A Hellsguard sat on a boulder in Western Thanalan, outside The Eighty Sins of Sasamo, legs crossed and eyes closed in meditation. The Hellsguard was Raging Behemoth, a trainer of young men in the Coliseum, and the Master of the Brotherhood of the Bloodsands,a still relatively unknown fraternity in Ul'dah. Despite taking a position meant to calm the mind, his brow was furrowed in irritation.

'Once more. What happened, and how did it go wrong?' He thought to himself, playing over in his mind yet again the events of the past few hours. He had gone to the Astral Agents headquarters to speak to Berrod Armstrong, a Highlander Monk and a man he respected about once again taking his pupil under the mans wing. Zachary had severely broken the bonds of trust between himself and Armstrong, and it had seemed for a while the pair would never reconcile. Berrod too set in his ways, and Zachary too thick to see precisely what he had done wrong.

Raging held a sturdy respect for the man, affirming his actions to keep Zachary away after their falling out. This was made doubly so after he had seen the training methods the Highlander utilized to train his underlings. The men and women who looked to him for guidance he made fight lethally, to make believe there was no training, only results or death. He could not respect a tactic so vastly different from how he was trained, and how he trained.

The relationship between Master and Student was a sacred one in his opinion. The Student looked to their Master for guidance and direction, and it was to be given by the Master not only in the Student's aspired craft, but in all aspects of life. The Master was to become a surrogate parent and nurture the Student to their fullest potential with a firm but gentle hand. Not a curled fist, dedicated to only needless destruction as he had witnessed in the Sangolii those moons ago.

But Zachary needed Armstrong. Raging felt himself swell with pride. 'He has come so far these past two years. Soon there will be nothing more I can teach him as a Warrior, and it will be up to him to go into the world and hone his discipline.' The boy needed stability in his life after his missions end. The boy had found his Warriors of Light, men and women who had fought against the Garleans at Carteneau and vanished in a flash of light, not only from the world but from memory as well. To complete a goal one had committed themselves to utterly and wholly was at once both a euphoric and soul crushing experience. To have reached the mountaintop and find nothing else for themselves-it was devastating. Releasing the feeling of pride he once more tried to find peace, and continue his meditation.

'He agreed to train the boy once more, but not after stating he would kill me if he were to attempt to kill Zachary. That, and that the blue-clad Monks were not his disciples.' Raging paused and mused on that thought. 

Blue-clad Monks had watched the boy for weeks lately, and the Roegadyn had thought they were keeping tabs on Zachary for Armstrong. But the man had denied this. Despite all Raging Behemoth thought of the man currently, he believed him. It left the matter of these men and women unresolved, but he released those thought too and tried to find peace.

But did Armstrong know that? Of course he did not. A bout was a match of physical prowess, either pugilism or wrestling, and the man had used aether multiple times! It was poor form, and would have had him jeered and disqualified. Raging's hands tightened on his knees, irritation pulsing through him again. He remembered well the mans pouting, like a child who had lost a game of Triple Triad. He had even gone as far to say he, Raging Behemoth, had been dishonorable! When the man had used Chakras, Raging had played along and released his Inner Beast. He had felt the man had wanted to elevate their match above a bout, but he had yielded and thrown his tantrum. For a man who followed the way of Rhalgr, he had been very destructive to his self-image, the image Raging Behemoth had for him, and the image his fellows must have had of him. How could he expect his fellows to follow his orders and respect him if he whined and cried? Raging did the same thing he would do for anyone under his guidance, he chastised the man in front of his subordinates.  

'But was that our place?' A small voice in the back of his mind asked.

'What do you mean?' He asked it in reply. 'The man obviously did not see the error of his method. To believe that I acted dishonorably was foolishness. I fought him in the manner of the Coliseum! I am a Gladiator, noble and proud! It was a spectacle, to be beheld with awe and cheered with fervor!'

''Perhaps he did not appreciate being made a spectacle.' His inner voice replied. 'In either a fight or in reprimand. He is not our student, he is not our responsibility.' 

Raging had no choice but to concede that point to his inner self. Berrod Armstrong was -not- his Student, and he was not the mans Master. Advice should not be given unlessed requested in such a situation. Reprimand should not have been forced upon the man, especially in front of his free company members. In doing so the Hellsguard had undermined his authority. Despite realizing this truth, his brow furrowed once more.

The Hellsguard was stopped dead at that bit of wisdom. To most if said aloud if would be scoffed at and passed over, but he knew its profundity. He had challenged Berrod like a Gladiator and had expected the man to respond in kind. The Highlander, in turn, had accepted the challenge as a Monk and had expected Raging Behemoth to respond as a Warrior. This entire situation was in the least a misunderstand, and at worst a horrific clash of culture and tradition. It was not all Raging's fault, however. He knew this. His fault was not approaching the situation from Berrod's perspective, and not -clearly- outlining what it all had meant to himself, at least. He exhaled long and slow, a weight sliding off his heart and dropping onto his shoulders.

He had been a fool. A blind, bloody fool. At forty summers he still did not take to heart some of the philosophies he preached. He could never achieve self-realization this way. He had angered the man not only with his actions, but also with his words. Thinking back to the last thing he had said to the highlander put a fire in his cheeks.

'Rhalgr is a God of Destruction, not self-destruction.'

For a man who worshiped and preached as Armstrong, Raging's words must have come as a grave insult. He groaned as he thought about it again and again.

'I must make amends to the good Master Armstrong.' he thought, opening his eyes, and rising to his feet.

Raging spoke aloud as he turned to the steps, speaking to his inner self as though it was right beside him. 

"Then I will accept it. For some things there can be no forgiveness. If it were myself, I would have my time to be angry and come to forgive the person, but he is not I, and can not be expected to behave and think as I do. Should the man wish for me to leave and never return, I will accept it as my penance. Should he curl his fist and wish me harm, I will accept it as my penance. An apology is only the first step, and the least desired. I will have to show my regret though actions."