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Toy and Minion

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About Toy and Minion

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    Wearer of the Aardvark Armor
  • Birthday 04/16/1990

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  1. Icar struggled to say anything. What could he say? He didn't know anything about trials, about punishment. Deep inside, he knew what punishment he would see fit, for himself, for Elyan. It was a damning position he had been thrust into. He was supposed to remain in the background, not proclaiming punishment in a trial. How had he gotten himself in this? He coughed. "Sandre seems to have done my part for me." He coughed again, nervous. Every eye was upon him. Light, what a mess. "I agree that Elyan should most definitely be punished for his crimes most horrible. He stole, lied, killed, and ran away from the Tower. All these crimes are enough to earn someone death." He took a breath. "I was not here then, as most of you were. I do not know this man, though I doubt any of you know him anymore. I cannot claim any kind of authority on the matter." He was stalling, he knew. "However, I think him coming in to face his punishment, instead of being hunted down, should be carefully considered in the final decision. I personally think we should give him a second chance after he atones for the crimes in the way Sandre stated. He wants to be hanged, so let the punishment be continued life in the service of the Tower." He took another breath and stepped back, signalling that he was finished. Now it was up to the Mistress to cast the verdict based on what she had heard.
  2. Icar stood beside and slightly behind the Mistress of Trainees as she sat, banging a dagger on the table for order that had already been enabled. What did a page do, anyways? He had not been able to take his eyes off of the prisoner, this Elyan Marne. The man unsettled him. Something familiar, unwanted familiarity. As he listened to Elyan's words, he found himself walking in that mans shoes. They had lived separate, different lives; Elyan without a family, Icar with one, if a very distant father. Elyan had struggled through life, always being on the bottom, while Icar struggled, but always seemed to find someone to support him. Those were some differences. But the similarities were far more revealing. They were both hunted, both did what they had to do for the only family they had or knew of. Icar saw himself making those same decisions, those same mistakes, the same irredeemable acts. Would this be Icar? Would he be forced to make such decisions for his sister? If so, would he have the courage to accept punishment for his crimes? It became a much more unwanted revelation, if this man was indeed the one who had killed Icars mother. It forced him to ask a question of himself, Who are you, Icandar Tostig?
  3. Icar pretended to ignore the passing Visar as he waved. He smiled to himself at the back of the Warder. He had come to enjoy their training sessions together. But Icar could not let the Warder know that. Icar was just one more annoying trainee for the man to beat to a pulp in the Yards. Icar smiled as they passed the Flaming Seat Inn. He breathed a sigh of relief as they traveled south down the east side of the river, the exact oposite direction from Jualde, his home. He was afraid to return in case anyone recognized him. That would not have done any good. As they reached the campsite, Icar dismounted and began fumbling with his packs. Getting them free, he set them beside him and looked around to see what the others were doing. He had never been away from the city to the point of making camp. Stiffly trying to copy what the others did, he set up his bedroll and prepared himself for sleep. He would need it. He had the watch just before Guardsman Jasen. Not having slept the past night helped.
  4. The man was lead away and the Mistress of Trainees looked right at Icar. He nearly jumped. “I don’t know what you think you are doing, but your presence was not asked for here. We will discuss your punishment for eavesdropping later, but in the meantime, I have tasks for you." He struggled to point out that he was in fact sent there, but she continued without pausing. "I want you to go and prepare one of the mess halls for a trial. There will need to be one table for me to sit at as judge, and a chair for the accused to sit. You will be acting as my page during this trial, and will do whatever I ask. I will also require you to gather any records of this man from the register of the Tower Guards. Go to my office, you will find someone there to help you. Now move out!” Icar saluted and rushed out, trying to remember everything she had told- ordered him to do. A mess hall. He needed to find one of those. What were they? He was scrambling, and he did not know why. Was it the Mistress who had him on edge, or the prisoner? Perhaps both. He ran to the nearest mess hall and was thankful it was empty. Grabbing a table he pulled it across the floor and sat it perpendicular to the others in the hall, but with plenty of space between them. Grabbing a chair at random he plopped it in the center of that space. He did not know if he needed to move the rest of the tables or chairs. He supposed they would be used by those attending the trial, so he left them. What was next? Records. Records of who? He did not even know the mans name. Unwilling to face the Mistress before his tasks completed, he rushed to her office. Did he even know where it was? Yes. He had passed by it many times on his way to the Yard. She had said someone would be there to help him. He hoped so, because he was barely above water as it was. Reaching the door he knocked on it quickly.
  5. Trying to copy what Visar had done, Icar swept the sword from its sheath. The blade got caught half way out and Icar stumbled, losing his balance. Clenching his teeth, he fell back into stance and pushed the sword all the way back into its sheath. Taking a breath, he tried again. The sword came out and slashed upward before he swung it around to hit himself in the head as the weight of the blade betrayed him. Slamming the sword back home, he grunted, blinking his right eye in time with the pounding of his heart - as the pain shot through him at precisely that rhythm. Trying again, he swept the blade out and up into a guard position as Visar had shown. His form was more than a little jagged, but he had succeeded. He smiled. He practiced Unfolding the Fan a few more times, before he felt comfortable with it. It was far from perfect, but he was just a beginner. Visar held up a hand, and Icar re-sheathed his sword and waited for more instructions. Unfolding the Fan into The Courtier Taps his Fan. He stretched out his arms, sword extended out toward the imagined opponents head, before taking a step forward for power. This form was much simpler, and Icar did not have much trouble, he thought. Visar had yet to call him on anything, anyway. Next was Folding the Fan. Icar hooked the blade to his left and tried to sheath it in the same motion. The blade missed and sent Icar down on one knee. Standing up, he tried again, more slowly. He was never able to do it in one motion, like it was supposed to. He just hoped that practice made adequate. Once done practicing them all separate, he was told to combine them. "Now I want you to practice those three forms together until you're bored out of your mind. Then practice it ten more times and we'll move on." Icar almost retorted back by saying that he was already bored with the forms. But he bit it back. Besides, he wasn't bored. And he would do it more than ten times after he was. Unfolding the Fan into The Courtier Taps his Fan into Folding the Fan into Unfolding the Fan into The Courtier Taps his Fan into Folding the Fan... He practiced with a focus he had never had before. His Warder trainer faded into the background and became a distant matter. He did not need to become the best, only good enough to become a Tower Guard. He knew this, and yet he drove himself ever on. When he made a mistake, he started over by Folding the Fan then Unfolding. He continued until his fingers turned numb and he had to blink the sweat from his eyes. And then he only paused to wipe his face before starting again.
  6. Icar tried to make his presence as noticeable as the walls of the gatehouse. He had been sent there by a Guardsman to warn the Guards within to make the place ready for a Murderer to be questioned. After his mission was finished, they had ignored him and he slid himself into the shadowed background. He was curious about this murderer. Thoughts of his mothers killer popped into his head. Could this be the end of it all? He could leave the Tower, go back to Deena. Icar did not recognize the man they dragged into the gatehouse and threw into a wooden stool. Icar did not know how long they waited, the City Guards shifting nervously from foot to foot. He tried to quietly edge his way to get a better look at the man in chains, but the door opened and the Mistress of Trainees entered. Icar shrank back further. He had never been to see her, and for that he was grateful. Icar noticed the prisoner attempt to stand, perhaps in defiance, but the chains prohibited it and forced him back to his seat. She pulled up a chair and sat down before the prisoner. “I hear you wanted to be judged by the Tower Guard. Well, here I am. You had better explain yourself, and tell me why we shouldn’t skip the trial and just hang you right now for the murders you confessed to?” Her voice was like an iron whip. Icar felt dazed. The prisoner had confessed to murder? Who was this man? The prisoner began formally, if a little too familiar when addressing the Mistress of Trainees, in Icars mind. “My apologies Mistress Thera, I did not wish to be a burden to you on such a wonderful day. It seems there has been a misunderstanding, I did not ask for a trial but for justice, I have wronged many people and the Tower more than most. If the Tower wishes to see me hang, then I know where the gallows are, let us be there without delay." Icar did not know how long the silence lasted. He only knew that he did not have enough training to defend himself if this man suddenly attacked. The words he had said had cut him on some deeper level than he thought possible.
  7. The morning air was ripe with the scent of a city. Icar had not grown up in the city, but he had spent a considerable amount of time in it; enough to be comforted as they rode down the familiar streets of Tar Valon. He had not slept, his mind too cluttered with recent events to allow him the luxury. He had packed only the essentials, one pack he would be able to carry over his shoulder on foot if the need arose. He had been outfitted with a plain shortsword that rested in its scabbard at his waist. They had offered him a shield, but it had proved to be more of a burden than a proper defense. Instead he had been given an armguard. Nothing special, but enough to save his arm from a glancing blow. His mind yearned to be back in the practice yard, even as his body cried out its need for this simple ride. He tightened his grip on the reins. The horse rocked his head back and forward, sensing Icars turmoil. He patted the beasts neck soothingly. He let his mind wander. Had his father been where he was, riding out with fellow trainees, Guardsmen and Warders? Had he rode a horse much like Icar to learn the basics of patrol? What had been the thoughts of Halacar Tostig as he had lied awake in contemplation of this day? What kind of person had he been, and what kind of man had he become? Icar was forced to the realization that he did not know anything about his father. He shook his head. Thoughts of his father were dangerous. He was Icar, Trainee of the Guard. Icandar Tostig was laying in bed with a beautiful Illianer in a distant inn. It had to be so. Still, the thoughts had made him wonder which direction they would be traveling. He turned to a nearby rider, not paying attention to notice if they were Guard or Warder. "Any idea which direction we'll be going? North or South? East side or West side of the river? Or by which bridge we'll be leaving?" He did not take into mind the oddness of the questions this late in the patrol. Nor did he take into mind formality.
  8. Icar took the sword in both hands hesitantly. Taking a breath, he bent his legs at the knees, left leg before right, and held the sword in both hands, point up and slightly forward, hands at waist level. The warder studied him while he held the stance. For far too long nothing happened. Sweat began to form as his leg muscled spasmed. It was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. How long would the warder just stare at him? What has he supposed to do? No answers seemed to be forthcoming, so Icar held the stance, brow furrowed and teeth gritted against the pain.
  9. Weapons Score 1 to 1: Complete 1 Reqs Name of Req: Arrival Thread (Complete) The Pretender (OTA) Complete ~Link~ Icandar leaves his life behind to join the Tower Guard, his intention: stealing his sister, a Novice, from the White Tower and going into hiding. He was accosted by a guard. The Warder, Visar interfered and allowed Icar to train, showing him to his rooms. After a bountiful breakfast, Icar began his training...
  10. (ooc: I'll join up if no one minds.) Icar wandered around the practice yard, searching for a place to begin. He walked over to a rack where various wooden weapons were stored. Choosing a single sword, the blade curved slightly. It was the type of sword found on most Warders, Icar had noticed. It would do for him. He had to start somewhere. When he turned, he found a familiar face. The Warder Visar who had allowed him entrance and given shown him his quarters. Icar felt weary around the man. Something about him made Icar feel as if the man could see his every thought in his eyes. But he was also the friendliest face he had found since entering the Tower. As friendly as an eagle on its roost, but preferable to a badger in his den. Or so Icar hoped. Visar was teaching a few other students, some who seemed to be naturals, others who seemed to be struggling. Icar only hoped he could keep the weapon in his hands. "May I join the class, Master Visar?" Icar asked, as sincerely as he could. He added a slight bow to his stance. Only women received more extravagant, unless he was being mocking. Mocking was the least of his intent.
  11. To the OP: I think that Clegane answers your question.
  12. Icar tore vigorously into the leg of meat. It was some bird he knew the taste of, if not the name. Many a dinners at the Burning Seat had sported the bird. Never in such quantity for one person, however. Much to his slight disappointment, it was even better than Mistress Adona's. The magnitude of his hunger had escaped him until he had began eating. He was unwilling to stop any time soon. After nearly choking for the third time, Icar slowed down. He gave himself time to think as he nibbled meat from a bone. He was going to start his training this morning. What could he do to surpass all expectations? How could he achieve his goal in time? There was a swirl of colors as the thought of failing cropped up. He firmly cut it down. There had to be a way. There was no use dwelling on it now. He would figure it out. He just needed to see where he stood first. Time was not his ally, but he had to make use of what he had. His fingers hit an empty plate and he looked down to realize that all the food was gone. His stomach moaned in protest while his mouth watered for more. Light take me for a fool. A lot of good it will be if I eat myself sick. Taking it slow, Icar eased himself away from the table and walked slowly outside toward the training grounds. He looked for a friendly face, but only saw sweat smeared visages of focus. He was doomed.
  13. I think Jordan confirmed there was a Creator, but I don't know if that's true and we'd have to see if someone could bring a quote where he does. As for in the books, I agree. It does seem rather strange that the Creator seems to be taken as a fact of life. Religion is not an issue. It's more of one's morality, (Dark One, vs. Creator) than religious beliefs. Always had slight wonder about why they accept it.
  14. "Now if there's anything else you need? I'd best be going soon. I'll see you in the yards after breakfast tomorrow." Icar tried to hide his feelings by clenching his fist into his side. “Nothing more, sir.” He turned away from the Warder to keep his face hidden. He knew it would look like an arrogant dismissal of the Warder and that he’d pay for it tomorrow. But the Warder could not see the furious tears in his eyes. After the Warder left, Icar eased himself into his cot. He winced at the sharp pain in his stomach. Word of the wise: Don’t get punched by a steel gauntlet, idiot. He didn’t care what the Warder had said. He would achieve what they thought impossible. They said unlikely, but those were kind words to a stable hand. It didn’t matter, though. He would succeed. He had to. When he finally settled down, he felt his body drain. All the stress of the day, not to mention getting his backside firmly handed to him, had left room for nothing more but sleep. And dreams. Icar was in the darkened streets of Tar Valon. The alley where his mother had been killed. A man huddled in the shadows. He wore not much more than scraps for clothing. A beggar. But no, that did not fit quite right. The man showed his face and Icar gasped, backing away. His father sat in the dirt and filth, hair dirty and almost black, his beard long and tangled. His eyes were missing, leaving bleeding sockets. He was laughing. “Determination, Icandar! Never underestimate a man determined. Kingdoms are born from determination. They are also destroyed by that same determination.” He shuffled across the floor toward his son. “Determination can make you reach heights never thought possible. Just beware, the fall.” A mad laugh drove Icar into the darkness of true sleep. He awakened into darkness. He stood to open the window, to allow sunlight to stream into his and Deera’s room. He was leaving to become a Tower Guard today. How was he going to tell her? A pain in his side brought him to his knees, and brought the memory of the last day. He couldn’t help but smile. He was in. It had been a stumbling start, but he had made it. He was going to become a Tower Guard and free his sister from whatever threatened them both. He didn’t need to get dressed, for he had slept in his clothes. He did need something to eat, however. Where did one go to get food around here? Was there a kind of hall where all the Tower Guards went to eat, or did one go out to the city and find an Inn? All questions he should have asked that Warder, but had seem second thoughts then. How was he going to save his sister on an empty stomach? Opening to the door to his room, he found that it was not in fact morning, but dawn. He heard sounds of a scuffle and hurried toward it. Did the killer already find him? No. When he neared the sounds, he saw that it was the training grounds. Men – and women! – dueled while others looked on and shouted out instructions. He tried, but he couldn’t picture himself in that yard, practice sword in hand, moving like flowing water from form to form. Light above, what am I doing here? They’ll chew me up and spit up the bones.
  15. (OOC: No worries. Holiday time.) Icar followed the Warder, grunting to hide the pain in his stomach. He listened intently to Visar's explanation. It made sense, much as it irked him. A year or two? He didn't have that kind of time. Whoever had killed his mother would be after him and his sister next. He couldn't afford one year, let alone two. He needed access to the White Tower so that he could steal Ricella. He had to find a way to advance more quickly. "Do you have any questions for me, trainee Icar?" "Yes I do." Icar said, letting his eyes wander around his room. "Is there any way for me to advance sooner than one year?" He turned his eyes back to the Warder, but he was unable to look him in the eye.
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