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Author Topic: One Father Is Worth A Hundred Mentors  (Read 64 times)

Description: tag: Drakkar (193 AP; After Duel, before DN Diplomacy)

Offline Abaddon al-Sabbah

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    • Drakkarson; The Young Spider

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One Father Is Worth A Hundred Mentors
« on: Mar 13, 19, 11:32:16 AM »
True to his word, Abaddon was at Shatterspine Falls at dawn every day since he had made the challenge public.  He had let his Father and Illyrian know what was where he was to be found when the sun rose.  He did not think the idea that Abaddon would be essentially fighting for his life before breakfast pleased them, but he had deemed it necessary.  He did not have the patience to teach every Eyrien the lessons that he and his Father had taught each other.  He had the foreknowledge to help Heal one mind, and that mind had been Drakkar’s.  The rest of them had to learn the hard way, especially those Blood Seekers that insisted the ‘Abomination had ensorceled’ their leader.  The Black Widow Warlord Prince was not sure which idea annoyed him more, that he was being called an ‘abomination’ or that they somehow assumed Drakkar could not come to a new decision on his own.

Whatever the motivation, Abaddon was there, and easily ready for any fight that was brought to him.  He had rage to spare, and in Askavi, no reason at all to restrain himself.  The first few challengers had seen him as a stripling, his draw with Drakkar just a trick, an illusion perpetrated by an abomination of Male and Female caste.  Someone even said that Abaddon should have been drowned in a bucket at birth, and the Pruulian-raised Black Widow Male had responded poorly to that.  That one had been the first casualty of these morning duels.  Death was always possible, but where Abaddon had the upper-hand, he tried to avoid it, despite all his instincts driving him to do the opposite.  He was trying to win hearts and minds, not cull the stupid, though he certainly considered the latter as a solution.  The Young Spider had hoped that the Eyriens would simply learn to avoid him, and keep their mouths shut, but alas.  Centures old habits apparently died hard, especially against Abaddon.

Abaddon had believed that morning would be little different, so he had asked for his Father to find him there.  They were supposed to begin a trip of some kind, a whirlwind tour of Askavi, though he did not see how they could do that.  He could not fly, and so much of the Territory sort of demanded that.  He was, however, endlessly stubborn, and good at finding alternate solutions.  There was only one challenger that morning, though he had a few hangers on in his entourage, and Abaddon could smell the Dark Jewel on him.  He recognized some of the sycophants as well, lighter Jeweled warriors, one of them was brother to a man that Abaddon had stolen the skill of Flight from.  They had dueled after the man hurled some particularly toxic verbal poison at him, and Abaddon had basically shut his brain down to end the duel.  Then he went in, and specifically excised the ability to fly.  He had not stored it anywhere, the fool would have to learn it all again.

Now they had sought the darkest Male they could that was willing to battle the Red Abomination.  Idiots.  They had stopped underestimating his martial ability, and instead had forgotten a key component of strategy; know the enemy.  Abaddon wasn’t just a Warlord Prince, he was a Black Widow, and he was using all of his tools for these skirmishes.  Drakkar had fought half of his Son, the one that did not use Webs or poisoned blades.  Abaddon had warned them all, ”Do not expect the same concessions I made for my Father.”  But perhaps the words had too many syllables for these Warriors.  Abaddon waited until they were  done boosting each other’s morale, and leaned casually against a shaped block used by spectators to watch the sanctioned combats that happened there.  The Dark Jeweled Warlord Prince made his approach, and issued his challenge.

”You, half-breed dog.  I, Baltar, challenge your mongrel-self to a death duel.”

Abaddon raised an eyebrow, ”Are you certain?”

Baltar blinked, ”Of course I am, Abomination.  You are a stain to be cleansed from Askavi.”

”Weapons?”

”Anything you bring to bear, I will match.”

”As you say then.  Do you understand who I am?”

”You are Abaddon, tainted son of the Warlord Prince of Askavi.”

”And you will fight me on these terms anyway?”

”Yes, or any others.”

Abaddon got to his feet, and conjured the broken sword that belonged to his Father.  He had since shaped it into a knife, though the length and shape of the hilt allowed for variations in his usual technique.  The blade gleamed in the rising light of the dawn.  ”As you wish.  We may begin whenever you are ready.”  The last words were a growl, and the Black Widow Male stepped to the Killing Edge as easily as someone else might take a step down a flight of stairs.

Baltar drew a swords, roared his defiance, rose to the Killing Edge, and hurled himself at Abaddon.  The morning air cooled swiftly, the breath of the few onlookers could be seen misting from their mouths and noses like smoke.  The shaped stone around the fighters frosted over, and the sound of steel on steel echoed over the cacophony of the falls.  They clashed and clashed and clashed again, Abaddon apparently on the defensive, using both Craft and skill in his maneuvers.  With nothing barred, Baltar attempted to gain the upper hand and take to the air, intending to rain power down on the younger fighter.  In doing so, he activated a trap Abaddon had slapped to his skin when they were in close quarters.  Wiry silk wound around the wings, and tightened with a speed and strength that cut into flesh and leathery skin, and snapped numerous bones.  Baltar fell back to the dust of the arena, crying out, startled by the results of his folly.

As he fell, Abaddon shredded his shields with the unbridled power of his Red, and rushed at him in what became a shockingly swift and short clash of blades.  The Black Widow Warlord Prince opened a cut on Baltar’s cheek, and then leaped away, out of reach, and vanished his blade and with it, the Killing Edge.  Abaddon clasped his hands behind him, as Baltar’s hand went to his cheek, and he growled at the blood he found on his fingertips.

”Are you forfeiting, coward?”

Abaddon shook his head, ”No, I already won.”

”Not while I stand!”  It took a moment, but Abaddon watched as the flesh turned bruised along the cut on on Baltar’s face, mottling his flesh before the flesh itself seemed to begin to rot.  He stumbled backward, one step, then two, and then fell down to roll to his side.  ”How?”

Abaddon walked over and crouched beside the warrior, ”Did they not tell you I was a Black Widow?”  His eyes lifted to the warriors that had cost Askavi a Dark Jewel.  ”You lot will answer to Drakkar himself.  He will be here shortly.”

Baltar twitched, writhed, cried out in agony, and died in a twisted heap on the arena floor.  Abaddon rose to his feet, and regarded the rest with burning eyes, ”Anyone else?”










Offline Drakkar Estaroth

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Re: One Father Is Worth A Hundred Mentors
« Reply #1 on: Mar 21, 19, 10:54:37 PM »
The soreness and pain had faded, but Drakkar often dreamed about the feel of Abaddon’s knives licking across his skin. Drakkar would not have said aloud that he was a different man since that day, but he felt it. The weight of his cold rage did not sit as heavily on his shoulders as it once did. The clarity it brought still existed and sharpened Drakkar’s perceptions of the people around him, but the rage itself could be inspected, used, or set aside as he chose. He wondered if Abaddon had done something in that regard, if he’d used his Black Widow skills to dull his senses somehow, but he immediately discarded the thought as soon as it arose. He and Abaddon had nearly killed each other during the fight. If he’d wanted to, all it would have taken was the use of his snaketooth to destroy Drakkar utterly.

It was strange but Drakkar trusted Abaddon to stand beside him, rather than against him, now that they understood each other.

That was part of why he wanted to take this trip, to go on this walkabout with his son, the Black Widow Warlord Prince, and teach him of his heritage. For all that Terreille would shame Askavi and ignore its existence, Askavi had many landmarks and wonderful places to see. Despite the Hayllians’ attack and the Purge, Askavi had never been conquered or subjugated to foreign rulers. A small distinction to some but a point of pride to his people.

After the morning meal, Drakkar had taken the time to pack some belongings and enjoy the solitude of his room. He did not speak to Illyrian of his plans immediately, for he knew that doing so would steal his desire to take this time away. In truth, they both needed to be away from each other for awhile. He’d risked his life without consulting her. She’d not called him out for it, perhaps because she didn’t want to disrupt the tentative peace that developed between them. Drakkar’s thoughts turned to his Queen and her needs more often these days. Drakkar did not know if something had changed inside of him or with their bond, but perhaps time with Abaddon would help him figure out how to settle the shift inside of himself.

So he packed, albeit slowly, and set his room in order. He made his bed. He organized his desk. He made sure all was clear and clean. When there was nothing else to move or change, Drakkar gathered his pack and went to Illyrian’s office to explain his absence.

An hour later, Drakkar left with his Queen’s blessing.

Abaddon said he would be at Shatterspine Falls, so Drakkar took flight and headed there after him. He’d not looked not gone there to see the dueling ring since their fight. The Warlord Prince of Askavi rarely spent time in places where he nearly died, but Shatterspine Falls also held an altar where Celebrian had guided Drakkar in Communing with the Darkness. Drakkar was glad that Abaddon seemed to have found a connection to the same place, but perhaps for a different reason than Drakkar.

He was inbound toward the dueling ring when he saw Abaddon and another warrior circling each other. The remaining warriors standing around the dueling ring were clearly sided against Abaddon. Drakkar flew faster, hoping that he could head off what might easily become a deadly situation the moment Abaddon won. And he would win because he was a Black Widow and a Warlord Prince and there was no one else in Askavi who could prepare for such a dangerous combination blended into one man.

By the time he landed, one man was laying on the floor of the dueling circle, death taking him. The other warriors looked like they planned to seek revenge until Drakkar touched down and circled to Abaddon’s side, though he placed himself between his son and the other warriors. Faced with two Warlord Princes, these warriors suddenly seemed keen to reconsider their chances.

Prince Estaroth, it is good that you’ve come. This man has  murdered a warrior of Askavi through dishonorable means!” said a male with dark hair streaked with gray. It took Drakkar a moment to place him as Tomminar Delvok, a warrior of the Thousand Skulls War Camp, serving under Kestian’s father , and his uncle, Lokar. Tomminar glared at Abaddon, but the Prince quickly turned his attention to Drakkar.

Prince Delvok, the man you reference has a name. He calls himself Abaddon Drakkarson and you’d be wise to use that name before he takes further offense at...whatever this was about to become before my arrival.” Drakkar said.

He just murdered one of my men. I served with Baltar Kurmenov! He killed him without cause!

Drakkar was quiet for a moment. “Attempting to kill a Warlord Prince is to forfeit one’s life. Do you deny that is what happened here?” Drakkar asked.

It was a duel, yes, but he used poison. There is no honor in that.” Tomminar snarled.

Prince Drakkarson, did you inform these men of what you are?” he said to Abaddon, without taking his eyes off of Tomminar or the men who stood with him.










Offline Abaddon al-Sabbah

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    • Drakkarson; The Young Spider

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Re: One Father Is Worth A Hundred Mentors
« Reply #2 on: Mar 22, 19, 01:30:57 PM »
Abaddon could feel his Father’s approach.  He was too heavily invested in Drakkar for him not to.  He was not just his Father, he was a part of lifelong dreams and visions, and now he was someone whose mind and chalice he had touched.  Only his Queen could reach farther into him than Abaddon could.  When the Warlord Prince of Askavi landed, he placed himself between his Black Widow son, and the other potential challengers.  Abaddon paced  behind the winged Eyrien Male, eying the others.  He expected these men to hide behind politics, just as they had hoped to hide behind their Dark Jeweled friend.  It was a shame, because Abaddon understood, better than these men seemed to, what such a lost truly cost Askavi as a whole.  This lot were so lost in their own sense of pride, they never thought to count the cost.

”I was addressed as ‘Abomination’, Father.”  Abaddon answered, and pointed to the dead man.  ”And I asked this Prince if he was certain about his challenge.”  He lifted his chin to indicate the others, ”They have been here before, to see me challenged and victorious, they know very well who and what I am.”

Abaddon growled, ”I can remove their memories altogether if they continue to misuse them.”  He glared at those assembled, ”You thought to see me humbled, or dead, and now you complain about the tools?  I gave your ‘champion’ ample warning, and he chose to ignore them—to prove his worth to you fools—and this is the end result..”  Abaddon hooked a thumb over his shoulder to the dead man.

He grumbled under his breath and stepped forward to stand beside Drakkar, ”Poison or blade.  Craft or bone.  Time and again you and others have chosen, and failed.  I have not bewitched the Warlord Prince of Askavi, and I do not need wings to lay any of you low.”  He growled again, spreading his web out as they continued to complain to Drakkar, each point of contact was accompanied by a change in direction as he paced away and back to his Father.  He could poison them all, right now, and he probably should, but the Web he had spread would render them senseless, even if they raised their shields, the Black Widow spell was already beneath them.  *If Askavi did not need their fighters, they would all be suffering.  You save their hides, Father, they do not know it.*

Abaddon stopped his pacing, and glared at the lot, ”Leave now, and be spared.”  He stepped forward, "Remain, and I will render you into drooling idiots."

The remaining Eyriens at first looked confused, then attempted to look amused, before they backed up a few steps and looked to Drakkar for support.











Offline Drakkar Estaroth

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Re: One Father Is Worth A Hundred Mentors
« Reply #3 on: Mar 22, 19, 02:00:15 PM »
CW: Maiming


Drakkar’s eyes narrowed as Drakkar informed him of the epithet they’d use to refer to him. Drakkar was hearing that word more than he cared for and it bothered him. Would he challenge it so hard if Abaddon wasn’t his son? If he was just some visitor from a foreign land? In truth, he had no claim on Abaddon’s life. But that did not stop him from knowing that his son suffered abuse over something he had no say in. Abaddon did not regret being a Black Widow anymore than he regretted being a Warlord Prince. There was no room for Drakkar to regret that for him.

Drakkar let his son speak, watched as his would-be attackers grew less and less sure of their position as they stood before the Warlord Prince of Askavi. Only Tomminar’s eyes burned with hatred that now encompassed Drakkar as well. He’d heard those rumors, too. That Drakkar had been ensorcelled, defeated, even broken in his fight with Abaddon. Drakkar didn’t give a fuck about idle rumors and chatter. Not one man who held those views had the courage to say it to his face. When one did, he suspected that they’d suffer a fate similar to Baltar’s: laying dead in the dirt to assuage wounded pride.

This is an outrage, Drakkar! Your son is the anathema of all that we hold dear. You came to Gravesend to bring change! That is what you told us! But now we just have more of the same. You are out-of-touch with your people. You sit in that mountain and heed the commands of a Queen whose tongue is good for nothing except lying and--

Drakkar was standing beside Abaddon one moment.

The next, he was directly in front of Tomminar. There was a flash of a steel and sunlight. The Prince brought up his shield too late; Drakkar was already inside his reach, dagger placed between the Prince’s lips, right beneath the underside of his tongue. Tomminar froze in place, save for his wings, which beat frantically with fear. Drakkar’s left hand was tangled in Tomminar’s salt-and-pepper hair, holding his head in place while his right hand held Abaddon’s khanjar in his mouth. Blood trickled across the flat of the blade. Tomminar’s eyes were filled with hatred, but there was something else there, something that Drakkar was familiar with after thousands of years of murder.

Fear.

The rest of his warriors reached for their blades, but did not draw them. The depth of their folly reached them now, as they stood between a Black Widow Warlord Prince who could rise to the Killing Edge and his father, who appeared to be seconds from that same deadly place himself.

My son speaks for himself. Today, he bested your best. You offer excuses where a true warrior would accept defeat and learn from his shortcomings. If there is an abomination to be found here, it is not him.” Drakkar said, looming over him as the Prince dropped to a knee to keep himself from falling over.

Drakkar leaned close.

But you slandered my Queen, who isn’t here to speak for herself. There is a Price to be claimed for that.

And then his wrist twisted.

Tomminar screamed as Drakkar stepped back, blood pouring from his mouth.

Among the blood, the Prince’s tongue hit the floor of the circle.

Drakkar wiped the flat of the blade on his wrist. “My Price is claimed. Your friend lies dead. Prince Abaddon offered you an out. He’s kinder than I am. The rest of you, explain that the next man to call my son an Abomination, for any reason, loses his tongue. I’m taking up a collection, starting today.” Drakkar said.

Prince Tomminar, you may return to this place when you locate a civil tongue to speak with.

He looked to the others.

Take him and go. Leave the tongue.

They obeyed, leaving Drakkar with Abaddon. Drakkar sheathed his knife and looked to his son.

The trip to the bottom of the falls is a long one on foot. Are you ready to go?” he asked, picking up his bag.










 

 

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