Thoughts of folklore and mythos quieted Ulric and filled his thoughts as they passed through an increasingly lived in landscape. The touch of the Elves was light on the wood though, you could be forgiven for thinking you were walking through a painstakingly preserved nature reserve. The kind of which that could be counted on Ulric's hands, globally, in his old life.
His companion had similarly fallen silent, basking in the return of the familiar. The youth was coming home and thinking whatever things Elves thought about when returning home from a long trip away. Probably about his family. He'd spoken little of his kin or of his life, not that Ulric would complain. They had largely been dealing with things and neither had the personal failing of needing to spoil a perfectly good silence with unnecessary noise. It was one of the reasons Ulric suspected he'd felt none of that old familiar disgruntlement at company.
Too many people felt like they had to be saying something, anything, all the time, for Ulric's liking. It always ended up watering down the experience of them to his mind and prodded him to keep his exposures within short durations, lest it become obvious he was frustrated at being around them. His few friends were of a minimalistic persuasion and he'd more than once been accused by a girlfriend, short in duration as that tended to be, of being a sullen asshole. Maybe he had been, to give them a little credit.
What had become increasingly obvious was that they had entered a realm of relative safety. Distant growls, cries, crashes in the brush, and such had long since faded as the presence of civilization, intertwined with the forest as it was, drove the beasts to skirt away into the true wilds. They passed a large water wheel, turning easily in the current of a small stream, the mechanism inside a mystery to both travelers. Ulric could see several more mills? Whatever they were at large increments down the path of the water. No people though. Odd that.
Unconsciously, both of them had relaxed that tight vigilance which was the first line of defense against the hazards of the Vardan wilderness. Maybe that was why they didn't notice the archer drawing an arrow to cheek from a branch a mere twenty meters away. Or maybe the archer was that good. It would be a cause for discussion later.
Brighteyes yelled around the same time Ulric stopped, some buzzing in his peripheral mind screaming at him to freeze. The arrow, probably meant to take him in the neck, perhaps a crippling shot to the knee, blurred into the dirt with a soft pat. The feathers hadn't stopped vibrating before another was on the way, the attacker reacting to the miss before the targets.
This time Ulric had seen the archer pull the second draw and threw himself to the side cursing. This fucking guy. They'd adjusted for the dodge at the last second and the arrow had carved a thin line of blood across Ulric's calf muscle before joining its companion in the ground. A third arrow would be coming, no time for anything fancy. Ulric ripped his pack off and dipped his shoulders left before he launched himself to the right, a juke straight out of Sweetness' repetoir, and this next arrow, slightly rushed, missed wide, buying Ulric a breath to respond. He'd continued his dodge running to the right of the Archer's tree, forcing them to turn their body, slowing the next arrow and made their life harder by throwing fire as he went.
[Flame Crash]
A gout of billowing flame poured from Ulric's hand towards the tree. It would dissipate at that range, would lack the power that had allowed him to melt the attacker as he had done to the raider before. Even so, most peoples enjoyed a fireball in their face like a visit from Jehovas Witnesses and he was counting on their assailant to be no True Believer.
Meanwhile, Brighteyes, realizing he wasn't the target of the shots, unholstered his bow and drew back for a shot. Then hesitated, apparently unwilling to kill or harm his own people.
Damn. That wasn't exactly a surprise to Ulric but it was making his life, all two minutes of it if this went on, much harder.
"Just shoot at them, for fuck's sake, you don't have to hit'em." Ulric yelled, a little more breathlessly than he would've liked.
He almost thought he'd gotten himself an advantage with the fire until the attacker calmly, with no apparent concern for the billowing heat rushing in, drew back a fourth shot, vaulted the fireball by jumping two meters straight up, and fired at Ulric in midair before coming down to land perfectly on their limb.
That bow had some serious draw strength; the arrow was way too fast, Ulric was forced again to dive aside, the arrow moving through where his legs had been, scrambling briefly before regaining his feet to run. They were targeting his legs, preventing him from getting to a proper sprint, keeping him off balance. Still he had managed to circle the trunk enough to prevent a follow-up with this latest evasion.
Realizing that Ulric's path was taking him around the trunk where another shot wouldn't be possible, the archer moved. They secured the bow over their chest and jumped in a single, smooth motion, grabbed the limb of the tree in line with Ulric's attempted evasion and hauled themselves up one handed to a crouch while readying the bow, nocking, drawing, and releasing, within a few breaths. That was just unfucking fair, was what that was.
Ulric was forced to stop cold, his legs screamed as his feet dug deeply into the forest floor, the arrow cutting off his retreat. Had he not been as nearly inhumanly fast as he was, had he not trained so hard racing with Brighteyes, learning to use his body's agility to its utmost, he'd be dead.
Ok. Enough. There was a time for being diplomatic, and they were well past that.
As the Archer drew their next shot Ulric threw up both hands, heaving at his core as he did. He didn't want to do it, kill one of Brighteyes kin folk, but the Plateau had taught him well; Varda plays for keeps and so would he.
[Water Jet]
A narrow beam of conjured water, eating up his mana at the cost of not using available water from the air, lanced towards the crouched Archer.
They evidently knew this spell was more serious than the last one, they respected it enough to roll backwards off the branch, dropping to the forest floor, landing like they'd been standing there all along as the beam of pressurized water pulverized a deep gouge in the bark of the tree above. And Ulric got his first chance to narrow the gap between them as he didn't need to cast again; he simply drug the water stream down like a liquid carving knife, diagonally, following the fall of the Archer.
High pressure water could cut steel and Ulric's spell ripped a thin line out of the tree as he guided it towards their attacker, who was readying to fire again before they realized that he hadn't stopped the spell. Now they were the one forced to dodge, rolling sideways. But the jet clipped the top handspan off their bow as they did.
Ulric nearly smiled when he saw the tension in the string of their assailant's bow go slack, the weapon rendered useless. His opponent threw the ruined weapon aside and rose to a fighting posture. He'd used more than half his mana pool on that much water but his body felt light from the combat rush and he moved to keep the attacker's back pinned to the tree to limit their mobility. Slowly he moved in closer, keeping his eyes unfocused just in case another attacker was somewhere in his peripherals.
It would appear the game was still on, as they drew a fighting knife as long as Ulric's forearm. That was a knife meant for killing things, curved, broad at the hilt while tapering to its tip, and sharpened down both sides. The Hunter began a measured approach, graceful steps well balanced. Ulric could feel the beating pulse of things now, his attacker was ready to dodge, was expecting some kind of spell to open his own offense.
A belief Ulric intended to make true, he was overcharging a [Flame crash] that would reduce them to cinders with what was left of his mana as soon as they were close enough.
"Stop! Stop! No more, this is done!" Brighteyes yelled.
Brighteyes finally got his shit together long enough to put and arrow between the feet of the bushwacking asshole. Then another at his own. Hey now.
The kid's arrows pulled the both of them up short with only a half dozen meters between them. Ulric had honestly forgotten the lad was there in his focus on the fight. Breathing out, he released his hold on his mana, feeling it settle back down into his core. The beating pulse in his mind vanished, leaving him strangely empty.
For his part, he'd lost his trident at some point. He wasn't too clear about it but the damned thing was all the way over next to the first two arrows so he'd probably dropped it. Memories under stress were a funny thing. What wasn't funny was what Ulric was thinking about doing to this…this…Huh.
Ulric stopped where he was, knife (now where had he gotten that?) forgotten in hand.
Wow, this Elf was smoking hot. He'd been so utterly focused on avoiding the arrows and had barely registered the form of the attacker at all. Now that they were standing still and he wasn't practicing the five d's of dodgeball against arrows that were moving like crossbow bolts he could see her. And, whoo boy, was it a her. Watcher forgive me for I worship at alters other than yours.
Black hair in a waist-length braid, complex weave terminating in a wooden ring, it nearly shimmered blue in the light. She wore dark brown thigh-high leather boots that accentuated strong legs that went on forever. Wide hips flared under a far too sensible set of some grey-green fabric slacks that looked like it might be canvas, or maybe just a thick wool. Her body, attired in a thick doublet of the same material as the slacks over some skintight base layer, maybe silk?, would have made an Olympic volleyball coach sweat. Tall, lean, with two notable exceptions, and powerful. Her face was locked in a hateful grimace, and that was a shame, she was going to get wrinkles in a few centuries like that. Her small cute nose tied together the long curved ears, full lips, and those slightly tilted almond-shaped eyes. Speaking of eyes, they were brilliant viridian jewels cut with burnished bronze flecks and the anger in them did nothing to detract from their beauty. Her skin, what little he could see, was a deeply tanned almost Persian brown that stood in contrast to Brighteyes own pale coloration.
Pretty. And dangerous. Bestill this heart Ulric thought. And here he'd been just about to murder this bewitching creature. Were they all like this? Ulric was already pleasantly surprised at this first contact with the Elven peoples. Brighteyes should have been a good indication. Ulric didn't dig guys but that kid was going to be easy on the eyes when he grew up. It was enough to make Ulric feel bad about the scars that were probably going to be left by those godsdamned monkeys that had bitten the lad, and the broken nose of his capture. The smooth features of these two members of their race were in total contrast to the harshly angled planes and alien features of some traditions. So, probably the interconnections between worlds had been some kind of Northern Germanic, those tales spoke of otherworldly beauties.
Oh, shit. They were talking. At some point Brighteyes had come to stand next to him and the two were exchanging words in their native language. He'd been standing where he'd stopped with the blood roaring in his ears, fight juice sluicing through his body, marveling at Artemis over there and wool gathering. Such a terrible habit.
Ulric gathered himself to try to follow the heated Elven discussion. He didn't sheath the knife though, she still had hers out. She didn't look like she would mind using it either. Maybe because he was staring rather intently with a knife of his own. Or maybe she just didn't like him.
Ulric tried to listen in but this was hopeless. Brighteyes had clearly been going easy on him in their lessons. He was like a kindergartner listening to his parents argue about physics. Some of the words were familiar and Ulric thought he was getting the overall gist of things but most of it was too fast or too subtle to be able to participate. Besides, he wasn't a hundred percent but he was pretty sure he'd heard Brighteyes use the Elven word for "eldest sister" and Ulric hadn't survived as long as he had, in either world, by jumping into sibling disputes. Sister eh? Funny they didn't look much alike, although if the boy had been given to a murderous stare, the eyebrows, chin and the bones of the cheeks might just line up.
What in the hell kind of odds was it that they'd meet kin of the boy just as soon as they got into Iriel proper? That kind of improbability was too spooky to sit well with him. Got a man to thinking that maybe those Watchers did more than just Watch from time to time. It seemed really unfair to Ulric that they'd gone to all the trouble to put on masks just to run into someone who knew Brighteyes first thing. Ah well, it made the kid happy so whatever.
The debate raged on. Brighteyes was championing him, having positioned himself between them, Ulric was sure. Hopefully he'd put in a good word. For his part Ulric tried to project calm confidence while wondering if he'd be able to stop her from putting that knife to work. Godsdamn she was quick. And graceful. Lithe.
Fuck. Ulric shook his head to clear the cobwebs, trying to pick up whatever he could from their heated discussion. He was reminded, not for the first time, that a totally healthy body had totally healthy drives. And a cardiovascular system that was going to embarrass him if this went on much longer. Maybe she had a friend or something. Fuck, man, focus, you almost died a minute a go and she looks...fantastic. And pissed.
MMmm…Ulric was pretty sure she'd just mentioned killing, something about discretion, and…corpses? Corpses. No two ways about it, she was lobbying for murdering him and hiding the body. Must be sore about the bow. Or maybe it was the fireball. As if she hadn't started it by trying to see if he could breathe arrows. Women.
It seemed that Ulric's entirely speculative contemplations regarding her appearance without the wool, maybe keep the boots though, yeah….Ah. Yup. She's super pissed.
Turning to him she jabbed the point of her knife in his direction to underscore her discontent.
"And what do you think you're looking at you s#&*fs? Well? Is there something you have to say? Because I still say your bones belong to the roots and your flesh the worms you three times f*%#%% v!@*. Speak me reason why I don't end the drought under your feet."
Ulric looked over to Brighteyes, eyebrows lifted, who had raised his mask and wore an apologetic expression, lips pinched. His shrug doubled down on their mutual agreement that this was not at all going as they'd hoped. For his own part, Ulric was furious in a cold way that he had never experienced. He knew himself to be as close to murder as he'd ever been in his life but he felt it distantly, like it belonged to someone else. This was not the same as with those poachers; he'd felt that as a burning anger, consuming restraint, pulling him along with its beating temperature. Cold rage made him feel like a steel trap, waiting for someone to put their hand too close. She'd tried to kill him and she'd regret it as soon as he could arrange.
"Brighteyes. I am aware that we stand in a hole that I will soon dig deeper. I'd like to get some clarification on a couple of those words that sounded a lot like interesting curses you haven't taught me yet before I give my reply."
Nodding, his Elven ward, turned companion, replied.
"It is ok Ulric, she like this always. And you killed her bow. She called you barbarian yak stool and claimed that you are kin to thrice inbred trolls. These words we have no use for yet in our lessons. And I apologize, you are none of these."
It was Ulric's turn to nod his thanks before he went and made things worse. Forty plus years of engaging in modern discourse had prepared him well for this day. He would have to do proud the internet forums that had honed his wordcraft as a young man, where things were said that would provoke a Jesuit priest to murder.
"Brighteyes, I am sorry that I learn your language so slowly and with incompleteness. Will you translate for me to your sister?"
The kid gestured his acceptance as the sister in question began to vibrate in anger at having been ignored. With the composure of the lord he was trained to be, Brighteyes translated faithfully and didn't even crack a smile. They'd been together long enough he probably had some idea what was coming.
"Lady Sister of my friend Brighteyes," Ulric began with as much condescension as he could manage through a translator, "I am looking at the pinnacle of woman, a goddess descended, who is as ugly in spirit as she is wonderful in form, and with a tongue that promises a deeply unhappy husband. I had expected so much more from the loving stories of your brother, and find the disappointing reality of you like salt in my water."
Sarcasm thick enough to insulate high voltage wire layered his goading diatribe, "Beauty is wasted on fools, sadly, and it is thusly a shame that you are so fumbling in your attempts to greet me, that it almost seemed like you had attempted an ambush, while displaying your lack of courtesy. In comparison to your noble brother, who carries himself as a Lord's son ought, with grand spirit, and has proven himself a comrade of honor, in spite of his youth, you prove that age gives no gifts of grace. Indeed, it grieves me that the Lordling's sister is so ill-bred that she should, to the casual inspection, have failed in the betrayal of the Guestright we share, sneaking and skulking, and was so awkward in her rush to welcome her brother home that it appears that she has clumsily attempted to assail her betters, only to be driven to the ground and disarmed. Easily, I might add."
As young Brighteyes translated, anger turned to stunned shock, back into anger, and then into a promise of terrible, terrible, vengeance. Judging by her expression, ill set to begin with, he was finding success in his slander. It wasn't enough, he found. His leg burned where the arrow had traced it in a thin scarlet line and he was still more than angry, was coldly furious that she'd ruined his morning by attempting to murder him from hiding. And that ranting voice in the back of his head still called for blood and he found himself agreeing with it just a little. Time to shove her over the edge.
"But. As I am a man of just heart, I will forgive your transgressions against my own noble person if you will just turn about slowly so that I can get a better look at those wondrous hams."
It was demeaning. Insulting. Misogynistic. Belittling and objectifying. And, from his perspective at least, it was even mostly true.
Her immediate reply was to hiss at him, being driven to rage that defied language. Then she tried to stab him.
All according to keikaku.
Thoughts of folklore and mythos quieted Ulric and filled his thoughts as they passed through an increasingly lived in landscape. The touch of the Elves was light on the wood though, you could be forgiven for thinking you were walking through a painstakingly preserved nature reserve. The kind of which that could be counted on Ulric's hands, globally, in his old life.
His companion had similarly fallen silent, basking in the return of the familiar. The youth was coming home and thinking whatever things Elves thought about when returning home from a long trip away. Probably about his family. He'd spoken little of his kin or of his life, not that Ulric would complain. They had largely been dealing with things and neither had the personal failing of needing to spoil a perfectly good silence with unnecessary noise. It was one of the reasons Ulric suspected he'd felt none of that old familiar disgruntlement at company.
Too many people felt like they had to be saying something, anything, all the time, for Ulric's liking. It always ended up watering down the experience of them to his mind and prodded him to keep his exposures within short durations, lest it become obvious he was frustrated at being around them. His few friends were of a minimalistic persuasion and he'd more than once been accused by a girlfriend, short in duration as that tended to be, of being a sullen asshole. Maybe he had been, to give them a little credit.
What had become increasingly obvious was that they had entered a realm of relative safety. Distant growls, cries, crashes in the brush, and such had long since faded as the presence of civilization, intertwined with the forest as it was, drove the beasts to skirt away into the true wilds. They passed a large water wheel, turning easily in the current of a small stream, the mechanism inside a mystery to both travelers. Ulric could see several more mills? Whatever they were at large increments down the path of the water. No people though. Odd that.
Unconsciously, both of them had relaxed that tight vigilance which was the first line of defense against the hazards of the Vardan wilderness. Maybe that was why they didn't notice the archer drawing an arrow to cheek from a branch a mere twenty meters away. Or maybe the archer was that good. It would be a cause for discussion later.
Brighteyes yelled around the same time Ulric stopped, some buzzing in his peripheral mind screaming at him to freeze. The arrow, probably meant to take him in the neck, perhaps a crippling shot to the knee, blurred into the dirt with a soft pat. The feathers hadn't stopped vibrating before another was on the way, the attacker reacting to the miss before the targets.
This time Ulric had seen the archer pull the second draw and threw himself to the side cursing. This fucking guy. They'd adjusted for the dodge at the last second and the arrow had carved a thin line of blood across Ulric's calf muscle before joining its companion in the ground. A third arrow would be coming, no time for anything fancy. Ulric ripped his pack off and dipped his shoulders left before he launched himself to the right, a juke straight out of Sweetness' repetoir, and this next arrow, slightly rushed, missed wide, buying Ulric a breath to respond. He'd continued his dodge running to the right of the Archer's tree, forcing them to turn their body, slowing the next arrow and made their life harder by throwing fire as he went.
[Flame Crash]
A gout of billowing flame poured from Ulric's hand towards the tree. It would dissipate at that range, would lack the power that had allowed him to melt the attacker as he had done to the raider before. Even so, most peoples enjoyed a fireball in their face like a visit from Jehovas Witnesses and he was counting on their assailant to be no True Believer.
Meanwhile, Brighteyes, realizing he wasn't the target of the shots, unholstered his bow and drew back for a shot. Then hesitated, apparently unwilling to kill or harm his own people.
Damn. That wasn't exactly a surprise to Ulric but it was making his life, all two minutes of it if this went on, much harder.
"Just shoot at them, for fuck's sake, you don't have to hit'em." Ulric yelled, a little more breathlessly than he would've liked.
He almost thought he'd gotten himself an advantage with the fire until the attacker calmly, with no apparent concern for the billowing heat rushing in, drew back a fourth shot, vaulted the fireball by jumping two meters straight up, and fired at Ulric in midair before coming down to land perfectly on their limb.
That bow had some serious draw strength; the arrow was way too fast, Ulric was forced again to dive aside, the arrow moving through where his legs had been, scrambling briefly before regaining his feet to run. They were targeting his legs, preventing him from getting to a proper sprint, keeping him off balance. Still he had managed to circle the trunk enough to prevent a follow-up with this latest evasion.
Realizing that Ulric's path was taking him around the trunk where another shot wouldn't be possible, the archer moved. They secured the bow over their chest and jumped in a single, smooth motion, grabbed the limb of the tree in line with Ulric's attempted evasion and hauled themselves up one handed to a crouch while readying the bow, nocking, drawing, and releasing, within a few breaths. That was just unfucking fair, was what that was.
Ulric was forced to stop cold, his legs screamed as his feet dug deeply into the forest floor, the arrow cutting off his retreat. Had he not been as nearly inhumanly fast as he was, had he not trained so hard racing with Brighteyes, learning to use his body's agility to its utmost, he'd be dead.
Ok. Enough. There was a time for being diplomatic, and they were well past that.
As the Archer drew their next shot Ulric threw up both hands, heaving at his core as he did. He didn't want to do it, kill one of Brighteyes kin folk, but the Plateau had taught him well; Varda plays for keeps and so would he.
[Water Jet]
A narrow beam of conjured water, eating up his mana at the cost of not using available water from the air, lanced towards the crouched Archer.
They evidently knew this spell was more serious than the last one, they respected it enough to roll backwards off the branch, dropping to the forest floor, landing like they'd been standing there all along as the beam of pressurized water pulverized a deep gouge in the bark of the tree above. And Ulric got his first chance to narrow the gap between them as he didn't need to cast again; he simply drug the water stream down like a liquid carving knife, diagonally, following the fall of the Archer.
High pressure water could cut steel and Ulric's spell ripped a thin line out of the tree as he guided it towards their attacker, who was readying to fire again before they realized that he hadn't stopped the spell. Now they were the one forced to dodge, rolling sideways. But the jet clipped the top handspan off their bow as they did.
Ulric nearly smiled when he saw the tension in the string of their assailant's bow go slack, the weapon rendered useless. His opponent threw the ruined weapon aside and rose to a fighting posture. He'd used more than half his mana pool on that much water but his body felt light from the combat rush and he moved to keep the attacker's back pinned to the tree to limit their mobility. Slowly he moved in closer, keeping his eyes unfocused just in case another attacker was somewhere in his peripherals.
It would appear the game was still on, as they drew a fighting knife as long as Ulric's forearm. That was a knife meant for killing things, curved, broad at the hilt while tapering to its tip, and sharpened down both sides. The Hunter began a measured approach, graceful steps well balanced. Ulric could feel the beating pulse of things now, his attacker was ready to dodge, was expecting some kind of spell to open his own offense.
A belief Ulric intended to make true, he was overcharging a [Flame crash] that would reduce them to cinders with what was left of his mana as soon as they were close enough.
"Stop! Stop! No more, this is done!" Brighteyes yelled.
Brighteyes finally got his shit together long enough to put and arrow between the feet of the bushwacking asshole. Then another at his own. Hey now.
The kid's arrows pulled the both of them up short with only a half dozen meters between them. Ulric had honestly forgotten the lad was there in his focus on the fight. Breathing out, he released his hold on his mana, feeling it settle back down into his core. The beating pulse in his mind vanished, leaving him strangely empty.
For his part, he'd lost his trident at some point. He wasn't too clear about it but the damned thing was all the way over next to the first two arrows so he'd probably dropped it. Memories under stress were a funny thing. What wasn't funny was what Ulric was thinking about doing to this…this…Huh.
Ulric stopped where he was, knife (now where had he gotten that?) forgotten in hand.
Wow, this Elf was smoking hot. He'd been so utterly focused on avoiding the arrows and had barely registered the form of the attacker at all. Now that they were standing still and he wasn't practicing the five d's of dodgeball against arrows that were moving like crossbow bolts he could see her. And, whoo boy, was it a her. Watcher forgive me for I worship at alters other than yours.
Black hair in a waist-length braid, complex weave terminating in a wooden ring, it nearly shimmered blue in the light. She wore dark brown thigh-high leather boots that accentuated strong legs that went on forever. Wide hips flared under a far too sensible set of some grey-green fabric slacks that looked like it might be canvas, or maybe just a thick wool. Her body, attired in a thick doublet of the same material as the slacks over some skintight base layer, maybe silk?, would have made an Olympic volleyball coach sweat. Tall, lean, with two notable exceptions, and powerful. Her face was locked in a hateful grimace, and that was a shame, she was going to get wrinkles in a few centuries like that. Her small cute nose tied together the long curved ears, full lips, and those slightly tilted almond-shaped eyes. Speaking of eyes, they were brilliant viridian jewels cut with burnished bronze flecks and the anger in them did nothing to detract from their beauty. Her skin, what little he could see, was a deeply tanned almost Persian brown that stood in contrast to Brighteyes own pale coloration.
Pretty. And dangerous. Bestill this heart Ulric thought. And here he'd been just about to murder this bewitching creature. Were they all like this? Ulric was already pleasantly surprised at this first contact with the Elven peoples. Brighteyes should have been a good indication. Ulric didn't dig guys but that kid was going to be easy on the eyes when he grew up. It was enough to make Ulric feel bad about the scars that were probably going to be left by those godsdamned monkeys that had bitten the lad, and the broken nose of his capture. The smooth features of these two members of their race were in total contrast to the harshly angled planes and alien features of some traditions. So, probably the interconnections between worlds had been some kind of Northern Germanic, those tales spoke of otherworldly beauties.
Oh, shit. They were talking. At some point Brighteyes had come to stand next to him and the two were exchanging words in their native language. He'd been standing where he'd stopped with the blood roaring in his ears, fight juice sluicing through his body, marveling at Artemis over there and wool gathering. Such a terrible habit.
Ulric gathered himself to try to follow the heated Elven discussion. He didn't sheath the knife though, she still had hers out. She didn't look like she would mind using it either. Maybe because he was staring rather intently with a knife of his own. Or maybe she just didn't like him.
Ulric tried to listen in but this was hopeless. Brighteyes had clearly been going easy on him in their lessons. He was like a kindergartner listening to his parents argue about physics. Some of the words were familiar and Ulric thought he was getting the overall gist of things but most of it was too fast or too subtle to be able to participate. Besides, he wasn't a hundred percent but he was pretty sure he'd heard Brighteyes use the Elven word for "eldest sister" and Ulric hadn't survived as long as he had, in either world, by jumping into sibling disputes. Sister eh? Funny they didn't look much alike, although if the boy had been given to a murderous stare, the eyebrows, chin and the bones of the cheeks might just line up.
What in the hell kind of odds was it that they'd meet kin of the boy just as soon as they got into Iriel proper? That kind of improbability was too spooky to sit well with him. Got a man to thinking that maybe those Watchers did more than just Watch from time to time. It seemed really unfair to Ulric that they'd gone to all the trouble to put on masks just to run into someone who knew Brighteyes first thing. Ah well, it made the kid happy so whatever.
The debate raged on. Brighteyes was championing him, having positioned himself between them, Ulric was sure. Hopefully he'd put in a good word. For his part Ulric tried to project calm confidence while wondering if he'd be able to stop her from putting that knife to work. Godsdamn she was quick. And graceful. Lithe.
Fuck. Ulric shook his head to clear the cobwebs, trying to pick up whatever he could from their heated discussion. He was reminded, not for the first time, that a totally healthy body had totally healthy drives. And a cardiovascular system that was going to embarrass him if this went on much longer. Maybe she had a friend or something. Fuck, man, focus, you almost died a minute a go and she looks...fantastic. And pissed.
MMmm…Ulric was pretty sure she'd just mentioned killing, something about discretion, and…corpses? Corpses. No two ways about it, she was lobbying for murdering him and hiding the body. Must be sore about the bow. Or maybe it was the fireball. As if she hadn't started it by trying to see if he could breathe arrows. Women.
It seemed that Ulric's entirely speculative contemplations regarding her appearance without the wool, maybe keep the boots though, yeah….Ah. Yup. She's super pissed.
Turning to him she jabbed the point of her knife in his direction to underscore her discontent.
"And what do you think you're looking at you s#&*fs? Well? Is there something you have to say? Because I still say your bones belong to the roots and your flesh the worms you three times f*%#%% v!@*. Speak me reason why I don't end the drought under your feet."
Ulric looked over to Brighteyes, eyebrows lifted, who had raised his mask and wore an apologetic expression, lips pinched. His shrug doubled down on their mutual agreement that this was not at all going as they'd hoped. For his own part, Ulric was furious in a cold way that he had never experienced. He knew himself to be as close to murder as he'd ever been in his life but he felt it distantly, like it belonged to someone else. This was not the same as with those poachers; he'd felt that as a burning anger, consuming restraint, pulling him along with its beating temperature. Cold rage made him feel like a steel trap, waiting for someone to put their hand too close. She'd tried to kill him and she'd regret it as soon as he could arrange.
"Brighteyes. I am aware that we stand in a hole that I will soon dig deeper. I'd like to get some clarification on a couple of those words that sounded a lot like interesting curses you haven't taught me yet before I give my reply."
Nodding, his Elven ward, turned companion, replied.
"It is ok Ulric, she like this always. And you killed her bow. She called you barbarian yak stool and claimed that you are kin to thrice inbred trolls. These words we have no use for yet in our lessons. And I apologize, you are none of these."
It was Ulric's turn to nod his thanks before he went and made things worse. Forty plus years of engaging in modern discourse had prepared him well for this day. He would have to do proud the internet forums that had honed his wordcraft as a young man, where things were said that would provoke a Jesuit priest to murder.
"Brighteyes, I am sorry that I learn your language so slowly and with incompleteness. Will you translate for me to your sister?"
The kid gestured his acceptance as the sister in question began to vibrate in anger at having been ignored. With the composure of the lord he was trained to be, Brighteyes translated faithfully and didn't even crack a smile. They'd been together long enough he probably had some idea what was coming.
"Lady Sister of my friend Brighteyes," Ulric began with as much condescension as he could manage through a translator, "I am looking at the pinnacle of woman, a goddess descended, who is as ugly in spirit as she is wonderful in form, and with a tongue that promises a deeply unhappy husband. I had expected so much more from the loving stories of your brother, and find the disappointing reality of you like salt in my water."
Sarcasm thick enough to insulate high voltage wire layered his goading diatribe, "Beauty is wasted on fools, sadly, and it is thusly a shame that you are so fumbling in your attempts to greet me, that it almost seemed like you had attempted an ambush, while displaying your lack of courtesy. In comparison to your noble brother, who carries himself as a Lord's son ought, with grand spirit, and has proven himself a comrade of honor, in spite of his youth, you prove that age gives no gifts of grace. Indeed, it grieves me that the Lordling's sister is so ill-bred that she should, to the casual inspection, have failed in the betrayal of the Guestright we share, sneaking and skulking, and was so awkward in her rush to welcome her brother home that it appears that she has clumsily attempted to assail her betters, only to be driven to the ground and disarmed. Easily, I might add."
As young Brighteyes translated, anger turned to stunned shock, back into anger, and then into a promise of terrible, terrible, vengeance. Judging by her expression, ill set to begin with, he was finding success in his slander. It wasn't enough, he found. His leg burned where the arrow had traced it in a thin scarlet line and he was still more than angry, was coldly furious that she'd ruined his morning by attempting to murder him from hiding. And that ranting voice in the back of his head still called for blood and he found himself agreeing with it just a little. Time to shove her over the edge.
"But. As I am a man of just heart, I will forgive your transgressions against my own noble person if you will just turn about slowly so that I can get a better look at those wondrous hams."
It was demeaning. Insulting. Misogynistic. Belittling and objectifying. And, from his perspective at least, it was even mostly true.
Her immediate reply was to hiss at him, being driven to rage that defied language. Then she tried to stab him.
All according to keikaku.
