be back here again, though my nostalgia is tainted with a sense of disappointment and sadness a tits state.†The man’s cold, pale blue eyes seemed to glimmer in the limited stream of light, “In many senses this temple reminds me of you. Strong; a call for nostalgia, a place of hope…now ruined…rife with potential yet bereft of the will to realise it properly.â€
Berrod was glad that it was too dark for the absolute crimson at his neck, ears and nose to be visible, though he still imagined that Armstrong felt the heat that radiated from his fury. He stiffened in that awfully telling way that he usually did – and his master saw prey fit for the taking. The fuming Highlander wanted nothing more than to shatter the other man’s jaw with a good swing…but he knew better.
Ronsen Armstrong was already an imposing man by his own right – Berrod was tall among his kin, but Armstrong had the advantage of three ilms over him. While three ilms did not seem like much, combined with thick, corded musculature and damn near unbreakable bones, Ronsen was less of an old man than a golem made flesh. It was true that age had lined him slightly, and faded the red of his hair into a wild, coppery mane…but it had not brought weakness. Not a whit of it. The master knew as much, and so continued on his train of thought.
“You did one thing right, I suppose. You carried things on as I had asked, just in case…though your choice of pupils leaves something to be desired. I’ll admit that there are a few who showed great promise. That there was even one is a boon that a beggar cannot afford to be particular about. I’ll do what I can with them. You can rest and return to your pirate and wood-bloods.â€
Berrod must have given something away in his expression; Ronsen’s own face perked with intrigue that tilted his head just slightly. The younger man was only barely able to perceive it through the haze of his fury.
“Ah,†The master hummed, “I’ve struck a nerve. I’ll not apologise for speaking truths, these circumstances are of your own making. We should continue – I want to keep this promise to you at least, before we part ways. You should be honoured that I’m still bothering.â€
“Shut up.â€
The words had left Berrod’s mouth without thought, and without even a moment for him to consider restraining them. The moment that followed was a deathly silence; Ronsen stopped talking and his entire face froze mid-word, while Berrod himself felt the chill of the cavern nigh snatch the soul from his body. Never before had he spoken thus to his master, and with good reason. Master Armstrong was a relaxed man because he was a powerful man, and that power was shamelessly brought to bear when applying consequences to ill thought-out actions.
Very carefully, the master gave the estranged pupil a chance to retract. “What was that?†The tone feigned a hardness of hearing while still threatening dire retribution in turn.  Berrod, however, had already decided to commit. If he was going to die there he’d die satisfied.
“I said shut up. I’m not afailure because I didn’t turn out the way you wanted me to. I’m not weak because I’m not strong as you. I’m not a bad teacher because my students are odd.†He jabbed a finger in Armstrong’s direction, “What I’m worth ain’t for you to measure. Never has been.â€
Ronsen stood and listened with a stony calm that usually settled before a mighty storm. His eyes never left Berrod’s – even as the younger man continued to rant.
“You humiliated me in front of them, so much so that I don’t know if they like you very much. That’s not what I care about though. I don’t care about what you say or do to me. The way you’re goin’ now though – they’re gonna be miserable with you and I hate that idea. I hate that you moved from a man who just wanted to make sure that the art lived on to an arrogant old bastard who doesn’t know when to  mind his damn business and let people do what they need to do to grow.†That finger struck out again, “Stop talking about my family, they got nothin’ to do with you. If this is how it’s going to be, then you can choke on your swivin’ promise.â€
Berrod was not given a chance to breathe for the next section of his tirade. Ronsen stood before him one moment, still and disdainful. The next, the older monk’s instep was but an ilm from the side of Berrod’s neck, moving with a speed and force quite capable of messy decapitation. He was fast. The younger man had only a fraction of a tick to process all of that and move accordingly.
Ronsen’s leg connected with a hastily presented left forearm, braced with Berrod’s right hand. The student’s feet shifted apart on the stone walkway as the impact sounded as cannon fire in the cavern. Pain exploded through his flesh and bone – which did not snap, for a mercy. Armstrong peered at him without expression, his leg still extended. Berrod suffered only a moment of conflict, but it was a moment that cost him dearly. Several rapid snapping kicks lashed at his guard from that very leg. They assailed him with such intensity that it was all he could do to stay standing and weather the onslaught. His arm felt like it was about to shatter, and his hearing was assaulted by the whipping crack of it – the cavern only served to echo and intensify the din tenfold. There was no choice left for him to retreat and retaliate.
Berrod could at least match Ronsen’s speed, though his left arm was useless for the time being. He blasted back in with a straight thrust toward the older man’s solar plexus, hoping to catch him in the follow through of the kicks. The old man was not so unwise as to leave himself open, however, and managed to turn the charge into a throw. Wrapped hands clutched Berrod at the wrist and belt; Ronsen used his standing leg as a pivot and took his student’s momentum to task. One spin sent Berrod flying toward the foot of the Destroyer’s statue. He rolled roughly along the dusty floor and collided with the pedestal. Spread-eagled and dazed on the floor, there was no hope for him to defend. Ronsen was over him in an instant, and pressed one of his gaiters firmly onto the younger man’s throat. The master glared down at him with unmistakable killing intent.
“Do you believe those words so fiercely that you’re willing to fight me to defend them?†He asked calmly. The older monk even had the grace to lift his foot a little and allow Berrod a reply. Berrod was not deterred, for the first time he felt a clear sense of purpose – even if it meant that his throat would be crushed for simply declaring it. He believed in himself, he believed in his pupils, and he believed in his path – and so he spoke.
“I believe in ‘em enough to fight and kill you to protect ‘em. I believe in my students, and I’ll protect ‘em with every breath I’ve got left.†The words came out as a bit of a breathless snarl, but they held weight nonetheless. He stared into his master’s eyes with conviction – no anger, no hatred…just purpose.
Ronsen nodded. “I see.†His foot applied pressure once more; Berrod was prepared to struggle to the last. Then…he removed it, and exhaled with an exasperated inflection that made him look twice his age, “It’s about bloody time.â€
Poor Berrod was all but sure that he was about to die. While the reprieve was a relief, it did leave him quite flummoxed – too much for proper words, at first. “Buh…?â€
The master simply deadpanned at him, then beckoned, “Get up, you look so stupid like that. You finally regrew your damn stones. I’ve been waiting for that since you came the first time. We’re going back outside to climb the rocks and visit the Circles of Answering. Rhalgr knows you need the practice.â€
That was all he said; Berrod was only granted the sight of Ronsen’s broad figure traversing the walkway once more toward the cavern’s exit. “Are you gonna train me?†he asked somewhat hoarsely, “I thought I wasn’t your student anymore?â€
“You’re not, fool,†Armstrong chided. His back was still to the younger man – though he stopped. “You’re my peer. I’m not going to train you. I’m going to train with you. Hurry up. The sooner we get this started, the sooner I can keep my promise.â€
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