collapse

* Welcome!

CLICK HERE if you're interested in joining, or if you'd just like a little more info about Blood Rites.

News
« Update to Caste Additions
« Nov otM Voting
« Dec otM Noms
« Dec Snowfall Challenge
« Nov Snowfall Results
« Nharkava Petition Vote
« Secret Santa Signups
« Oct otM Winners!
« Nharkava: Intent to Inherit
« Nov otM Noms
« 2018 Winter of Writers
« Sep otM Winners
« Oct Nominations
« Fall Cleaning Event
« Aug otM Winners
« Sep otM Noms
« Dhemlan T Petition Vote
« Glacia Petition Vote
« Fall Icon Winner
« July otM Winners
« July otM Voting
« August otM Noms
« DT is under Petition
« Revamp of Succession Article
« New Production Member
« Hayll is open for Petition
« Removal of Co-Plot Leads
« NEW Awards Board
« Chaillot is open for Petition
« Shalador is Open for Petition
« June otM Winners
« Glacia is under petition!
« May otM Winners!
« June otM Nominations
« May otM Voting
« Superlative Category Poll
« Seasonal Icon Contest
« April otM Winners!
« March otM Winners
« Current Petitions Snapshot
« Tacea Petition Vote
« DaM Petition Vote
« Glacia is open for Petition
« DaM is open for Petition
« March otM Noms
« Spring Icon Winner
« Territory Changes & Updates
« Feb otM Winners
« Tacea is Under Petition
« Tacea Open For Petition
« Nharkava Open For Petition
« Spring Icon Contest
« Happy 8th Anniversary
« Advancing Character Ages
« Dhemlan Terrielle is Open for Petition!
« Change to Territory Petition Requirements
« Jan otM Winners!
« 2017 Snowfall Results
« February otM Noms
« 2017 Superlative Winners
« 2017 Superlative Love Letters
« Winter Icon Winner
« Tacea is Soft Closed
« Disallowing "Underage" Characters
« Revamp of Craft Article
« New NPC Registration Process
« The Value of Jewels

Fall, 193 Years after the Purge

* Important Links

* Chat Box

Guest Friendly. No advertising please.

* BR Councils

* COTM and TOTM

* COTY and TOTY

Character of the Year


Thread of the Year

* Affliates

Affiliate with Us

Blood Rites RPG

Listed At

RPG-D Nerd Listings

Our Affiliates

   

* Credits

RSS Feed  Facebook  Tumblr    E-Mail

Canon: © Anne Bishop
Board's Plot: Blood Rites
Points Scheme: Mother Night
Ratio System: Blood Rites

Blood Rites best viewed in Firefox.
Established February 2010
by Jamie, Gina & Bowie.


* Plot Information for Askavi Terreille

For nearly two centuries Askavi floundered, brought low in the wake of the Red Queen’s war. The institution of one court with its Two Queens and the end of restitution payments promises a brighter future. Still, War knocks on the Eyrien’s door from all sides and the people fight against the need to meet it.
Culture of Askavi
Castes of Askavi
Eyrien Warriors
Hunting Camps
The Runs

* Welcome Guests

You are currently viewing our forum as a Guest. While you can see all we do, you can't participate. Please think about joining, we love new players. Click Here for more information.


Author Topic: The Court of Extreme Parenting  (Read 363 times)

Description: Attn: Abaddon

Offline Drakkar Estaroth

  • Character Account
    • broken2bo
    • wp
    • reddescent
    • Role

      Warlord Prince of Askavi

    • Faction

      The Blood Seekers

    • Territory

      Askavi, Terreille

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

    • OOC

      Gavin

    • Posts

      133

    • View Profile
The Court of Extreme Parenting
« on: Oct 11, 18, 10:34:22 PM »
This thread takes place two hours after The Court of Bitter Homecomings.


Your son demands trial by combat. They’ll kill him, Drakkar.


The Warlord Prince of Askavi leaned his forehead against a wall covered in ice. Behind him, his office stood in ruins. His desk was snapped clean in two from where he’d driven his forearm through the wood. Books and bookcases were strewn about the area, not all of them his. He’d removed the majority of Eristovar Errsa’s possessions from this place upon taking ownership of the office, but he found knickknacks sometimes that gave him insight into Illyrian's late husband. Drakkar had come here after Celebrian confirmed that Abaddon al-Sabbah, Black Widow Warlord Prince, was not merely some foreigner supporting his former friend, but something more dangerous and symbolic.

His son.

His son.

His son.

The room's chill and the ice against his forehead, was a focal point for Drakkar’s fury. It kept him from leaving this room and breaking people, rather than things.

Valar died before he took his first breath and Drakkar thought he’d made peace with it. No man could ever find peace in the death of his children, but Drakkar had accepted the losses of Xanian and Valar as his Price for the fathers, sons, and children across Terreille that he’d killed during the Red Queen’s War. He’d known, even then, that he was a fool to think he could come home and have his family when he’d destroyed so many others. No, first the Hayllians had taken his wife and daughter, followed by (he thought) Tavar. Valar Andros had gone east to find his son and never returned. Then he lost his Red Jewel, the same Jewel now worn by his son.

Then his little Valar, his one chance to build a legacy, was gone.

Now, Tavar had returned and brought him another son, created in a time of grief and rage.

Mother Night was a vicious bitch.

Celebrian’s words brought him back to the present.

Abaddon wanted to challenge Illyrian’s rule in the old way, a way he should not have known about. Illyrian was required to choose a champion. He imagined the males in that room crawling all over each other to accept the honor of killing Abaddon. Drakkar believed that people who’d engineered the assassination attempt on him one year ago were still among the Court. They’d have no qualms about killing the boy to strike at Drakkar himself. They could not kill him, but if Abaddon died challenging Askavi...who would fault a young bravo for defending his people? Drakkar would have to shake hands and heap praise upon the man who killed his son, a thought that made him ill.

Or...Drakkar would have to raise Abaddon’s hand in victory and watch his people suffer yet another defeat when their morale was dangerously low. Tavar's sentence would be repealed. The Warlord's actions would be lauded as those of a hero standing up to a tyrannical regime and an unjust war, which he knew much of Terreille (and even some of Askavi) agreed with. Drakkar’s rage returned like the coming storm, the fire in his gut growing into an inferno. Everyone hated Askavi for its success in battle, rather than acknowledging their own legacies of failure and capitulation. He hated them all.

Askavi was in the right.

He marched to the door, finding a young warrior standing guard. “Tell Lady Kriat that I accept Prince al-Sabbah’s challenge. Shatterspine Falls, in two hours. Tell Prince al-Sabbah that he has one hour and fifty-nine minutes to decide if this challenge is worth his life.” Drakkar said.

The warrior pounded his fist over his heart and headed for the throne room. Drakkar stepped back into the office and grabbed his spear and his sword. Then he launched himself from the balcony and and flew toward Shatterspine Falls as fast as he dared.

He had one-hour and fifty-nine minutes to decide if he wished to bury--or be buried by-- his last living child.




Offline Abaddon al-Sabbah

  • Character Account
    • opal2red
    • bwwp
    • Faction

      Clan Sabbah

    • Territory

      Pruul

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

    • OOC

      Sol

    • Posts

      146

    • View Profile
Re: The Court of Extreme Parenting
« Reply #1 on: Oct 12, 18, 08:06:52 AM »
The Black Widow Warlord Prince smiled at the messenger as if he had spoken the precise words that he expected to here.  He had not, of course, but this Male did not know that, and neither did Drakkar Estaroth.  ”Please tell, my Father I will see him soon enough.  If he requires a reply, ask him if my death or Tavar Andros’ will at last salve his wounded pride.”  The message had given Abaddon permission to continue as he had planned all along.  If he could not find satisfaction in the highest Court of Askavi, amidst their finest people, then he would balance the scales upon his Father’s person.

Abaddon turned to Fin after Drakkar had accepted his challenge.  The Black Widow Warlord Prince’s were flat and cold, reflecting light like the golden scales of armor.  ”This was always going to happen, old friend.  Do not blame yourself.  Even a spider can catch and eat a bird.”  He was not wrong, there were spiders in Shalador that did that very thing, and while he knew it was a terribly cryptic thing to say, it was the vision that came to mind as he followed a retainer to a room where he was meant to prepare for the coming ordeal.  Nothing anyone said was going to change his mind, so he simply nodded at the words, and let them pass into memory.   Abaddon begged Fin and Lucky’s pardon, bowed to Illyrian, gave a nod to Kaderian, and spent the next one hour and forty five minutes preparing.

In that time, he wove his Tangled Web with exact and swift precision, and moved into the place of vision and dreams within.  He reached out to Ghanima, his beloved Queen, and while he did not say goodbye, he warned her about what she might feel very soon from him.  He sought out the shining light that was Leila al-Sabbah, and brushed his psychic fingers through the memories they shared.  She would sense that he had done so, he knew, because of the training she had once received, but she would not be angry with him for not lingering.  He found his sister, Ana, where she always was, in his memory, in his heart, and realized that he was not at all alone, and that his fears had driven him in those early days after the Spider’s death.  Abaddon al-Sabbah was done with fear.  If everyone’s ignorance made them afraid, then he would give them knowledge, and a reason to know fear.

The challenge here, Abaddon knew, was perspective.  To the Eyriens here, he was not even a child.  He was a stripling.  He had decades of training left to complete.  How could they know that he had thrust and flown and killed inside of his Father’s boots, inside his dreams and memories.  They did not understand the violence that he had craved, and the bloody visions that had soothed that hunger.  They did not understand that combat, like many things, was a perishable skill--the Jhinka proved that at Deephome, and they would prove it again.  In Pruul, Abaddon was an adult, a man, a hunter and a warrior for the entirety of his life, trained in the same lineage as Tavar Andros and as Drakkar Estaroth.  Abaddon already cried with his Father.  He had killed with his Father.  He had raged with his Father.

What was it like to be a Black Widow and a Warlord Prince?  Better to ask, what is it like to know.  Today, he might die with his Father.  That, too, was balance.





Offline Drakkar Estaroth

  • Character Account
    • broken2bo
    • wp
    • reddescent
    • Role

      Warlord Prince of Askavi

    • Faction

      The Blood Seekers

    • Territory

      Askavi, Terreille

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

    • OOC

      Gavin

    • Posts

      133

    • View Profile
Re: The Court of Extreme Parenting
« Reply #2 on: Oct 12, 18, 10:18:08 AM »
Shatterspine Falls was one of the few naturally occurring waterfalls within Askavi. It was a place of ritual and reverence, due especially to the temple carved from the mountain at the height of the Eyrie. Legend held that the very first Queen of Askavi had ruled from there, but relinquished the location after Mother Night spoke directly to her. Drakkar had no idea if it was true, but he’d heard those stories a thousand times and wondered if they were true.

Today, all that mattered was the coming battle.

Drakkar jammed the butt of his spear into the earth and looked over the training ground. He’d planned to show Valar all of this someday so that his son could make his own decisions about the legends of their people. He wanted Valar to be a man who thought for himself and fought for Askavi with blade and Craft. In a thousand years, he would have relinquished leadership of the Blood Seekers to his son, allowing the young to shape the future while he did...what? Only once had he ever considered life after war. Being a husband and father would have made up the difference, even if he got restless now and again.

Now?

He could still be a father, but to a son that hated his people and all that he stood for. A son that had been stolen away from him and raised in a foreign culture. A son that he could fly with, or fight beside, or otherwise explain his culture to. A son who bore two castes and a jewel that Drakkar himself no longer held, He’d once heard that a man’s sons were signals of his future. Given that Valar was dead and Abaddon was a stranger, Drakar had no idea how to read that signpost.

He spent a quarter-hour warming up. By the time he was done, the first of the Blood Seekers had arrived to prepare the dueling field. Drakkar watched them work, these young males, their minds and hands defining the boundaries of the ritual circle. He noted their skill and confidence in doing so, proving to him that their traditions and beliefs still held weight. Askavi was battered and bruised. Askavi struggled to survive. But Askavi was still here and they would remain here, no matter who dared come after them. The Warlord Prince of Askavi would see to that until his dying day.

But who would protect his people after that?

The trickle of arrivals over the next hour became a steady stream. Warriors from every War Camp, and even a few from the Hunting Camps, landed at the falls to see this duel. His people needed a reason to believe that all wasn’t lost. Drakkar looked over his skin, noting every one of his scars. Some were jagged and rough. Others had healed to nearly-invisible lines, but they were all there to mark his history and the years he’d spent fighting for his people. Let Tavar discount their beliefs and sacrifices. Let others call them barbarians and savages. Barbarians and savages had beaten every one of their enlightened cultures and Terreille still trembled in fear of Askavi returning to its former strength. How many millenia of life had they shaped at the edges of their blades?

*Drakkar, please. Do not do this.*

Tavar brushed against his outer barriers, attempting to speak to him on a spear-to-spear thread. It was fortunate, for Tavar, that Drakkar could not answer him. His words would have been charitable in the slightest. Still, Tavar persisted in trying to talk him down.

*Abaddon is his father’s son, Drakkar. He will not back down when challenged. He will not relent, even if he might wish to. He thinks he’s made peace with this, but if he kills you, he will carry this on his soul for the rest of his life.*

Drakkar snarled, wings batting furiously, drawing the attention of a pair of nearby warriors. He wanted to find Tavar and pull his head off. Abaddon would not relent, so it was his duty to do so? The man had challenged the word of his Queen! He would dishonor Illyrian by backing down. Worse, it would show that he was afraid of this twice-blessed stripling. Tavar wanted him to lie down his weapons and let Abaddon have his way.

Tavar was very fortunate that he could not hear Drakkar’s words now.

He waited for the Black Widow Warlord Prince to arrive.

Drakkar would not stand down. If Mother Night deemed this his final day in the world, then he was at peace with it.

Like father, like son.




Offline Abaddon al-Sabbah

  • Character Account
    • opal2red
    • bwwp
    • Faction

      Clan Sabbah

    • Territory

      Pruul

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

    • OOC

      Sol

    • Posts

      146

    • View Profile
Re: The Court of Extreme Parenting
« Reply #3 on: Oct 12, 18, 10:21:51 AM »
Abaddon did not rush from his meditations. He did not want to seem overly eager, nor did he want to seem reluctant. He would be punctual, leaving perhaps fifteen minutes or so for whatever ritual Askavi believed was necessary for the duel. The Black Widow Warlord Prince was not merely being stubborn, though even he had to admit that was a part of it. It was not about pride, at least not his own. Drakkar Estaroth only spoke one language fluently, and that language was violence. He would not respond to logic. He would not respond to emotional appeals, not when he could not even respond to his own blood. Abaddon had many things to tell his Blood Father, and he would deliver those messages in the only language that the Warlord Prince of Askavi still knew how to speak. Even if he died, Drakkar Estaroth would understand. Blood calls to blood, and this man, a stranger to him, would not be able to forget the sacrilege he had committed that day.

Better to ask a Black Widow what is it like to know.

Drakkar Estaroth suffered beneath the weight of his years, what Fin had turned into motivation for a better life, the other had simply allowed to fester. Like an ill-tended wound, the infection had set in. The Warlord Prince of Askavi was on the edge. He maintained his sanity, but only just. Abaddon could sense it, could feel it in wave after wave after wave of rage. This was not a ruler listening to the facts, and weighing them. This was a wounded soldier, no, a wounded brother wondering where all of his family had gone. He was a man that had done terrible things, and still desperately clinging to the paper thin justification those same horrors. Askavi was slowly dying, choking on its pride, on a reputation that was currently no longer true. They had left scars in surrounding Territories that would last generations in some cases, and somehow they perceived that as a sign of their greatness. Abaddon already knew that some Eyriens did not agree, some saw their pride as feckless in the face of failure and starvation.

More to the point, Fin al-Sabbah did not deserve to be broken for following the spirit of his duty. He did not deserve to be broken for living the Eyrien ideal, when so many others had fallen short, Drakkar likely included. Those assembled that thought otherwise were being petty, and putting their Queen in a corner from which politics and her own Bonded Male, did not allow her escape. Someone had to suffer, and Abaddon intended to give the Eyriens precisely what they wanted, and what they clearly yearned for; suffering. Askavi did not want to survive, not when they actively worked against it. Vondar was bucking tradition and bigotry by bringing in Talyrian, when the land was in such desperate need. Illyrian had not denied that they needed help, only the timing of the offer, only the implied assumption of a Male that did not understand what a Queen really was. Abaddon was not a fool, despite having been the Spider’s catspaw, that was the blindness of a child, not a fool.

Abaddon took the time to explore his memories, his visions, and his dreams. They were woven together, one inextricably connected to the others. The visions had come practically at the same time as his snake tooth, and when they came in dreams, they were extraordinarily vivid. The Tangled Web gave him focus, and with that focus, control. He had dreamed of Drakkar before he knew his name, and so for a time, he dreamed of him again. Battle after battle, loss after loss, Abaddon explored every bit of that old and tenuous connection to the man that had sired him. He explored every tiny shred of comfort he had drawn from that violence, violence he had been unable to wreak himself, but that he had viscerally experienced. It was not perfect, it was not complete, but it had been enough. Abaddon meditated in the place in the Twisted Kingdom that was his, the place from where he saw everything. Every star, every bright and scintillating light was a mind, a heart, a psyche that he could reach out and touch and learn of and from. He found his Queen here. He found his center here.

He turned his eye inward, and looked within, gently strumming the strings of his emotions like a musician with a guitar. He plucked each string, and rode each note to its conclusion. Happiness. Sadness. Grief. Loneliness. Pleasure. Pain. So very many strings, but he had been taught to see them all, to understand how each note of music made up one’s Chalice, and how every Chalice was a symphony that existed in an easily disrupted balance of harmony and melody. Abaddon could not ignore his own Chalice, solid and strong, with tension in certain strings that he had yet to resolve. He plucked at his Rage, by fire the string with the highest tension, and listened to the never-ending note, and understood that only one thing would ease that tension, only one thing would keep that string from snapping and cracking his chalice to the point where no one would be safe around him. Abaddon followed that note deeper and deeper and deeper into himself, and knew what he would do, knew what he would unleash. It both frightened and thrilled him.

Abaddon withdrew from his Web and dismissed it. He took a slow steady breath, and checked the time by looking out to the sky. He remained in the same clothes, because he was always ready for a fight. He still wore the gorget, but he did not bother with conjuring his shirt once again, better to let everyone see that his wings had been shorn. Abaddon saw only one way forward, and perhaps it would end in tragedy, perhaps it would not. He could not see the ending, only the path. However, he did know that he and Drakkar would fight, on some level, he always had. It was time for him to make his appearance, time for him to fight and possibly kill his Father in front of his Court, and indeed, in front of all of Askavi. From the battle there were many paths, but without it, there were none. Abaddon al-Sabbah understood the pain that lived within him, he understood the rage. It was time that Drakkar understood it as well. Abaddon was guided to Shatterspine Falls, and he walked without hurry, his hands clasped at the small of his back, taking in the view, until his eyes came to rest on his opponent.

He stalked to his side of the ancient arena, and paced there, waiting for the rules to be enumerated and completed. Abaddon would only be still when it became clear they were about to fight. He was not going to be gentle. He was not going to be restrained. This moment had been coming since he was torn from his Mother’s breast. It had been coming since he dreamed his first dream of the sky and Askavi, and of blood and death. It had been coming since he came to Askavi, and slew the Jhinka. It was as inevitable as the Purge, and as unavoidable. Abaddon had been preparing all of his life for this. A spear thread shot across to Drakkar, undeniable and insistent, *Your Dreams, Your Tragedies, carried me through a hard life. They carried me here.*





Offline Drakkar Estaroth

  • Character Account
    • broken2bo
    • wp
    • reddescent
    • Role

      Warlord Prince of Askavi

    • Faction

      The Blood Seekers

    • Territory

      Askavi, Terreille

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

    • OOC

      Gavin

    • Posts

      133

    • View Profile
Re: The Court of Extreme Parenting
« Reply #4 on: Oct 12, 18, 10:25:40 AM »
Tavar continued pleading with him to end this until Drakkar shut down the link between them like  a door slamming shut. Drakkar listened quietly as the rules were explained to the newcomer. For his own part, he’d heard them a thousand times and recited them to younger warriors during his years in the Hunting Camps and among the Blood Seekers. Long ago, he’d wanted to share all of this with his sons. He wanted to watch them win their first duels, using the training that he’d given them since their first cries echoed in the land that he’d killed to protect for them. He’d wanted to share the purity and beauty of a warrior’s culture with his sons and watch them continue the traditions set down by their people long ago.

Staring at Abaddon across the way, Drakkar would say that this wasn’t even remotely what he had in mind.

He watched Abaddon stalk and pace, the feeling much like looking back through time. Drakkar couldn’t recall a time when rage did not feel him. His parents said that he stank of Warlord Prince the day he was born, and he never let anyone forget his caste for a single moment. Watching Abbadon, he wondered what the boy’s mother thought of him. How long had Tavar known that Abaddon was his son? Why bring him home now, of all times? He had so many questions and now there was no time left to ask them.

The next spear thread that came to him was from Abaddon himself. The invasion was just as personal as if Abaddon ahd walked into his space and claimed it. The words, however, made no sense to Drakkar.

Your Dreams, Your Tragedies, carried me through a hard time. They carried me here.

Drakkar approached Abbadon and the judge fell silent. The voices around them fell silent as the two males stared each other down. Only the roar of Shatterspine filled the air, matching the thunder in Drakkar’s soul.

Tavar believes that I should back down because you won’t. He thinks we should just shake hands and agree to disagree. But if what you just said is true, then you knew where we were headed when you arrived here.” Drakkar said.

All the same, I’ll make the offer. Stand down and that will be the end of it. Tavar will pay his Price and it will be over. Know that I wouldn’t even make this offer to another man. You receive it because of the blood we share and...because your brother and sister would have wanted that.” Drakkar said. Would Xanian and Valar be able to accept Abaddon if they lived today? Could they succeed where he failed in reaching him?

Would either of them be able to turn away, regardless of the loss of face, and accept their brother with strength and grace that he lacked?

He waited for Abaddon to speak, though Drakkar felt certain that he knew the other man’s answer even as they watched each other.




Offline Abaddon al-Sabbah

  • Character Account
    • opal2red
    • bwwp
    • Faction

      Clan Sabbah

    • Territory

      Pruul

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

    • OOC

      Sol

    • Posts

      146

    • View Profile
Re: The Court of Extreme Parenting
« Reply #5 on: Oct 12, 18, 10:31:22 AM »
Abaddon stopped his motion, and watched his Father approach. He straightened to his full height and clasped his hands at his back for the sake of keeping his hands off of Drakkar’s person. His nostrils flared as their eyes met, gold gazing into gold. His lip twitched, just narrowly avoiding the full transformation into a snarl. The Black Widow Warlord Prince’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly at the mention of his lost brother and lost sister. The air around him already cool, turned frostier. It was easy to see his jaw clench, and as the two men stared at each other across so short a distance, terribly easy to see the resemblance. Abaddon rolled his shoulders in agitation, his hands still at his back, had he wings, they would surely be flicking slightly, with the tension of his restraint.

”Prince Estaroth.” The statement was formal and precise, but the words were cold and sharp. ”It is very late in the day to visit my intentions.” He tilted his head slightly, ”Everything that I say is true. This moment was not an absolute, but the web came together as I foresaw.” That was true, from Abaddon’s perspective, even if he pulled on the strands just a little. He had known that he would have to face his Father one day, and here they were. He growled low in his chest, remembering his lost siblings. ”I thank you, sincerely, for your forbearance, but Fin al-Sabbah is right, I will decline...but before you go, allow me to share something with you.”

Abaddon leaned towards Drakkar very slightly, ”I was abandoned. Torn from my Mother’s grasp and raised by a scheming Black Widow Prince called “The Spider” by his own people. He had a vision, a premonition, that I would be a useful weapon and heir for him, and so he bent all his considerable skill and will to that end. My wings were shorn, the scars hidden, and so began the forging of his weapon. In the event of his death, which he saw as a possibility, I would continue as the iron fist in his stead, and when the time came, I would be aimed at Askavi, like an arrow in a bow. My mind was manipulated along with my body, I was allowed very few connections, very few people to care for and fewer still who would care about me. When the girl I was raised with, a sister as far as I knew, proved to not be all The Spider wished, she was exiled and the memory of her stolen from me.” He held Drakkar’s eyes, his gaze intense. ”I do not tell you this to inspire guilt. That is not a language you are fluent in. I tell you this so that no matter what happens here, you know. In that time, there was one constant, one connection that I was allowed, because without it, I would surely have gone mad.”

His expression hardened even more, ”When I took my first stumbling steps as a child in the practice yard, a boy full of itching anger and rage, Tavar Andros was there. When I killed my first man in a fit of that same barely understood rage, he was there. When I took my Trials and earned my knife, he was there. I am a blink to you and to him, a beat of a heart at my small years, but for every step of it, Fin al-Sabbah made it a point to be my friend and my brother. When my snake-tooth came in, when the irritation and anger was too much to bear and I slew dozens, when I felt alien even in my own skin, Fin al-Sabbah was there.” Abaddon’s voice turned into a hoarse whisper, the rage and emotion threatening to throttle him into silence, ”I have lost enough. By your ignorance or laziness, I was a stolen thing—I was taken, and taken from. Neither you nor Askavi will have anything else for free. If you want Fin al-Sabbah’s Sapphire, you will pay for it.”

Abaddon straightened and snarled, ”I am not here to deliver Mother Night’s justice. I am here to deliver mine. You think you know all there is to know about pain and loss and rage. I am here to show you that there is more.” He flicked his head towards the other side of the arena, ”I will explain myself in the only language Askavi seems to understand. Go now, so we can begin this conversation in earnest.” His hands clenched his forearms behind his back. Had Abaddon still been the Spider’s weapon, in their arrogance and pride, he could have decimated the High Court; even their Gray and their wandering Black that he had sensed and could sense on the edges of awareness, could not have stopped him. They let a Red Black Widow use Craft in the presence of their holiest Queen, ignorant of the havoc he could have wrought, ignorant of the measures he could have taken, as well as the measures he had taken. When Drakkar moved away, he fell to pacing again, as eager as a race horse to begin. Abaddon was not of two minds, as some might think, as some even seemed to believe. He was not a Black Widow and a Warlord Prince as separate things, he was both at once, and all of him was angry, all of him remembered where he had come from, and the small seed of pain that had been planted with his abduction and that poisoned him still.

There was only one cure, one remedy for that poison, and it flowed through Drakkar Estaroth’s heart.





Offline Drakkar Estaroth

  • Character Account
    • broken2bo
    • wp
    • reddescent
    • Role

      Warlord Prince of Askavi

    • Faction

      The Blood Seekers

    • Territory

      Askavi, Terreille

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

    • OOC

      Gavin

    • Posts

      133

    • View Profile
Re: The Court of Extreme Parenting
« Reply #6 on: Oct 12, 18, 10:32:53 AM »
Drakkar listened quietly as Abaddon spoke. The idea that his wings had been stolen from him plunged new spikes of ice and hatred into his heart. This Spider that Abaddon spoke of deserved more than just death. Perhaps Tavar had done at least one thing right by ending him, if he’d done even that. He tried, and failed, to recall what Abaddon’s mother might have looked like. The younger man’s words struck deep, though, and the narrowing of Drakkar’s eyes told the story. He didn’t like Abaddon’s judgment and harsh words. He didn’t like Abaddon’s insinuations about his knowledge of guilt. What did this boy know of guilt?

Abaddon snarled and Drakkar growled in return. His wings flapped furiously. Drakkar had known that this wouldn’t go well, but the vehemence in the younger man, the arrogance, made Drakkar’s blood boil. No matter the outcome of this fight, Drakkar was looking forward to punching him in the mouth a few times. If nothing else, he would teach this man to respect his people.

Finally, Abaddon fell silent.

I have known few Black Widows bold enough to claim knowledge of people they don’t know. I’d call it arrogance, though. You haven’t been humbled. I never claimed to know everything there is to know about pain, and loss, and rage. My people understand survival.” he said, shrugging his left shoulder. Abaddon tried to dismiss him and Drakkar nearly cuffed him right then and there. Instead, he remained for another moment. The boy was so eager to fight, to begin, that the first lines of attack against the young warrior wrote themselves plainly into his mind.

The Black Widow Warlord Prince could have done a thousand things in that moment. He could have crippled and broken Drakkar’s mind. Threatened Illyrian or the High Court. He might have even been able to kill several of them before the Black and the Gray burned him out of existence. Yet he’d focused on the fight and the desire to impose his will through inflicting pain upon others. His talk of justice was underscored his need to hurt someone, anyone, for attacking what he claimed as his, in this case, Tavar Andros.

How many people had said the same thing about him.

Bring your justice, Prince al-Sabbah. I’m eager to see what manner of pain you can conjure that I haven’t already forgotten ten times over.” Drakkar said, turning his back on Abbadon.

But you don’t even begin to speak any languages that Askavi understands. Fear not.” he said, looking over his shoulder at son.

I’ll teach you how to talk.” 

Drakkar called upon his jewels and spread his wings to take him back to his position on the dueling field. He took up his blade and spear, testing the weight and balance of each. The duel-master reiterated the duel’s terms, especially explaining that the fight continued until one man could no longer rise and defend himself. Commonly enough, that was achieved through death. The crowd murmured, the sound growing louder than the Falls themselves.

Drakkar stared at Abaddon.

Abaddon’s eyes bored right through him.

The ground rumbled as thousands of warriors slammed the butts of their spears against the ground. Once, twice, then again and again and again.

The duel-master called for the start of the fight and then quickly took flight above what was shortly to be a killing field.

Drakkar streaked toward Abaddon, eager to hear his son’s first words.




Offline Abaddon al-Sabbah

  • Character Account
    • opal2red
    • bwwp
    • Faction

      Clan Sabbah

    • Territory

      Pruul

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

    • OOC

      Sol

    • Posts

      146

    • View Profile
Re: The Court of Extreme Parenting
« Reply #7 on: Oct 12, 18, 10:35:37 AM »
Abaddon remembered they were not in Pruul, and looked within.

Cool air billowed from him as he tapped into his Rage, taking a step towards the Killing Edge.  His fists curled and uncurled, a knife appeared in one hand, the inward curve a product of Pruul, even if the size of it was not.  He gripped the blade tightly, and took another step towards the edge, and the air grew colder still.  Along with the depth of his Cold Rage, it rolled off of him like an artic tide, rhythmic  and frigid, as if every beat of his heart forced out another wave of cold.  This was where he had been at Deephome, this was where he had reveled in the death and destruction of his enemies, this was the Abaddon Fin had seen, the one he knew; righteous and furious, the spider waiting for the enemy to come close, the predator in his waiting trap.

And then he took another step, over the mental line, beyond the Killing Edge into something no one had seen, something Pruul left no room for.

A growl rolled up out of his throat that turned into a roar, then a war cry of endless frustration and indescribable loss.  Frost rolled away from him, spreading into crackling ice beneath his feet and the feet of those nearby.  The cold air from his body bit into skin like a harsh mountain wind, and when Abaddon roared, great black wings burst from his back as the Black Widow’s rage pulled on the Twisted Kingdom, they appeared in shredded and billowing shadows, like black flames reaching up and away from him in a flash, before they fell away with his motion.  Abaddon did not wait like Fin was used to seeing, he did not circle.  He leaped forward like an arrow released from a bow, and straight at Drakkar with nothing but deadly intent.  His Jewels blazed at his neck, his knife flickered in the light of day, frost licking the edge of the steel, as he flashed across the distance to meet his Father in battle.

It would not be an easy conversation, articulated in flesh and muscle and bone, and punctuated by blood.





Offline Drakkar Estaroth

  • Character Account
    • broken2bo
    • wp
    • reddescent
    • Role

      Warlord Prince of Askavi

    • Faction

      The Blood Seekers

    • Territory

      Askavi, Terreille

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

    • OOC

      Gavin

    • Posts

      133

    • View Profile
Re: The Court of Extreme Parenting
« Reply #8 on: Oct 12, 18, 10:41:02 AM »
Abaddon’s war cry tore through the air. Drakkar was impressed that the Black Widow Warlord Prince could summon a sound so deep, so primal. The Warlord Prince of Askavi felt that sound permeate his skin, rattle in his bones, and snarl at the beast inside. Even more impressive (and terrifying) was the pair of jet black wings that burst from Abaddon’s back as he pulled stuff from that Misty Place into the real world. Drakkar thought that Abaddon was one of the Demon Dead sent to collect Prices for those who’d evaded them over the centuries, a thought that would drawn a laugh from the Blood Seeker any other day. Instead, his visage was so hellish and terrifying that Drakkar wondered if he’d erred in disregarding Tavar’s advice. Men and women exclaimed in shock and fright. Warriors snarled in outrage and anger. The temperature of the entire world plummeted deeper and deeper in the dueling ring.

Crystals of white frost formed at the edge of Drakkar’s spear and the blade of his sword. The deep chill in the air made his breath visible. If he spoke, would the people be able to read his words? Drakkar’s heart pounded in time with the sound of spears thumping the ground and rattling everything. Shatterspine Falls loomed high above, the unyielding stone looking down upon them.

Did it view them as worthy? Or did it agree with Abaddon? Had Askavi become a relic in a new age?

Could it ever be anything else?

Drakkar inhaled knives of made of icy wind, blasting away all thoughts that did not connect to this ring. Abbadon al-Sabbah was a blade unsheathed, a warrior who no longer saw a need or desire to hold back what he was for the comfort of others. Drakkar respected that, for he’d lived that every day of his life before now. If today was his last day, he would show his son that respect in turn.

Steel sang against steel as both males threw out their opening gambits. Their blades met in the space between them, both men circling and seeking holes in each other’s defenses. Finding none in the first pass, Drakkar slid away from Abaddon like living water, extending his leg briefly in to push Abaddon off-balance. When Abaddon lost his footing a brief second, the Blood Seeker struck, opening a nasty slice across Abaddon’s back. He would then step and pivot, holding his sword in front of him in a center-guard, setting himself for a return strike.

When Abaddon set himself next, Drakkar sensed the melody, the rhythm of a style he recognized from long ago. Though it was adapted for a man without wings, Drakkar sensed that the initial notes were composed for men born to take flight at the first opportunity.

Tavar’s influence could not have been more pronounced if he’d carved his name into Abaddon’s skin. Tavar had taken care of his son, brought him to manhood among the short-lived, and taught him to fight. Drakkar’s concentration nearly slipped and Abaddon's blade sailed dangerous close to his face, avoided only because Drakkar’s reaction times were increased five-fold to keep up with the younger male.

Even still, a few locks of Drakkar’s hair floated to the ground, landing on the ice between them.

Had he dodged even a half-second later, he'd have lost his eye.

He snarled and lunged forward.

Drakkar’s foot lashed out, whip-quick, booting Abaddon in the chest and putting a little space between them. Then he surged forward with a series of crisscrossing strikes, right-to-left then left-to-right, to keep Abaddon moving, harrying him toward the edge of the circle while forcing his opponent to react rather than act.




Offline Abaddon al-Sabbah

  • Character Account
    • opal2red
    • bwwp
    • Faction

      Clan Sabbah

    • Territory

      Pruul

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

    • OOC

      Sol

    • Posts

      146

    • View Profile
Re: The Court of Extreme Parenting
« Reply #9 on: Oct 12, 18, 10:53:00 AM »
Knife against sword.  It was not the ideal weapon to use against a weapon that allowed for such reach, but Abaddon had been taught long ago that he was the weapon, and that whatever the enemy held was meaningless if one had the skill and will to get past it.  A sword was not unlike a big knife, offering reach, though it was far less agile in close quarters.   The best swordsman knew how to cover that disadvantage, using the weapon as a lever for throws or even locks, or as a blunt instrument where opportunity allowed.   Abaddon assumed that Drakkar was the best of swordsman.  His goal would be to get past the other man’s guard, to slip by the spear’s head, and get close enough to bleed the other warrior.  There was a saying in Pruul regarding knife fights; When the fight is done, one man needs a Healer, and one man’s water is returned to his Tribe.

Death was a possibility, and Abaddon had made peace with that a long time ago.

Drakkar did not take to the air, as Abaddon had expected, but rather came at him as straight and true as he had.  They clashed, bones jarred by the impact, Abaddon’s knife scraped and squealed along the blade of Drakkar’s sword.  Neither weapon broke through the other’s defense, and as they parted, a small motion pushed Abaddon off of his center.  It was not much, but it was enough, and Drakkar too advantage of the reach, opening Abaddon’s back.  He bled, but it was not an arterial wound, and left an open line beside the scars where wings had been.  The Black Widow Warlord Prince endured in eerie silence, though he pivoted to face Drakkar, the snarl on his face permanently affixed.  It had been a subtle maneuver, one that Abaddon would not be taken by again.

They clashed, and clashed again.

This battle would be won or lost in the space of a breath, and Abaddon noticed a moment.  He swept his oddly-curved knife at the face of his enemy.  Knife fights were won by attrition, precision was almost always the case; cutting arteries, veins, tendons, destroying muscle groups by slicing their anchor from the bone.  Or, as was the case here, slashing across the eyes, to blind them with the removal of an eye or two, or filling them with so much blood the end was the same.  Drakkar noticed at the last moment, and moved, leaving hair to flutter forgotten to the icy ground.  It seemed that he suddenly realized how serious Abaddon was, and moved swiftly.  Abaddon pursued, the motion as quick as instinct, even when his Father countered, attempting to push the younger warrior out to sword-tip range.  The boot caught Abaddon and shoved him back, landing more as a shove rather than a blow.  The Black Widow male snarled, as Drakkar leaped to the offensive.

Metal rang and screeched off of metal, blood oozed from cuts along the younger Male’s arm, and Abaddon gave ground until he reached the edge.  Their blades were edge to edge now, and Drakkar had more leverage with the long blade, so Abaddon did what circumstances demanded.  With his shielded free hand, he took hold of Drakkar’s sword, kept his curved knife between his body and the blade, and with muscles bulging, inch by hard won inch, he began to push his Father back.  Fiery golden eyes met Drakkar’s over the weapons, and he snarled back at him, like a mirror, leaning forward slightly now, and then he suddenly pulled the sword towards his chest.  It cut him, but absent the force of a swing, it did not stop him.  Abaddon, slid his foot between both of Drakkar’s, and with his knife hand now free to act, move for a cut at the crease of the elbow belonging to the arm that wielded his Father’s sword.





Offline Drakkar Estaroth

  • Character Account
    • broken2bo
    • wp
    • reddescent
    • Role

      Warlord Prince of Askavi

    • Faction

      The Blood Seekers

    • Territory

      Askavi, Terreille

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

    • OOC

      Gavin

    • Posts

      133

    • View Profile
Re: The Court of Extreme Parenting
« Reply #10 on: Oct 12, 18, 11:00:14 AM »
Drakkar’s fury was palpable as he drove Abaddon back, directing the pace of the fight. Giving him any chance to fight back or gain his bearings meant death. The near-loss of his eye (and the actual loss of hair) drove home the need to take Abaddon as a graver threat than Drakkar already believed. Drakkar swung and Abaddon’s blade came up, the cry of steel on steel echoed in Drakkar’s ear. Any moment now, Abbadon would have endure another cut, giving Drakkar the edge needed to secure victory.

But his son was full of surprises.

The moment and the momentum shifted as they glared into each other’s eyes. Abaddon had his grandmother’s eyes. The short-lived would never see it, but Drakkar did. Bit by bit, though, Drakkar felt his forward momentum checked and then reversed, with the Black Widow Warlord Prince trapping his sword pushing him back. First an inch, then another inch, and then a food. Like the receding tide, Drakkar felt himself being moved. Drakkar redoubled his efforts, but he might as well have been wrestling the mountains themselves. His blade tasted flesh but there was no leverage behind Drakkar’s strike. The scent of blood filled the air and Drakkar thought he saw his moment. A clean strike to the jaw would drop him. Drakkar knew it. He saw it happening in his mind.

Fire and pain erupted at the elbow of Drakkar’s sword arm.

He howled in pain and surprise. Instinctively, Drakkar danced backward, away from the knife in case Abbadon thought to follow up with a killing strike. He flexed his fingers and they responded it, but sticky, hot blood oozed from the wound. Inwardly, panic clutched at Drakkar’s heart. If the boy had cut an artery, all he had to do was wait for Drakkar to grow unsteady from blood loss before moving in for the kill.

No, not an artery, but the wound would bleed freely. Blood raced over the inside of his arm and down his palm. Drakkar discarded the spear and took up his sword in his left hand. The grip wasn’t unnatural but the Warlord Prince of Askavi preferred his right hand over his left when fighting. He shook out his arm to keep numbness from taking it, and crimson blood wet the challenge ring, mingling with his son’s blood.
 
Drakkar had no time to set himself or consider another avenue of attack.

Abaddon was coming.






Offline Abaddon al-Sabbah

  • Character Account
    • opal2red
    • bwwp
    • Faction

      Clan Sabbah

    • Territory

      Pruul

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

    • OOC

      Sol

    • Posts

      146

    • View Profile
Re: The Court of Extreme Parenting
« Reply #11 on: Oct 12, 18, 11:12:59 AM »
Abaddon thought that he saw something in Drakkar’s eyes as they glared at each other, something he had not expected. He saw familiarity. He saw acknowledgement. It did not cut through the red haze of his rage, but it informed the encounter. It was a moment he would remember, if he lived. The reversal came quick, and Abaddon earned his cut. Rhythm was a factor in every engagement. Combat was like a dance, but it was always best for a warrior to change the rhythm, to force his or her opponent to keep up. That was what Abaddon had down, take a shallow cut for a solid strike. There was not only confidence in Drakkar Estaroth’s approach, but a level of certainty as well. The Black Widow Warlord Prince never believed for a moment that he could scare the other man in the fight, but he could steal something from him. He could steal his certainty.

The younger warrior let the older break away, gracefully peeling from the clinch to take stock of what had been done. Abaddon did not press the advantage, but circled first to one direction, and then to the other. He waited for Drakkar to change one weapon to the other hand, knowing that the arena had changed. The people that had once been sure of the outcome, were now less so, and those that had cause to worry no matter the outcome, had their concerns doubled. An icy wind had taken the arena, swirling around the combatants, and biting at the spectators’ skin and eyes.. Blood called to blood, and somehow that simple fact, even as the crimson blotches seemed to reach for each other, seemed to only anger Abaddon all the more. Drakkar had enough time to grip his blade in his off-hand, before Abaddon was there.

The Black Widow Warlord Prince flashed towards the Warlord Prince of Askavi in a burst of speed that was difficult to follow. His strangely curved knife gleamed wickedly in the light broken apart into splinters of brilliance by the nearby falls. Abaddon slipped first to Drakkar’s left, and then to his injured right, as if looking for a chance to slither past the tip of his sword, and get in close. However, as soon as that longer blade interposed itself, Abaddon’s golden gaze narrowed, and there was a scream of metal and a sound like a lightning bolt. The sword jumped in Drakkar’s hand it was only centuries of training that allowed him to tighten his grip and keep it—but the blade shattered, reducing the sword to a shard. Drakkar held a knife now, and Abaddon snarled, blade flickering forward, the battle reduced to close quarters. The Black Widow Warlord Prince was in the moment, bloodied and blooded, there was no fear in his eyes, no hesitation, only deadly intent. He could end this with a scratch, but their conversation was only just beginning, and Abaddon had a point to make.





Offline Drakkar Estaroth

  • Character Account
    • broken2bo
    • wp
    • reddescent
    • Role

      Warlord Prince of Askavi

    • Faction

      The Blood Seekers

    • Territory

      Askavi, Terreille

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

    • OOC

      Gavin

    • Posts

      133

    • View Profile
Re: The Court of Extreme Parenting
« Reply #12 on: Oct 12, 18, 11:14:26 AM »
Abaddon attacked and it was all Drakkar could do to keep up. His speed, power, and reflexes were nothing short of dazzling. Drakkar had fought and bested a number of gifted combatants in his lifetime. That the newest addition to that small list was his own son gave him a savage pride, one available only in a man who came from a culture of warriors. Abaddon might hate their ways, but the boy was more Eyrien than he wished to admit. All the same, Drakkar moved his own blade in a series of blinding parries and counter-strokes, demanding that Abaddon answer them or be cut open.

That curved knife was never far from Drakkar’s mind. Close-quarters combat was series of moments separated by chance. Any strike could shift from harmless to lethal and back again in the space between heartbeats. Drakkar rather than match Abaddon strike for strike, Drakkar drew backwards, wings tucked close against his body, letting the other male get closer and closer.

He moved left, then right, trying step inside of Drakkar’s reach. The falls roared as the Warlord Prince of Askavi read the movement, having seen many like over his two-thousand years of life. Abaddon’s motions were smoother, more cat-like and graceful than so many others Drakkar had seen, but he’d seen them all the same.

Drakkar brought his blade down in a swift and powerful slice to check Abaddon’s forward strike. Metal rang upon metal, even over the sound of the falls. Drakkar snorted. Abaddon’s eyes narrowed.

His sword, given to him by his older brother shortly after his graduation from his Hunting Camp...shattered.

For a moment, Drakkar didn’t quite understand what had happened. Most of his sword was now clattering to the ground in pieces, leaving him with a jagged, improvised knife where a battle-tested and powerful blade once existed. He’d killed hundreds of Hayllians and Raejians with that blade. He’d driven it through the chest of a Dena Nehele Warlord Prince who’d challenged him on the fourteenth day of their occupation of that land.

And then Drakkar had reached his limit of this family reunion.

The snarl that tore from Drakkar’s lips was the only warning he gave. Now it was his turn to throw a series of impossibly fast strikes, that cold rage within his body stoked like never before. Each strike was meant to keep Abaddon guessing and moving, rather than following  his attack. He sliced and Abaddon moved aside, striking at his exposed flank. Another cut and more blood hit the floor as Abaddon stepped aside and circled to his left. Drakkar swung backward in a wide and deadly arc that was checked when Abaddon blocked Drakkar’s forearm with his own.

Drakkar ducked beneath a return strike and drove his ruined blade into Abaddon’s right thigh.

Then he punched him in the throat.




Offline Abaddon al-Sabbah

  • Character Account
    • opal2red
    • bwwp
    • Faction

      Clan Sabbah

    • Territory

      Pruul

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

    • OOC

      Sol

    • Posts

      146

    • View Profile
Re: The Court of Extreme Parenting
« Reply #13 on: Oct 12, 18, 11:24:21 AM »
Martial Arts was always about more than training. It was always about more than physical fitness. Abaddon had seen a one-armed warrior cut down two young fools in a knife fight, simply because the one-armed man had done what the others had not, he had understood positioning and the practical application of his skills, and understood that as a single warrior he had the advantage. The two young men had never fought as a unit, and in fact, never fought at all. They had trained, they had managed to earn their khanjars, but they had lacked experience and knowledge, and the time it took to understand how their own bodies worked in relation to either their partner or their enemy. Abaddon had trained all of his life, and applied those skills again and again as the Spider’s Hunter, and for the Sabbah Trials. He had always been fighting, and he had enjoyed it.

Practical application, consistent and ongoing was how anyone sharpened their tools. Drakkar had plenty of that, much more than Abaddon had. Centuries of variables, centuries to know himself, centuries to know his blade and its balance. The Red Son had already taken away his Father’s certainty, and now he had taken away his balance, a piece of his edge. Reduced to a knife, the Warlord Prince’s attacks and movements would be just a little off, just a little too deep or too shallow in range and reach. Abaddon did not have the width and breadth of Drakkar’s experience, but neither did he have any centuries old habits, nor did he have centuries old assumptions. He had come to this fight open to any and all stimulus, bringing with it his experience, and the knowledge of himself and his power. Lady Keserae had driven that point home; a Black Widow must be prepared. Fin had done the same; a warrior must be prepared for change and adaptation.

Askavi did not adapt well; Abaddon believed its Warlord Prince was much the same.

It was always part of his plan to break the sword, his flurry of attacks had been full of rage and intention, but ultimately they had been to establish a new rhythm, to force Drakkar back onto his heels. When was the last time he had been pressed? When was the last time Abaddon had? The Black Widow Warlord Prince fought for his life, and that was not merely hyperbole. Strike after strike, parry and riposte, kick after punch, after instep stomp—every trick, every effort was made each against the other. It was a flurry of blows and motion, the ring of steel on steel, adding fir punctuation to every part of their moving conversation. Drakkar had drawn him in, had relied on his knowledge, the reach of his ancient blade, and then Abaddon had taken it away. That it enraged his Father was his only sign that he had been correct, and then he was quickly on the defense from that splintered blade.

No real fight was about coming away without a scratch. Abaddon knew that there would be wounds, there would be pain, and he had prepared himself for them. He already had countless cuts, a large bleeding wound on his back, several along his arms, one over his chest. He oozed blood from all of them, though his back was washed with crimson. Abaddon and Drakkar hardly moved away from each other, there was no more retreat, no more giving of ground, there was only cold rage and vicious close quarters combat. Blood spattered to the earth in droplets and narrow ribbons, until forearm met forearm, and Drakkar finally fully committed to the knife fight. It was not a slice or a quick stab, he buried the splinter of steel into the meat of Abaddon’s thigh, and then tried to punch him in the throat with his bloody free hand. A combat shield, brief and unforgiving, caught the blow met for Abaddon’s throat, and he heard the impact of bone against invisible, immovable force. He growled low and guttural, he strike had been meant for his femoral artery, but Abaddon had turned his leg, and now his Father was inside a knife fight, in a way he had not been when his sword was still whole.


In a flash, Abaddon opened the available wrist, and went for a second cut meant to sever the bicep on his left arm, which would have left him with two bad arms, but Drakkar pushed off and created distance just in time. Blood spurted from the wound, his Father’s retreat giving him time to test his weight on his wounded leg. Abaddon never took his eyes off of Drakkar Estaroth, his snarl still in place. He assumed a neutral ready stance, and then in a flash, did something no one with a sword would ever do. He hurled his weapon, the curve of making it look like a disk as it spun through the air, controlled by Craft, and sank into Drakkar’s left foot, the foot he would have to lead with for a lunch, before it was conjured back to his hand and he was ready for the inevitable advance. It was Abaddon's sort of fight now, and he wasn’t going to chase his Father. They met at the center of the arena, a trail of blood behind each of them.





Offline Drakkar Estaroth

  • Character Account
    • broken2bo
    • wp
    • reddescent
    • Role

      Warlord Prince of Askavi

    • Faction

      The Blood Seekers

    • Territory

      Askavi, Terreille

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

    • OOC

      Gavin

    • Posts

      133

    • View Profile
Re: The Court of Extreme Parenting
« Reply #14 on: Oct 12, 18, 11:28:18 AM »
He was bleeding out and it was now that Drakkar realized what Abaddon had intended to do. He’d played on his pride and skill, knowing that Drakkar would never back down any more. But where Abaddon had his webs to show him the future, all that Drakkar had available to him was this time and this moment. Had he let any other male fight in his place, his son would have slaughtered that man long before now. He’d read the deeper patterns in Abaddon’s attacks and known that the Black Widow Warlord Prince had been trying to make a point with each slash and cut. He made his points and watched as the elder Warlord Prince returned with his own.

Was he proud of his son? Yes, in a way. He’d come to a foreign land and challenged the people without fear of repercussion. Were they not related, Drakkar would considered it an honorable, if ill-advised way to deal with things. But when it came down to it, in his heart of hearts, Drakkar Estaroth had already buried two of his children long before their time. Sending a third to his grave spat in the face of his love for his people, for Askavi, and for the family that had been ripped from him time and time again. If Abaddon wanted him dead, he would have to earn it the same way that others had tried to for centuries. The first thing they taught warriors in the Hunting Camps, even before handing them their first blade, was that all warriors died.

Make peace with death and death will make peace with you.” Drakkar murmured to himself, remembering the earliest days of his education.

The celebrations would last for at least a week, if not longer. Celebrian and Kaderian would say something nice. But Illyrian would finally have vengeance for her husband. Those who loved Erristovar Errsa could say that Drakkar Estaroth had died as he lived; by his sword.

Tavar would walk free and the Blood Seekers would withdraw from the Territory Court, unwilling to serve Illyrian because of his own choices and decrees. His people would pass on into the Darkness, forgotten and reviled, while Terreile celebrated their demise because it meant that the monsters in their dreams could never, ever hurt them again.

His arm grew numb. Blood wet the ground from more wounds than he’d ever taken in a single fight in his life. Yet the familiar burn of poison was absent from the tapestry of pain that his body had become. Abaddon could have scratched him and just waited for him to die. Would he use his snaketooth and make everyone watch him die slowly while poison tore through his veins? Dying on the very field he’d chosen at the hands of his son was a poetic way to go. It sounded like a weepy Hayllian tragedy, minus the orgy without context. 

Drakkar laughed aloud at that.He fell to his knees among the blood and ice of the challenge circle, having created the space between himself and Abaddon, laughing to himself. This fight was at an end. One of them would die because peace was a lie.

Laughter faded as pain filled his mind, centered on his foot. Drakkar growled and reached for the knife, only to see it return to Abaddon’s hand. Drakkar roared in agony, but pushed himself to his feet all the same. He glared at Abaddon, walking slowly toward the center of the circle. His body ached. His cuts wept blood. His wings beat slowly, tiredly. Abaddon’s eyes held the same rage, the same contempt that Drakkar once held for most of Terreille. He’d never offered mercy before. It was foolish to ask for it now. His Blood Opal was nearly empty, but he had enough power to do two things.

He quietly triaged his wounds, dulling the pain so that he could function for one last gambit.

He stopped a yard away from Abaddon.

Tavar’s teachings were passable. Guess we’ll never know what you could have learned from me.” Drakkar said, coughing once, then again.

I suppose that’ll have to wait for another life.” the Warlord Prince of Askavi said, dropping the broken sword to the ground. He called over his spear and then snapped it over his knee. He tossed away the shaft of wood and kept the half with the metal head. It would be good for a single, well-placed strike. That strike wouldn’t come without taking another, possibly mortal, blow from his son.

You made a good argument, Prince al-Sabbah. Now finish strong.

And then, every muscle in his body screaming in protest, Drakkar lunged forward with gritted teeth to deliver his own closing argument.




Offline Abaddon al-Sabbah

  • Character Account
    • opal2red
    • bwwp
    • Faction

      Clan Sabbah

    • Territory

      Pruul

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

    • OOC

      Sol

    • Posts

      146

    • View Profile
Re: The Court of Extreme Parenting
« Reply #15 on: Oct 12, 18, 11:32:50 AM »
There was nothing clean about a knife fight. There was no spear that kept the blood from your hands, no three feet of steel that could open a belly in time for you to keep entrails off of your boots. There was no distance. A knife fight was personal, deeply personal. Abaddon had ended the lives of men as he slowly drove his blade into their bodies, looking them dead in the eyes. He had watched the spark of life fade from their gaze, and felt the beat of a heart against the steel of his knife. What was more personal than a battle between Father and estranged Son? Nothing. This had been part of his purpose, he felt certain. He was an arrow, no a spear, meant to be cast at Askavi by the long, shadowy arm of The Spider. Doubtless, he had a vision of conflict, that the Young Spider would somehow change Askavi, and maybe he still was, just not in the way that manipulative bastard would have wanted.

This was not Abaddon denying any part of himself. He was not saying he was not Eyrien. He was not saying that he was not Pruulian. He was not denying what he learned under The Spider. He had never denied his nature. He was not denying Drakkar, despite defending Fin and displaying the result of that man’s training. Abaddon Drakkarson al-Sabbah was declaring that he was ALL of these things, and that he was stronger and better for it, that he could adapt, overcome, survive and if his Father could see that, could hear his plea in all the cuts and blood and fractured bone, then perhaps Drakkar and Askavi could as well. The Abyss and Mother Night and the Twisted Kingdom lived in him, and they had whispered to him the truth all of his life; he could not get to where he was going, if he did not settle where he was from. This was blood and primal rage, but it was also deep and violent catharsis. There was relief in every drop of blood, understanding in every open wound.

That there were lessons to learn did not mean his rage was any less. That there was blood on the field did not mean he could slow down, or even stop. It never occurred to him. Abaddon would see this through to the bloody end. He tilted his head slightly when Drakkar laughed a bit, and he had cut that laughter short with the hurling of his blade. It was not the right time for reflection, and Abaddon would not have it said he cut down his Father when he was distracted. The two fighters close the gap, eyes burning each other to cinders as they did so. Drakkar spoke to him then, and Abaddon was surprised yet again. He squared his shoulders in away that echoed the man across from him, and his reply was laced with his anger, ”I have learned from you since my dreams began. I told you so before this fight even began.” Abaddon spoke a little more loudly, ”Did you expect less from your son?”

He did not expect an answer, he had been trembling like a horse at the starting line, eager to dispense with ultimately meaningless banter. The spectators did not care about their honor, their history, or their feelings. Askavi demanded results, and results they would have. Abaddon leaped forward, having taken note of the change in weapons, and where and how both of their wounds affected them. It was the end of their discussion, the end of his lecture, the end of Drakkar’s rebuttal, and whatever else happened, Abaddon sensed that this was the last time they would cross blades. One or both would die, but whatever the result, permanent marks had been left, and hard truth had been delivered. The Black Widow Warlord Prince roared again, rage swelling in his chest to meet this final encounter. A chill wind renewed, blowing across the arena as weapon met weapon, and meat and bone pounded into meat and bone.

If anyone believed the fighting had been vicious up to that moment, they would be forced to reevaluate that opinion. Neither man gave ground, neither man faded. New wounds were opened almost on first contact, and new blood flowed. Knife attacks and spear thrusts collapsed into a flurry of brutal elbows and punches, the weapons as much a part of their hands as their fingers and their knuckles. Silence reigned, and each second that ticked by was punctuated by grunts and growls, and the disturbingly subtle sounds of two mean trying in earnest to kill each other. The tension swelled to it’s breaking point, and everyone knew that all it would take was a moment, the slightest miscalculation, the mildest mistake—and everything would come to a close.





Offline Drakkar Estaroth

  • Character Account
    • broken2bo
    • wp
    • reddescent
    • Role

      Warlord Prince of Askavi

    • Faction

      The Blood Seekers

    • Territory

      Askavi, Terreille

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

    • OOC

      Gavin

    • Posts

      133

    • View Profile
Re: The Court of Extreme Parenting
« Reply #16 on: Oct 12, 18, 11:38:05 AM »
Abaddon was disciplined and cold, a warrior until the very last. Drakkar expected no less, especially with Tavar as his teacher. Life played out in strange ways. The son he never knew of, but had dreamed of having, raised by a man who’d been as a brother to him. Beneath Drakkar’s rage and anger at Tavar was a well of deep hurt and pain. Tavar had abandoned him and Drakkar still didn’t know why. Oh, he’d explained his reasons for deserting Askavi centuries ago. He’d spoken of the fight with his father and its aftermath. Beyond all of that, where the darker truths lay, Drakkar Estaroth’s greatest question lay unanswered.

Why did you turn your back on me?

There was no mercy or pity in Abaddon’s eyes. Did he look like that, all those centuries ago, when he’d made the streets of Kemet and Bidea run red with the blood of its people? Did any of them wonder what they’d done to deserve him as their executioner? Unlike them, Drakkar did not wonder. Everything had a Price, didn’t it? Sometimes that Price came in being bonded to a woman whose husband ripped your life to shreds before you ever met. Other times it arrived when people hated you so much that they’d risk their lives and honor on the hope that they could “save” their homeland from the protection you provided.

Still others, it arrived in the form of a wingless son carving into you piece by piece, even as you stabbed and struck him for all you were worth. If he’d had his Red, this fight might have destroyed Shatterspine Falls. Perhaps he would have lost his jewel here, to Abbadon, rather than during the Purge. He could have tried to break Abaddon’s jewel, but knowing the agony and pain of that loss, he could not bring himself to visit it on his son. Maybe a stranger or someone who’d wronged him, but not Abaddon.

They fought like demons that day. This was good. Every cut that Abaddon opened on his skin would tell a story. Even among the legion of scars that decorated his body, Drakkar treasured these gifts from his son. Thirty years lost between them, each laceration was like a Winsol gift. He felt each of them, felt his blood chill and then dry in his skin even as his feet moved across the ice coating the battlefield. What would it have been like to fight alongside Tavar and his son on the battlefield? They would have written stories about them for the next thousand years, for certain.

Abaddon came at him and Drakkar lashed out, striking at old injuries and trying to create new ones. The end was near. He just had to get into position. Abaddon lashed out and Drakkar sidestepped, but he was a second too slow to avoid the knife blade to his left pectoral. His cuts wept, same as Abaddon’s. There was no bite of boot into the ground. The only thing his body registered was pain. Unyielding, unending pain.

Drakkar flipped the half-spear, head pointed downward and lifted it skyward. Abaddon was coming.

He drove it downward, trying to catch his shoulder and halt his advance.

Abaddon’s knife reached his gut first.

He’d been stabbed a thousand times if he’d been stabbed once. Each time was different.

The spear fell from his hands, clattering to the floor.

Drakkar coughed once, then twice. Copper filled his throat. Rivulets of blood trickled from his mouth.

He glared at Abaddon. The moment had arrived.

Always…always...

The crowd fell silent.

Abbadon leaned closer to hear his words.

Always…

Drakkar reached out, grasping Abaddon’s shoulder so that he couldn’t pull away.

Always...go for the head.

And then Drakkar called upon the last of his Blood Opal and lunged forward, ramming his forehead into the bridge of Abaddon’s face. He heard something give and then Drakkar pushed the Black Widow Warlord Prince away. The knife was still in his gut. Drakkar reached down and pulled it out with a roar, dropping it to the ground.

His body could take no more. His knees buckled and he fell face down in the snow, blood pooling beneath him.

Darkness claimed him.




Offline Abaddon al-Sabbah

  • Character Account
    • opal2red
    • bwwp
    • Faction

      Clan Sabbah

    • Territory

      Pruul

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

    • OOC

      Sol

    • Posts

      146

    • View Profile
Re: The Court of Extreme Parenting
« Reply #17 on: Oct 12, 18, 11:42:27 AM »
A Black Widow can sense the grip of destiny, the fickle caress of fate.

Abaddon could not recall where he had heard that. It was possible Adramelech had told him that once upon a time. No Black Widow, male or female, was infallible. Some said that their visions were notoriously inaccurate, but that was the base perception of the mundane. Every visions was true. Every dream. Every memory captured by the Webs from the flotsam and jetsam of the Twisted Kingdom. All of them were true, some more true than others. A Black Widow dealt in degrees and probability, where everyone else dealt in certainty. Viewed through the lens of certainty, there was no vision that would appear accurate, no interpretation of a Black Widow’s Sight would seem like actual prognostication. There was a reason that Black Widow’s formed Covens, a reason they consulted with each other so often. They did so to find comfort in the insight of other visionaries, of other minds that understood that certainty was an illusion, a lie that everyone else told themselves.

No one lived for the day more than a Black Widow. They might see the future, but they also had an innate understanding that only today could affect tomorrow. It is at once the most elegant truth, and the most difficult concept. Abaddon understood this, on some level, he always had. He had seen this moment coming since the first time he saw the shadowed face of his Father in his dreams. He had seen this in his earliest visions, though it had taken time and maturity to understand them. Some instinct had demanded that Abaddon hold these truths, these visions close to his chest. The Spider was not interested in Askavi, or Fin, he had an agenda to promote and his own visions to confirm, and a weapon to mold from them. Just because he and Ghanima had cleansed his mind of layers of Webs his adoptive Father had woven across the service of his mind, this did not mean that all of his memories simply reappeared and settled into place. No, they rose very slowly, like an air bubble through mud.

Events had lined themselves up like dominos stretching across the horizon and into a future that would ultimately lead him to Askavi. Abaddon had never questioned how, he had never sought out the journey on his own, but when Fin al-Sabbah had revealed the truth to him, when Eyriens were seen in Onn, when Kaderian had spoken of her mission from the warmth of his bed, he had know this moment would arrive. Step after step, action after action, the sense of fate had swelled within the Black Widow Warlord Prince. In short form, he had lived as his Father had. Blood had fallen from the sky and bathed him in crimson, and the truth was that he had slaughtered Jhinka after Jhinka in ways that had disturbed even his oldest friend. He had known hardship in the journey, endured the bigotry and barbs of not only ‘glorious Eyrien warriors’, but from a young half-brother that had knew him not at all. Abaddon had felt the hope of family, only to have that stolen away with Drakkar’s next breath.

Abaddon knew what mundanes did not. Every moment was a precious and real thing, short lived or long, and even the tiniest flutter of a butterfly’s wings could irrevocably change tomorrow. The Black Widow Warlord Prince had no wings to flutter, but he now understood what he had come to learn. He now understood where he came from. He understood what that meant for his past, and what that might mean not only for his future, but Fin al-Sabbah’s, for Askavi, and even for Pruul. He thrummed with the crystalline and heartbreaking note of a destiny fulfilled, of a fate finally met. In the end, the Young Spider proved to be his Father’s Son. No quarter had been asked for, and none was given. Abaddon felt his blade enter his Father’s flesh, and he knew that this was the telling blow, that if this did not stop, if the fight somehow continues, the victory was his, and in that moment some iron band that had been around his heart and soul rusted and fell away. In violence, there was a sense of peace, a sense that Abaddon was precisely where he was meant to be.

He owed his Father the hearing of his last words. Abaddon stepped forward, felt Drakkar grip his shoulder, just before his face exploded in pain. He was shoved away, but he was already reeling, instinctively creating distance. The blow instantly blinded him with stinging tears, and snapped his head back as though there were a rope attached to the back of his skull and a fleeing horse. Abaddon heard the clatter of his knife upon ice and dirt, and he smiled through bloody teeth, before pitching over on to his back to join his Father in insensible darkness.

Now, they were done, and they could finally begin again.