The flickering flame.
Really, the name contested with his ash pale hair, his confused, muddled blue eyes, and the sometimes blocky motions of his movement. Dart was considered a purely harmless person by many, even growing up, helping out when needed, occasionally swinging a battered sword earnestly, a rusted relic from a time when it was needed, now merely a useless tool for a wannabe swordsman.
But- the hoping youngster had asked many questions, and found many teachers, and a life on the road searching for an answer to a riddle of the past that he could barely remember, had hardened him, toughened him where no stoic lesson could, learning that THIS hack worked best on tough hide, and when they strike back, leap away quickly and block with the armor, to use the sword as an extension of one's own arm, one's mind, one's soul.
And now- with two companions on each side, the bitter woman with the dark eyes of a lioness, and the fair-haired gentle king with the striking blow of a snake, he twisted his body out of the way, lithe and supple as a whip, the stylized, slithering actions liberating some part of him, the seething, bitter, endlessly angry part that Rose had seen in glimpses, and respected, that Lavitz had worried over, and that Shana had never seen, and would never understand.
He was the hero, and because he was the hero, he would act with honor, with good judgement, with humor, but no one would say a word of a line of blood here, a vicious strike in a non-lethal area, meant only to cause more pain, and to make it scream louder, and how he rejoiced in the blow and the dance for it made him important, sure that he could save the kingdom and avenge his friends.
"Moon Strike!" he shouted, voice surprisingly hard, and the sword whipped one way, then another, confusing the snarling beast before burying itself in its half-turned spine, ruthlessly crippling it.
And so, turning away, he swept a bashful grin, wiped the sweat off of his brow, and clumsily wiped off his sword and replaced it in its sheath. Nobody likes a show off.
Really, the name contested with his ash pale hair, his confused, muddled blue eyes, and the sometimes blocky motions of his movement. Dart was considered a purely harmless person by many, even growing up, helping out when needed, occasionally swinging a battered sword earnestly, a rusted relic from a time when it was needed, now merely a useless tool for a wannabe swordsman.
But- the hoping youngster had asked many questions, and found many teachers, and a life on the road searching for an answer to a riddle of the past that he could barely remember, had hardened him, toughened him where no stoic lesson could, learning that THIS hack worked best on tough hide, and when they strike back, leap away quickly and block with the armor, to use the sword as an extension of one's own arm, one's mind, one's soul.
And now- with two companions on each side, the bitter woman with the dark eyes of a lioness, and the fair-haired gentle king with the striking blow of a snake, he twisted his body out of the way, lithe and supple as a whip, the stylized, slithering actions liberating some part of him, the seething, bitter, endlessly angry part that Rose had seen in glimpses, and respected, that Lavitz had worried over, and that Shana had never seen, and would never understand.
He was the hero, and because he was the hero, he would act with honor, with good judgement, with humor, but no one would say a word of a line of blood here, a vicious strike in a non-lethal area, meant only to cause more pain, and to make it scream louder, and how he rejoiced in the blow and the dance for it made him important, sure that he could save the kingdom and avenge his friends.
"Moon Strike!" he shouted, voice surprisingly hard, and the sword whipped one way, then another, confusing the snarling beast before burying itself in its half-turned spine, ruthlessly crippling it.
And so, turning away, he swept a bashful grin, wiped the sweat off of his brow, and clumsily wiped off his sword and replaced it in its sheath. Nobody likes a show off.
