Ever so often, Berrod had to face the fact that he was not a carefree adolescent. Granted that he had never remembered being one, the Highlander lived his life in a seemingly perpetual state of youthful aimlessness. Young as he still was, he was old enough to know that the time had come for him to stop. There were responsibilities on his plate now, heavy ones indeed. The building. The Leve distribution. The relations with the Immortal Flames. His probation officer from the Maelstrom. There were other, minor social responsibilities as well. He at least wanted to say hello to the men he had faced in the Grindstone, make sure they were doing alright. He wanted to apologize to her as well, even if that so far had proven a monumental task on his part.Â
And now, students.
The last one made him laugh; he was no teacher...at least, he didn't see himself as one. He didn't even know the full extent of the art which he was expected to teach, being only halfway there himself. Yet, he had been sought out for guidance by one friend, and saw the burgeoning potential in another. Berrod would not teach one without teaching the other. Even then, he realized that he would be welcome to more.Â
The Highlander sat at the table in the dark of his quarters, allowing the quiet breathing of his sleeping housemates (he was quite lucky that not one of the three snored) to ease him into pensive repose. Upon the wooden surface was a scattering of parchment; official notices from the Immortal Flames, financial statements for their first moon in operation, a listing of occupied rooms, another listing of available leves...so much work to do, it was nigh overwhelming. Fortunately he trusted the leves and finances to others, so that he could focus on what he could handle.Â
In the midst of the parchment pile sat a small, dark wooden box with an ornately carved cover. A small frown turned his lips every time he set eyes on it. The acquisition of the box's contents had been a less than savory affair, but he could not let these things go to waste -- not even to be buried with the ones who had once held them. For about the fifth time that bell he reached over and took it into his hands, turning it over to listen to the quiet rattle of the objects inside. Who was he to distribute them? Would it be wise to even do so? In what manner would his potential students need to prove themselves before he offered them?
Guilt slithered through him as he opened the box. Inside, four small, amber crystals caught what little light was left in the room. Soul crystals. Four in total, each taken from one of a group of monks that he and his colleagues had faced and defeated all those moons ago. He already knew who he wanted to have two of them. The other two, only time would tell.
And now, students.
The last one made him laugh; he was no teacher...at least, he didn't see himself as one. He didn't even know the full extent of the art which he was expected to teach, being only halfway there himself. Yet, he had been sought out for guidance by one friend, and saw the burgeoning potential in another. Berrod would not teach one without teaching the other. Even then, he realized that he would be welcome to more.Â
The Highlander sat at the table in the dark of his quarters, allowing the quiet breathing of his sleeping housemates (he was quite lucky that not one of the three snored) to ease him into pensive repose. Upon the wooden surface was a scattering of parchment; official notices from the Immortal Flames, financial statements for their first moon in operation, a listing of occupied rooms, another listing of available leves...so much work to do, it was nigh overwhelming. Fortunately he trusted the leves and finances to others, so that he could focus on what he could handle.Â
In the midst of the parchment pile sat a small, dark wooden box with an ornately carved cover. A small frown turned his lips every time he set eyes on it. The acquisition of the box's contents had been a less than savory affair, but he could not let these things go to waste -- not even to be buried with the ones who had once held them. For about the fifth time that bell he reached over and took it into his hands, turning it over to listen to the quiet rattle of the objects inside. Who was he to distribute them? Would it be wise to even do so? In what manner would his potential students need to prove themselves before he offered them?
Guilt slithered through him as he opened the box. Inside, four small, amber crystals caught what little light was left in the room. Soul crystals. Four in total, each taken from one of a group of monks that he and his colleagues had faced and defeated all those moons ago. He already knew who he wanted to have two of them. The other two, only time would tell.
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