Air brushed across his face, tickling the stubble of his scalp as the blade passed within a few millimeters of his temple.
Ulric pushed forward, stabbing, trying desperately to take this hard-earned advantage and press it for victory. He'd spent thirty steps angling for this opening, and now that it had finally revealed itself, he meant to kill.
His knife blade surged forward towards the almond brown skin, soft flesh over the heart ready to be parted. He lost his balance slightly.
His target twisted, turning out of line with the stab, victory vanishing like smoke, as he felt his wrist seized, pulled, the rotating body stealing his momentum and making it into a weapon against himself. His leading ankle, ever so slightly out of alignment, was not stable enough to resist the sweeping foot that cleared his leg from under him.
The world rotated violently and his back hit the ground hard enough to blast the breath out of him.
"Haugh!" he grunted. A booted foot stepped on his wrist and a blade flashed over his throat even before he bounced back to the floor.
He died. Again.
"Fuck! I was so close!" He told the room in accented Elvish, disappointed in himself.
Taipan released her hold on him and reached down to pull him to his feet.
They were both topless, small ribbons of red scored their skin in a web. The "knives" were a type of soft, pliable wood wrapped in some thick moss that bled a sticky red sap when crushed. They showed every stroke that made contact in vivid crimson which would not come off until treated with soap.
"You were close, you forced a disadvantage on me. My slash was all I had to ward you away and you evaded it to find a killing blow. Then you wasted it through over-eagerness; I should not have been able to throw you like that, not if your Root forward step was done correctly." Taipan explained his failing.
She was right. He'd dicked it up. A gap in defenses, as rare as frog fur, and he'd lost his composure. And been "killed" for it.
He sighed his frustration away. It was still progress. Three weeks ago he'd never even have known there was a gap in her defenses. Two months before that and he'd have never been able to create it. Taipan moved like her namesake, fast, decisive, and aggressive. She came on with eye-blurring strikes that found holes in his guard like sand finds pockets in your shoes. And just as hard to keep out.
In the two and a half months of their "git gud" training, this was the closest thing to a victory Ulric had squeaked out.
He was getting better. To an extent he would not have believed.
Idra'se had told him that his feet were finally moving independently of his hands, and in coordination with them, a few days ago. It was a high watermark for Ulric.
The swordmaster and once head of the Royal guard had come through his wounds relatively sound. Minus an eye. Plus a few more scars to his already impressive collection. His maiming hadn't slowed the old Elf noticeably to Ulric. To the man himself though, he'd been hurt badly enough to have passed on the role of leadership of the guard to an Elf named Choric, to assume a more predominant role in training of the next generation of Iriel'en warriors.
His people had need of him. The loss of the Hunter's guild, and those brave souls within, had hurt badly. All through the Winter, the fortress had seen a dramatic focus, like a held breath, as the Elves poured themselves into their preparations, as they strove to reach greater martial heights to offset the loss of their brethren. Ulric had thought them in high gear before. That was a pale thing compared to how they were now.
Training literally never stopped. Every hour of every day, the pavilions of training dummies sang out a staccato of blows against imagined foes. Where before they'd been sanding off the rust, they were now intent on grinding away every iota of softness from themselves. The attack on Irielhos without warning, an unthinkable assault on the heartland, goaded them, drove them headlong into a frenzy. They threw themselves at one another on the practice floor with a violence that inspired awe. Pecking orders amongst the warriors were redrawn from scratch as talents that had merely lacked proper motivation exploded from apparent hibernation. In particular, was the youngest royal guardsman, a fast friend to Ulric named Kryr'st, whom Ulric had dubbed Christ for his gluttony for punishment.
Christ was carving his way up through the ranks, one bruised, frustrated opponent at a time.
Ulric had gotten his ass handed to him at least a couple of dozen times by the young warrior. No longer the friendly practice sessions, Christ didn't have time to humor Ulric's lack of skill. He went full throttle, right from the start, no more sandbagging from that kid. Anything less was a loss to his people of a warrior who could have grown stronger but held back. So, Ulric took his beatings like a man, and Christ gave him a pat on the back and an 'attaboy' and returned to kicking the shit out of everybody who stood in front of him.
Idra'se considered it a good thing for everyone involved, even the more experienced fighters who managed to hold the younger swordsman off.
"None there are who learn faster than those with a razor at their necks." was the old master's summary.
Bald'rt lived. Barely. The once vibrant Elf, a picture of the Iriel'en prime, was a shadow of his former glory. His wives were also depleted, having given much of themselves to hold off the Bane, long after most would have written off his life and turned to vengeance. It spoke volumes about the relationship between the Ladies and their Lord. The very fact that they had risked being destroyed by the Bane themselves was telling. The insidious stuff corrupted its victims into more of itself which would then go on to infect others, meaning just being in proximity to Bald'rt had been incredibly dangerous to them. But stay close they had, and continued to do so. Rarely had they left the convalescent Lord of Iriel without at least two in attendance. Ulric had been able to meet with his Royal hosts on a few occasions.
Weak, sickened, and frail though he was, Bald'rt had lost none of his humor.
"Ulric! So good to see you! I would rise from my bed to greet you, but I hear I had better not or you'll stuff my daughter into it before I could return." Had been the Elf's first words to him on their meeting.
Vedyr turned to Bathe and whispered loudly enough for the room to hear, "I told you we should just let the Bane have him. Just cast the dust and be done with it I said, it will, at least, be quieter around the fortress."
Brief though it was, it was heartening to see Taipan's father alive and on the mend, diminished though he was.
Shor had assured Ulric that the Lord of Iriel would recover his full strength, it was only a matter of time. Unfortunately, as it was, frequently, with the Elves, that time could easily be measured in decades. Iriel was still vulnerable. The four pillars that held it above the fray were reduced, fragile, and unable to sally out to bring ruin to their enemies as once would have been the case. Ulric had to wonder if the enemy had known that Bald'rt's wives would show such dedication to him as to weaken themselves in a nearly impossible attempt to save him. Or, perhaps, they had hoped to catch all the royals together and employ the Weapon on all of them. That seemed…optimistic.
Whatever the case, it didn't change the final outcome. War was coming in a few short weeks. It would largely not be affected by the actions of the Iriel'en royal family, the most potent individuals that the Orlethrem could muster.
Brighteyes estimated five to six before the snows melted back to allow army movements in the plains and lowland forests, the most likely attack angles. Travel up the Zelus was closed, the Zellussin had fortified the banks of the river and turned it into a death trap. Floods in the spring turned the river into a nightmare for transport anyway. Tree trunks and other flotsam, carried in currents unlike anything Ulric had ever heard of, would turn barges, rafts, and even warships into kindling.
Hunters abroad and scouts from the allied forces of the Orlethrem confederation had observed movements of the outermost towns and strongholds of Prespang. Movements that suggested something had gone wrong. The influx of supplies was halted, redistributed, and troops were being deployed with a suggestion of confused orders. A wrench had been thrown into the plan. Ulric liked to think his name was on that wrench but was aware that was probably him being overly egocentric.
Brighteyes had his work cut out for him, a child leading a nation into war. A gifted child trained his entire life for this moment, but a child still. He had, however been handed a great lever with which to turn the situation to his favor. The attack on Irielhos had, ironically, weakened the position of the aggressors. What was intended to be a decapitating strike that accompanied a coup de grace of overwhelming military might in strategically advantageous positions was, instead, a glorified assassination attempt. A failed one.
The Golden Crown, as he was referred to by his people somewhat humorously, though respectfully, had revealed to Ulric the depth of the flaw in their enemy's decision to launch the raid.
"They spent fifteen of the seventeen mages sent against us. Fourteen Adepts, and an Archmage died to achieve what amounts to a bloodying of our nose. Father is hurt but lives and they shiver with fear knowing that the Blood Moon will return. Not to mention, my Mothers will have their strength back in a few more months and I have never seen my Dam so angry. I have heard rumors, from relatives when I visited her homelands in Melond, that she was called the Golden Beast. I have never seen that side of her, but there have been none who were willing to withstand her. Thanks in great part to you, Glade Chief, we have broken the greatest part of their magical power and deprived them of the artifact that allowed all of this to be undertaken."
Just as Ulric had failed his thrust against Taipan, so had Prespang failed their attempt at a mortal blow by being too aggressive to balance their attack. They took a huge hit to their most potent mage corps and gave up the utterly crucial advantage of their ability to circumvent Orlethrem's counterintelligence wards. With those back in place, Orlethrem was, once again, a black box, impenetrable.
Ulric's declared intent to take a counterstroke to Prosper, made known to the Royals, was greeted with support but not necessarily enthusiasm. Brighteyes viewed it as unnecessary and too great an extension, Idra thought he wasn't ready, and Bald'rt feared that the absence of the ruling Lord for too long would cause even more instability in the creatures roaming the plateau. The canopy seethed, according to scouting reports.
Taipan deferred her judgment, saying only "I will go where you go."
Breaking away from his musings, Ulric clapped his hands loudly, announcing to his bodyguard and trainer, "Lunchtime!" before reaching for his shirt, tossing the tall, lithe Elf her own clothes as well.
They dressed, Ulric in a replacement for his destroyed robes. Taipan was in her normal Hunter's attire, as she had been every day since the attack. It would seem she had decided that she would be ready to intercept assassins at all times now. It was some kind of comforting to Ulric, knowing that she was on her toes.
Ulric considered briefly his own mottled hide before he pulled the shirt on and donned the overrobe. The scars, not so much scars as completely regrown skin, had faded to the pale default of his natural tone. The more minor burns had healed without further intervention, eventually peeling to reveal healthy flesh beneath. Hair was growing back in, finally. His stamina, drained substantially by the entire process had recovered to full over the first weeks following his "release" from the Arcanum. Every day since he'd spent training, at least ten hours each day.
Mornings he spent getting his ass beat by Taipan, afternoons he spent in study with an unexpected tutor of the arcane, the very Instructor Gother who had led his children's classes in Iriel'en culture, trade, and custom.
True to her word Taipan had shown him most of the ways she knew to kill a man. Some hundred Vardan years worth of practice killing monsters and men she drilled into him. Nothing was off limits. In throat jabs, eye gouges, some way of hitting the liver that sent slivers of molten pain through him, kidney punches, and more, Taipan instructed him. Mostly through direct experience. She started at the top of the list of dirty tricks and went through it alphabetically. He had to wonder at a mind that contained so many diverse, creative ways to inflict pain and mortal injury.
Then she introduced him to knife work. A nasty business, as he'd suspected ever since seeing Brighteyes bloody to the shoulder in monkey guts. The stripes of red on their bodies, now hidden by their clothes showed the reality of a knife fight. When two combatants were of approximately the same skill there were rarely winners, just different times of death. It was good to learn though, it taught Ulric the power of extreme aggression and sleight of hand. To overwhelm the opponent with violence, inflicting savage wounds through small, efficient, highly leveraged movements in the places that bled most heavily. To hide the true angle of attack behind a feint or distraction. Against his armor, many of the techniques were not as effective, but against a less heavily protected enemy a dagger was incredibly dangerous. It was also easily concealed and quickly drawn, capable of inflicting a mortal wound in a single moment of lapsed attention.
An Iriel'en combat drill involved an eight-by-eight square grid of warriors standing at attention, hands to their sides. The trainee walked into the grid and had to retrieve a colored strip of cloth that was tied to one of the grid member's arms. Every ten or so seconds the grid shuffled to rearrange the positions of the warriors. Of the sixty-four warriors, eight had blunt wooden knives secreted on their person. They would attempt to murder the trainee by surprise as they maneuvered through the grid, and were not gentle with their encouragements that you pay attention. Sometimes the person with the strip on their arm would be one of the eight, sometimes not. It taught you to keep your head on a fucking swivel real quick.
Taipan made no bones about her true combat role being silent murder from stealth. She elevated moving into a blind spot and staying there, even when the objective was moving and searching into an art form. When she was on her game, not distracted or underestimating her enemy to a criminal degree, Ulric could see why her former brethren respected her. Speaking of those, gone was her awkwardness around the other Iriel'en warriors, gone was the longing to join them. She had thrown that away when she committed herself to her new role, to her new name. They were more comfortable in dealing with her too. No longer was her moniker a source of veiled insult or a thing for joking. She wore her name as proudly as she had her old one, in some ways more so; this name she had earned herself.
He considered his time spent with Taipan as they strolled towards the cafeteria on the sixth level of Irielhos, the location of his new apartments, after his old had been more or less turned to ashen char.
Taipan had a gift for hunting Humans, for better or worse, and she tried to impart to Ulric, with mixed success. He wasn't as bonelessly agile as she was, he lacked her coordination and flexibility. What he could do was move faster, in a straight line. Where she might weave between pieces of cover, he would, in a single linear dash, cross the intervening distance. She had told him, with some pride, like a teacher praising their student's growth, that he had a frightening instinct for when to close a gap, becoming suddenly threatening. He took advantage of this to shift into and out of ranges, to feint and invade the space of his opponent, unbalancing them.
Ulric would never forget the terror-inspiring charge of the [Forest Lord], raw power moving with incredible fury to crush its prey beneath it. He let that image guide him in his developing combat style. It also played into his other strength: battle magic.
Ulric was one of the rare beings that could use aggressive spells in the heat of a fight. It gave him the flexibility to pressure opponents at range and in close quarters, finding and exploiting their vulnerabilities from a wide variety of directions.
He had learned that it was vanishingly uncommon to be gifted at both. Most had to choose, develop the body, channel their core's power into their skills, and mature their combat abilities, as was the case for most melee classes, or, learn the lore, the techniques to externalize their mana into the elemental spellforms for evocation, as was the case for mage classes. Ulric had both types of classes. His body was already naturally weaponized, and his core was as potent as could be expected of an unawakened core. The learning and experience of his previous life filled the gap in his knowledge to allow him to utilize magic as a mage with far more experience would.
Taipan assured him that, while developing both talents was going to be time-consuming and difficult, he would eventually hybridize his classes into a battle mage class, depending on his specialization and emergent style. It hadn't happened yet.
For two and a half months, ever since being nearly killed by the assault mage, Ulric had strived single-mindedly to grow these various skills as quickly as possible. As he'd learned this morning, despite his failure, Ulric was turning a corner. He was becoming a problem, even for drastically more skilled opponents. All he needed was time. Sadly, he was nearly out of that.
Spring was on the horizon. As his steps absently mirrored those taken at nearly identical times for over sixty days unbroken, he noted the lack of daggers in the Winter air. The grip of the season was weakening. All too soon and Ulric would get to see what the revival of the Deep Wood had to offer. If he was still around to witness it.
When the snows melted and the torrential downpours of the early part of the season of rebirth ended, making roads passable, it was almost certain that war would come again to Orlethrem. Iriel would spearhead this conflict. The Deep Wood was dripping bloody thoughts. Ulric shared them. He thought to move out before the snows were gone, to get a jump on the hostilities.
What Ulric wanted to accomplish was what his enemies had wanted for their own campaign: to destroy the leadership. He wanted to infiltrate the territory of Prespang and find whoever it was that was guiding events down the inevitable track they had followed. Some force had seized control of the Northern City States, and had unified the Otherkin into a cohesive force. That same power had maneuvered Prosper's Merchant Lords into funding the effort and into utilizing their resources to obtain a war chest to attempt to crush the less numerous forces of Orlethrem.
The fucker had also attempted genocide with a "dirty bomb", the Bane, and had a hit taken out on Ulric, resulting in his own self being halfway to charbroiled.
So, yes, Ulric had taken the conflict personally.
Air brushed across his face, tickling the stubble of his scalp as the blade passed within a few millimeters of his temple.
Ulric pushed forward, stabbing, trying desperately to take this hard-earned advantage and press it for victory. He'd spent thirty steps angling for this opening, and now that it had finally revealed itself, he meant to kill.
His knife blade surged forward towards the almond brown skin, soft flesh over the heart ready to be parted. He lost his balance slightly.
His target twisted, turning out of line with the stab, victory vanishing like smoke, as he felt his wrist seized, pulled, the rotating body stealing his momentum and making it into a weapon against himself. His leading ankle, ever so slightly out of alignment, was not stable enough to resist the sweeping foot that cleared his leg from under him.
The world rotated violently and his back hit the ground hard enough to blast the breath out of him.
"Haugh!" he grunted. A booted foot stepped on his wrist and a blade flashed over his throat even before he bounced back to the floor.
He died. Again.
"Fuck! I was so close!" He told the room in accented Elvish, disappointed in himself.
Taipan released her hold on him and reached down to pull him to his feet.
They were both topless, small ribbons of red scored their skin in a web. The "knives" were a type of soft, pliable wood wrapped in some thick moss that bled a sticky red sap when crushed. They showed every stroke that made contact in vivid crimson which would not come off until treated with soap.
"You were close, you forced a disadvantage on me. My slash was all I had to ward you away and you evaded it to find a killing blow. Then you wasted it through over-eagerness; I should not have been able to throw you like that, not if your Root forward step was done correctly." Taipan explained his failing.
She was right. He'd dicked it up. A gap in defenses, as rare as frog fur, and he'd lost his composure. And been "killed" for it.
He sighed his frustration away. It was still progress. Three weeks ago he'd never even have known there was a gap in her defenses. Two months before that and he'd have never been able to create it. Taipan moved like her namesake, fast, decisive, and aggressive. She came on with eye-blurring strikes that found holes in his guard like sand finds pockets in your shoes. And just as hard to keep out.
In the two and a half months of their "git gud" training, this was the closest thing to a victory Ulric had squeaked out.
He was getting better. To an extent he would not have believed.
Idra'se had told him that his feet were finally moving independently of his hands, and in coordination with them, a few days ago. It was a high watermark for Ulric.
The swordmaster and once head of the Royal guard had come through his wounds relatively sound. Minus an eye. Plus a few more scars to his already impressive collection. His maiming hadn't slowed the old Elf noticeably to Ulric. To the man himself though, he'd been hurt badly enough to have passed on the role of leadership of the guard to an Elf named Choric, to assume a more predominant role in training of the next generation of Iriel'en warriors.
His people had need of him. The loss of the Hunter's guild, and those brave souls within, had hurt badly. All through the Winter, the fortress had seen a dramatic focus, like a held breath, as the Elves poured themselves into their preparations, as they strove to reach greater martial heights to offset the loss of their brethren. Ulric had thought them in high gear before. That was a pale thing compared to how they were now.
Training literally never stopped. Every hour of every day, the pavilions of training dummies sang out a staccato of blows against imagined foes. Where before they'd been sanding off the rust, they were now intent on grinding away every iota of softness from themselves. The attack on Irielhos without warning, an unthinkable assault on the heartland, goaded them, drove them headlong into a frenzy. They threw themselves at one another on the practice floor with a violence that inspired awe. Pecking orders amongst the warriors were redrawn from scratch as talents that had merely lacked proper motivation exploded from apparent hibernation. In particular, was the youngest royal guardsman, a fast friend to Ulric named Kryr'st, whom Ulric had dubbed Christ for his gluttony for punishment.
Christ was carving his way up through the ranks, one bruised, frustrated opponent at a time.
Ulric had gotten his ass handed to him at least a couple of dozen times by the young warrior. No longer the friendly practice sessions, Christ didn't have time to humor Ulric's lack of skill. He went full throttle, right from the start, no more sandbagging from that kid. Anything less was a loss to his people of a warrior who could have grown stronger but held back. So, Ulric took his beatings like a man, and Christ gave him a pat on the back and an 'attaboy' and returned to kicking the shit out of everybody who stood in front of him.
Idra'se considered it a good thing for everyone involved, even the more experienced fighters who managed to hold the younger swordsman off.
"None there are who learn faster than those with a razor at their necks." was the old master's summary.
Bald'rt lived. Barely. The once vibrant Elf, a picture of the Iriel'en prime, was a shadow of his former glory. His wives were also depleted, having given much of themselves to hold off the Bane, long after most would have written off his life and turned to vengeance. It spoke volumes about the relationship between the Ladies and their Lord. The very fact that they had risked being destroyed by the Bane themselves was telling. The insidious stuff corrupted its victims into more of itself which would then go on to infect others, meaning just being in proximity to Bald'rt had been incredibly dangerous to them. But stay close they had, and continued to do so. Rarely had they left the convalescent Lord of Iriel without at least two in attendance. Ulric had been able to meet with his Royal hosts on a few occasions.
Weak, sickened, and frail though he was, Bald'rt had lost none of his humor.
"Ulric! So good to see you! I would rise from my bed to greet you, but I hear I had better not or you'll stuff my daughter into it before I could return." Had been the Elf's first words to him on their meeting.
Vedyr turned to Bathe and whispered loudly enough for the room to hear, "I told you we should just let the Bane have him. Just cast the dust and be done with it I said, it will, at least, be quieter around the fortress."
Brief though it was, it was heartening to see Taipan's father alive and on the mend, diminished though he was.
Shor had assured Ulric that the Lord of Iriel would recover his full strength, it was only a matter of time. Unfortunately, as it was, frequently, with the Elves, that time could easily be measured in decades. Iriel was still vulnerable. The four pillars that held it above the fray were reduced, fragile, and unable to sally out to bring ruin to their enemies as once would have been the case. Ulric had to wonder if the enemy had known that Bald'rt's wives would show such dedication to him as to weaken themselves in a nearly impossible attempt to save him. Or, perhaps, they had hoped to catch all the royals together and employ the Weapon on all of them. That seemed…optimistic.
Whatever the case, it didn't change the final outcome. War was coming in a few short weeks. It would largely not be affected by the actions of the Iriel'en royal family, the most potent individuals that the Orlethrem could muster.
Brighteyes estimated five to six before the snows melted back to allow army movements in the plains and lowland forests, the most likely attack angles. Travel up the Zelus was closed, the Zellussin had fortified the banks of the river and turned it into a death trap. Floods in the spring turned the river into a nightmare for transport anyway. Tree trunks and other flotsam, carried in currents unlike anything Ulric had ever heard of, would turn barges, rafts, and even warships into kindling.
Hunters abroad and scouts from the allied forces of the Orlethrem confederation had observed movements of the outermost towns and strongholds of Prespang. Movements that suggested something had gone wrong. The influx of supplies was halted, redistributed, and troops were being deployed with a suggestion of confused orders. A wrench had been thrown into the plan. Ulric liked to think his name was on that wrench but was aware that was probably him being overly egocentric.
Brighteyes had his work cut out for him, a child leading a nation into war. A gifted child trained his entire life for this moment, but a child still. He had, however been handed a great lever with which to turn the situation to his favor. The attack on Irielhos had, ironically, weakened the position of the aggressors. What was intended to be a decapitating strike that accompanied a coup de grace of overwhelming military might in strategically advantageous positions was, instead, a glorified assassination attempt. A failed one.
The Golden Crown, as he was referred to by his people somewhat humorously, though respectfully, had revealed to Ulric the depth of the flaw in their enemy's decision to launch the raid.
"They spent fifteen of the seventeen mages sent against us. Fourteen Adepts, and an Archmage died to achieve what amounts to a bloodying of our nose. Father is hurt but lives and they shiver with fear knowing that the Blood Moon will return. Not to mention, my Mothers will have their strength back in a few more months and I have never seen my Dam so angry. I have heard rumors, from relatives when I visited her homelands in Melond, that she was called the Golden Beast. I have never seen that side of her, but there have been none who were willing to withstand her. Thanks in great part to you, Glade Chief, we have broken the greatest part of their magical power and deprived them of the artifact that allowed all of this to be undertaken."
Just as Ulric had failed his thrust against Taipan, so had Prespang failed their attempt at a mortal blow by being too aggressive to balance their attack. They took a huge hit to their most potent mage corps and gave up the utterly crucial advantage of their ability to circumvent Orlethrem's counterintelligence wards. With those back in place, Orlethrem was, once again, a black box, impenetrable.
Ulric's declared intent to take a counterstroke to Prosper, made known to the Royals, was greeted with support but not necessarily enthusiasm. Brighteyes viewed it as unnecessary and too great an extension, Idra thought he wasn't ready, and Bald'rt feared that the absence of the ruling Lord for too long would cause even more instability in the creatures roaming the plateau. The canopy seethed, according to scouting reports.
Taipan deferred her judgment, saying only "I will go where you go."
Breaking away from his musings, Ulric clapped his hands loudly, announcing to his bodyguard and trainer, "Lunchtime!" before reaching for his shirt, tossing the tall, lithe Elf her own clothes as well.
They dressed, Ulric in a replacement for his destroyed robes. Taipan was in her normal Hunter's attire, as she had been every day since the attack. It would seem she had decided that she would be ready to intercept assassins at all times now. It was some kind of comforting to Ulric, knowing that she was on her toes.
Ulric considered briefly his own mottled hide before he pulled the shirt on and donned the overrobe. The scars, not so much scars as completely regrown skin, had faded to the pale default of his natural tone. The more minor burns had healed without further intervention, eventually peeling to reveal healthy flesh beneath. Hair was growing back in, finally. His stamina, drained substantially by the entire process had recovered to full over the first weeks following his "release" from the Arcanum. Every day since he'd spent training, at least ten hours each day.
Mornings he spent getting his ass beat by Taipan, afternoons he spent in study with an unexpected tutor of the arcane, the very Instructor Gother who had led his children's classes in Iriel'en culture, trade, and custom.
True to her word Taipan had shown him most of the ways she knew to kill a man. Some hundred Vardan years worth of practice killing monsters and men she drilled into him. Nothing was off limits. In throat jabs, eye gouges, some way of hitting the liver that sent slivers of molten pain through him, kidney punches, and more, Taipan instructed him. Mostly through direct experience. She started at the top of the list of dirty tricks and went through it alphabetically. He had to wonder at a mind that contained so many diverse, creative ways to inflict pain and mortal injury.
Then she introduced him to knife work. A nasty business, as he'd suspected ever since seeing Brighteyes bloody to the shoulder in monkey guts. The stripes of red on their bodies, now hidden by their clothes showed the reality of a knife fight. When two combatants were of approximately the same skill there were rarely winners, just different times of death. It was good to learn though, it taught Ulric the power of extreme aggression and sleight of hand. To overwhelm the opponent with violence, inflicting savage wounds through small, efficient, highly leveraged movements in the places that bled most heavily. To hide the true angle of attack behind a feint or distraction. Against his armor, many of the techniques were not as effective, but against a less heavily protected enemy a dagger was incredibly dangerous. It was also easily concealed and quickly drawn, capable of inflicting a mortal wound in a single moment of lapsed attention.
An Iriel'en combat drill involved an eight-by-eight square grid of warriors standing at attention, hands to their sides. The trainee walked into the grid and had to retrieve a colored strip of cloth that was tied to one of the grid member's arms. Every ten or so seconds the grid shuffled to rearrange the positions of the warriors. Of the sixty-four warriors, eight had blunt wooden knives secreted on their person. They would attempt to murder the trainee by surprise as they maneuvered through the grid, and were not gentle with their encouragements that you pay attention. Sometimes the person with the strip on their arm would be one of the eight, sometimes not. It taught you to keep your head on a fucking swivel real quick.
Taipan made no bones about her true combat role being silent murder from stealth. She elevated moving into a blind spot and staying there, even when the objective was moving and searching into an art form. When she was on her game, not distracted or underestimating her enemy to a criminal degree, Ulric could see why her former brethren respected her. Speaking of those, gone was her awkwardness around the other Iriel'en warriors, gone was the longing to join them. She had thrown that away when she committed herself to her new role, to her new name. They were more comfortable in dealing with her too. No longer was her moniker a source of veiled insult or a thing for joking. She wore her name as proudly as she had her old one, in some ways more so; this name she had earned herself.
He considered his time spent with Taipan as they strolled towards the cafeteria on the sixth level of Irielhos, the location of his new apartments, after his old had been more or less turned to ashen char.
Taipan had a gift for hunting Humans, for better or worse, and she tried to impart to Ulric, with mixed success. He wasn't as bonelessly agile as she was, he lacked her coordination and flexibility. What he could do was move faster, in a straight line. Where she might weave between pieces of cover, he would, in a single linear dash, cross the intervening distance. She had told him, with some pride, like a teacher praising their student's growth, that he had a frightening instinct for when to close a gap, becoming suddenly threatening. He took advantage of this to shift into and out of ranges, to feint and invade the space of his opponent, unbalancing them.
Ulric would never forget the terror-inspiring charge of the [Forest Lord], raw power moving with incredible fury to crush its prey beneath it. He let that image guide him in his developing combat style. It also played into his other strength: battle magic.
Ulric was one of the rare beings that could use aggressive spells in the heat of a fight. It gave him the flexibility to pressure opponents at range and in close quarters, finding and exploiting their vulnerabilities from a wide variety of directions.
He had learned that it was vanishingly uncommon to be gifted at both. Most had to choose, develop the body, channel their core's power into their skills, and mature their combat abilities, as was the case for most melee classes, or, learn the lore, the techniques to externalize their mana into the elemental spellforms for evocation, as was the case for mage classes. Ulric had both types of classes. His body was already naturally weaponized, and his core was as potent as could be expected of an unawakened core. The learning and experience of his previous life filled the gap in his knowledge to allow him to utilize magic as a mage with far more experience would.
Taipan assured him that, while developing both talents was going to be time-consuming and difficult, he would eventually hybridize his classes into a battle mage class, depending on his specialization and emergent style. It hadn't happened yet.
For two and a half months, ever since being nearly killed by the assault mage, Ulric had strived single-mindedly to grow these various skills as quickly as possible. As he'd learned this morning, despite his failure, Ulric was turning a corner. He was becoming a problem, even for drastically more skilled opponents. All he needed was time. Sadly, he was nearly out of that.
Spring was on the horizon. As his steps absently mirrored those taken at nearly identical times for over sixty days unbroken, he noted the lack of daggers in the Winter air. The grip of the season was weakening. All too soon and Ulric would get to see what the revival of the Deep Wood had to offer. If he was still around to witness it.
When the snows melted and the torrential downpours of the early part of the season of rebirth ended, making roads passable, it was almost certain that war would come again to Orlethrem. Iriel would spearhead this conflict. The Deep Wood was dripping bloody thoughts. Ulric shared them. He thought to move out before the snows were gone, to get a jump on the hostilities.
What Ulric wanted to accomplish was what his enemies had wanted for their own campaign: to destroy the leadership. He wanted to infiltrate the territory of Prespang and find whoever it was that was guiding events down the inevitable track they had followed. Some force had seized control of the Northern City States, and had unified the Otherkin into a cohesive force. That same power had maneuvered Prosper's Merchant Lords into funding the effort and into utilizing their resources to obtain a war chest to attempt to crush the less numerous forces of Orlethrem.
The fucker had also attempted genocide with a "dirty bomb", the Bane, and had a hit taken out on Ulric, resulting in his own self being halfway to charbroiled.
So, yes, Ulric had taken the conflict personally.
