Firelight danced off of polished wooden walls, adding orange lightning at the backdrop of the red-embered glow. The fireplace responsible hosted two large, soft and red  armchairs before it, both placed down upon dark red carpet. Between the armchairs a simple stand featured several bottles of expensive alcohol and an ashtray, all of which remained untouched for the time being. 

A grey-haired Highlander man sat in the left chair -- rather comfortably, at that. He was a bit short for those of his kin, but his broad frame and hardened features made the mark of his clan unmistakable. Granted, he was dressed crisply in stylish Ul'dahn business attire. Loose, long-coated and adorned with gold trimmings and precious gems. An eye-patch concealed his left eye -- but not the horribly deep scar that cut through his forehead and cheek both above and below it. The other eye stared lazily into the fire, the reflective silver having adopted the red glow. Relaxed though he was, his body language spoke well enough of expectation. 

There was a knock on the heavy oaken door to the room, which bid no movement from him save his mouth. His voice was gravelly, yet held no shortage of authoriative confidence. "Come."

The portal was opened with not a sound, and an elegantly dressed Highlander woman entered. She was far younger than he -- yet still bore the presence of a person of ten and twenty. Her own colour choice was blue; a deep, evening shade of it that dominated the outfit, down to the earrings and the jeweled clasps that held her long black hair in one. The dress had left her arms bare; it was there, without the smoothing cover of blue material, that the harsh musculature and scars of battle showed -- at least, until halfway down her biceps, from where a long pair of gloves finished the outfit. 

Ordinarily the old Highlander stood in the presence of a lady -- but for some reason he remained seated, still staring into the fire with barely any regard for her at all. Had it not been for the minimal beckoning gesture toward the adjacent armchair, it may have been easy to say that he'd missed her entrance entirely. Nevertheless, she swept toward the chair and sat without complaint. 

"Help yourself to anything you like," He offered calmly. 

The firelight clashed with her brown eyes as she turned to look at him a bit warily. He still hadn't looked in her direction. "No thank you, I don't partake in any of this."

"That's fine. Do you know why I've called you here?"

"I can't rightly say that I do, but I did attend the function you requested me to. It was...pointless, and stupid. Almost insulting, how those people live while others suffer." She seemed to catch herself then, "Though I understand why you do it."

"Of course you do. Moving on, I called you here because I don't think Fyrhaerz will last long on the board. When he falls, I need you to take over. I trust you not to fall." The man's hands clasped on his abdomen, a fist cupped in a palm. "Will you do this for me, Oda?"

Oda turned her gaze away from him and tipped her head back. "The resistance needs me, Gunnar. You've done much for me, but I don't know if I can turn my back on this. The time is getting close."

Gunnar simply sat there in silence, his eye still on the fire. 

"...but if you supply my group with weapons and armour -- even a few mercenaries..."

"Consider it done."

"They can't know that I'm consorting with an Ul'Dahn businessman." 

"I'm not Ul'Dahn. I worked for this position so I could help in this way," He reasoned, "I'll muddle it as best as I can, but if people protest I need you to reason with them."

Oda turned to look at him again -- she allowed the incredulity onto her features easily enough; after all, he wasn't looking at her. "You're putting an awful lot on me here."

"It isn't without its reward."

"Or risk."

"That's how these things work, Oda. Do this for me, and you will get everything you need. Both for your group, and for your ambitions." The palm on his fist gestured subtly with fanned fingers. Whatever Oda's ambitions were, they were enough for her to lean back and consider in momentary silence. Gunnar was patient, though it wasn't long before she relented. 

"How long do you think Fire Heart has?" She asked carefully.

"Not long," He answered with confidence -- vague though as it was.

Her pause was again drawn out. "Alright. I'll take that time to prepare. If his students survive, I want them. They can do so much better than him."

"I'll arrange it," Gunnar promised. 

"Then we have ourselves a deal," Oda declared. With that said, she got to her feet. Gunnar seemed to take issue with it, though he didn't move. "Where are you going? Sit with me a while. You must be tired after the gala, and I could use the company."

Oda froze; even through the sweeping evening gown the tension in her body was obvious -- most prominent at her exposed shoulders and neck. Still, she managed to take a seat again...this time with her eyes firmly fixed upon the fire. "I don't need convincing any more, Gunnar, I said I'd do it. I won't turn back on that." In a complete departure from her self-assured tones, her voice wavered. The fire seemed to be the most interesting thing in the realm. 

Next to her, Gunnar slowly began to turn his head in her direction. He was blurred in her peripheral vision, but she could already see the white of his awful grin, and sensed the terrible silver of his eyes. Her breath quickened, but she steadied herself and centered her spirit -- she was strong enough to endure his pressure, his presence. For a while. Yet, every reminder of it filled her with terror, and that terror fuelled her obedience. Oda was very aware of how much Gunnar revelled in that. 

The glass bottles next to her began to crack, and even the fire seemed to struggle. The wood of the chairs they sat in creaked, and the air quickly gained the consistency of thick syrup. 

"You're a monster," She whispered.

"Never forget it."

(( Tumblr post here!))

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.”

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.”

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.”

“Shut up.”

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.”

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.”

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.”

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…?”

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.”

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?”

“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.”