Points, Edges, and Hilts (Attn: Isha)

[Lih-Lyh]

Fat drops sprinkled his face as his murky eyes made their customary survey. No sun peeked through the heavy grey stormclouds that darkened the skies he watched, but he pressed on with the morning sun salutes anyway. It was habit, and he valued healthy habit as the mark of an educated, disciplined upbringing. Moreover, it was the pride in taking care of yourself on your own, making your way up the society not from inheritance, but rather through the diligence of one's endeavours. He could go on with explanations, but what use when a merchant family back in Jehannah would not understand. What makes a young man abandon his Guild to venture here, their voices clamoured with an infatomable quality, and he remained inscrutable, as it had been since his thirteenth summer when the false dragon announced himself in Ghealdan. So close to his home, but he had been kept in the shelter of his own mother, the heiress of a minor but affluent house in Amadacia, where the Children of the Light enticed Gavin with rhetoric and vents for his manly strivings for recognition. All the world would be their enemies if they could, those who walked under the Light, but the Whitecloaks had ignored the younger, taking no note of his contempt for their blindness, and the ignorance of his doting mother. Spurned, though he would not have liked to kill like Gavin had just to prove his might as the alternative... Sometimes he felt as if he were the only man in existence with his eyes open, and that made him all the more frustrated.

 

Rain sluiced down the angles of his face, making him wish for a properly buttoned coat. He would not wear the cloaks of white, and now that he had been issued a cloak of black he found himself reluctant, despite all his romanticism and faith where more lofty ideals were involved, in particular his idol, his Saviour. If the Creator made men in his own image, then loving a man should be worshipping the Creator, and doing the Creator's will as it were. The cloak, was it so absurd as not wishing to sully the dark material which shone in his dreams?

 

Legs spread a few hands apart, he could see his curls reflected clearly by his boots -- polished to brilliance -- bouyed him with confidence. Gavin had once told him that women should wear pretty shoes because they will take you beautiful places. That was before moving to Amadacia, when he was taunted and bullied for always having his head in books. "Just because I have a healthy mind does not mean I will be unfit physically." He had done a little scoffing back then, preferring to deserve the beatings he received at his brother's hand, then realised he could disengage, and his brother would have to catch him first. Years of running kept the rope-y muscles on his frame stretched, and he seemed limber as a cat when he bent yet another time to touch the ground with his palms.

 

Product of a soft life; he had not the desperate quality in the rabble he lived with outside of the Guild. He was finding the Dragonsworn, a band his imagination gloried, to be quite an odd populace. Another palm to ground exercise and he was done for the morning.

 

Getting out of the rain he decided to sashay his way inside, where there was din and a fire. It was the clanging of a forge which attracted his attention, and he gravitated toward it. He wanted his sword to be looked at byt eh experts. The recruit had not given his beauty a name it deserved yet, and time was well spent marvelling over two feet seven of sweet sweet steel. Giving a few cursory swings out of the ornate scabbard he nearly knocked into another.

 

It was a fantastical creature. He could find no other word for describing the horror. One eye slit, its ugly puckers revolted him. His head reeled, and he reached well oiled from habit for the half purse of gold marks he had on his belt. He had not a chance to replete it, but surely his needs would be looked after on this farm.

 

Repulsed by the looks of his companion, in easy motions he lightly drew out one and then another Andorans, making sure that the hulking creature could see a glimmer of coins inside. "Here." It would be a worthwhile investment had the marks banished the ungainly sight. His head reeled as he picked up the sword to swab it free of soil again. The lad wanted his weapon to be presentable, no -- unforgettable as it dazzled the Black Tower.

 

Staring flatly, the man would not go away. Deciding to ignore him, Ful continued to wipe at his precious sword, one that would someday hew down all of the Dragon's enemies. He would be ready.

 

Giggles.

 

It was then that the boy noticed the Dragon in the other's lapel. Outraged, he sputtered. "Did you... Did you steal that? You cannot sell it, you know." He braced himself to look stern and strong. Disciplined. Oh yes, Ful liked the sound of that. It was a very very good thing his voice had been tempered cold and hard, for he wanted to laugh again.

_________________

 

With each step, a new throb of agony set Isha’s jaw tighter and the rein on his temper ever shorter. He had found out before that the scars mutilating his upper thighs hated wet and overuse and complained loudly to his nerves. Stubborn as he was, though, the giant refused to give in to pain and use saidin to shield himself from the rain- that would be weakness and he could afford no weaknesses now after…

 

When he finally reached his destination, the blacksmiths as his last suit of armour had been stolen by… He was forced to take a minute to calm his breathing, coming in short gasps simultaneous with his thighs’ throbbing. Clutching a nearby table, he heard it groan underneath his massive weight as he used his arms to support himself and give his crippled legs rest.

 

It was while he was resting that a small man, everyone was small to Isha but this man more than some, entered the shop. He was obviously new. Likely in his first few days as no one bothered to stare at the atrocity that was the Sheinaran’s physical appearance- or at least not so openly. His nerves already frayed, the big man glared at the smaller- a look to make most Soldier, Dedicated and the younger Asha’man quiver in their uniform black boots, but perhaps his face was already so disfigured that emotions were impossible to tell.

 

The young man’s next few actions nearly sent Isha into a rage. He heard the wood of the table groan under the new strain and released himself back on dully throbbing legs. Furious, Isha snarled and drew the blade in question. “You don’t think I know how to use this boy?” With a self-satisfied sneer, he brought the ornate hilt down on the boy’s head. “That should give you your answer.”

 

Isha & Ful, the Ashaman and the Recruit