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Midnight Star, Part 3 - Nobody wears a white coat any more...
...a tribute to becoming a doctor.
ayradyss
ayradyss
Midnight Star, Part 3
Three, four, shift. One, two, turn. The mental cadence flowed silently through Sekkyro''s thoughts, almost unconsciously, as he brought the swords around in intertwining arcs, defence and offence becoming a single deadly ballet. The grip, odd as it was compared tp the way he usually held swords of their size, brought the balance of the hilt and blade into perfect alignment. The weight of the swords seemed to disappear in the forms, floating, edges deadly sharp still.
Arkan nodded curtly as he finished the forms. "Very nice, boy. Let's see you fight with them." He drew his own sword, the gleam of the blade shifting as he gestured toward the floor.
"Of course." Sekkyro' followed his gesture, the blades as comfortable in his hands as if he had spent ten times the last ten years on them, almost surprised at the thought of using anything else. This was, after all, his final exam--why not use the finest weapons he had ever mastered? It had taken a decade to learn to use them, and in that time he had found that he had no great need for Arkan's lessons any longer. Long months and years out on patrol in the Underdark had kept him far from the matron's eyes, trained his mind to appreciate the silence and the solitude of the Underdark, the absence of tutors and rules.
He lifted the blades, meeting Arkan's with a leisurely ease. Fighting a drow again was little challenge at all after the quick, canny creatures he'd been fending away from the outpost's territory. He found within him a certain quantity of surprise that he truly did have no further need for Arkan's teaching. There was no more the weaponmaster could teach him, that much was clear after only a few strokes and parries.
The fight was brief. Sekkyro''s disgust at the time he had wasted in worrying that he would not be good enough growing rapidly as he watched his strokes slicing through Arkan's defences. His blades came shimmering down, silver light glinting through the shadow of the black blade, the silver of his tattoos--he hadn't stopped to replace his tattered gloves before heading in to prove himself--glinting as if in triumph as he finally sent Arkan's sword flying from his hands. The weaponmaster took a step back, in startlement. "I yield," he murmured.
"That's nice." Sekkyro' drew the silver blade back, plunging it through Arkan's chest and into the wall behind him. The blade, undulled by any prior abuse, must have hit a weak point, some flaw hidden in the metal; it flexed, then shattered with a dully metallic snap. Arkan's body arched and fell limp. Cleaning the black-bladed sword on Arkan's clothing, Sekkyro' sheathed it before bending to lift the slim drow corpse in his arms. He bundled it neatly into the chest where the polearms were kept, closing the lid and scattering sawdust on the floor to return the training room to its original condition. On the one hand, he knew his actions would buy time before the matron came looking to have him killed--but on the other, something within him revolted at the messiness of the scene. It just looked so much better once it had been tidied up. Less unfinished, somehow. Sekkyro' hated to leave things unfinished.
He turned on his heel and left the room, returning to his chambers. He packed carefully, no more than he he would normally take out on patrol. A change of clothing came first, as he tossed the bloodstained clothes he'd worn on patrol and at the fight into the corner. He took a moment to scrub down with the water in his basin, drying off and dressing again in unrelieved black, checking the fastening of his double-serpent earring (another beating he would never forget - or forgive) to be certain it hadn't come off in the fight. He folded a change of clothing into his pack, adding a lighter silk tunic to the pile just in case. He wasn't quite certain where he was going; accordingly he tucked a variety of supplies in, to prepare for every contingency. Decades of roaming the Underdark had prepared him well; he knew he could survive alone, so long as he avoided the cities and their ceaseless bickering.
The pack was not heavy, not even with the pitons tucked into it, not even with the crossbow and poisons strapped to its side and tucked into pockets, not even with the judicious addition of some small but valuable items that caught his eye as he ghosted through the house. A waterskin on his hip, a flask of spirits to serve as anaesthetic and antiseptic should he be injured, a loaf of bread and some jerky handed over by a quivering sous-chef as soon as he set foot in the kitchen, and he pulled on his gloves, confident that he had enough supplies for the first few days. From there, he would hunt as he always did.
Returning briefly to the training room, he picked up the shirt of adamantine chain he wore on patrols and slipped it on, feeling its welcome weight and the soft clink of its links. Without a word said, he slipped out the back door of the manor and into the Underdark. There was unfinished business with house Slyan'ssun yet, but it would have to wait--until the time was right. There was no such thing as well-done revenge carried out in haste, and Sekkyro' was in a hurry at the moment. He would deal with the matron, the priestesses, and any others who had not yet been properly paid back for their transgressions. He had a list of all those who would eventually suffer, when the time was right. Mentally, he crossed Arkan off of another list as the door slid closed behind him, and mentally crumpled the now-empty list and threw it away. One step closer to freedom, the last tie of affection that had given another a puppet's hold broken. He had liked Arkan, after all, and that simply could not be allowed to interfere with his life.

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