(Updating every two weeks through May)

The Tale of Beowulf: Alister

It was nearly dawn when Beowulf slipped from the Templar dormitories, and hurried along the paved road that connected the dormitories and the nearby cathedral to Igros proper, his few possessions bundled together on his back. He moved as though in a dream, everything distant and surreal.

He couldn't face Reis. He couldn't face Alma. He couldn't face anyone. With no word on what had become of Ramza, Teta, or Delita, training to be a Templar had been the only thing keeping him going. He would make something of himself, so when he found his friends again, he would be worthy of them.

Now, he would never be worthy of them.

He didn't know where he was going, but he couldn't stay among the Templars any longer. He couldn't-

Something smacked into the back of his head: stars spattered against his vision as he stumbled, roaring curses. "Who the hell-" he barked, and then a blurred shape was swinging out of the dark, straight towards his face. He lunged backwards, too slow: the object whipped across his chest, a burst of strange numbness in his muscles and in his lungs, a spasm that made it hard to breathe. He gasped, staggered, barely kept his feet.

"You-" he started, as the blunt blade walloped his shins (spreading numbness again, he almost fell over), and he somersaulted away as another blow whisked through the air where his head had been.

"Oh, he moves!" growled a rasping voice with a Lionel lilt. "I was wondering if he could!"

Beowulf, crouched on the pavement where he'd rolled to a stop, glared up at his grey-haired attacker. Besides grey hair, his assailant had a rugged face, a strong jaw with a curving scar along its left side, green eyes that shone like stars beneath his broad forehead. He held a pair of blunt training swords, and was circling Beowulf like a hungry panther.

"Get away from me!" Beowulf snarled.

"Make me!" shouted the man, and fell upon him in a slashing frenzy.

Beowulf cursed, fell back before the blades, but the grey-haired man was too fast, too accurate: wherever Beowulf tried to run, his attacker was ready to cut him off, numb him and stun him and trip him and wallop him with the blunt swords. So Beowulf roared and lunged to attack, but his feet were clumsy with whatever strange magic the grey-haired man was using, he was sore and tried and angry and hurt, he just wanted to be left alone!

Thwack! A strong blow, straight across his forehead: a spasm of magic, and Beowulf tumbled to the ground.

"You want me to train this?" the grey-haired man shouted, dim and distant somewhere above him.

"He's had a rough few weeks," Reis replied, and Beowulf's head creaked up. She was standing on the cathedral steps. She wasn't supposed to see him like this. He was supposed to be bolder, and stronger, and better. He couldn't let her down like he'd let his friends down.

"That's no-" the grey-haired man began, and then Beowulf lunged for his ankles, grabbed and pulled. The grey-haired man bellowed, tumbled backwards, and Beowulf scrambled up his body, reaching for the training swords-

Thwack!

Beowulf moaned, and in that moaning the darkness faded from his eyes. He was propped up on the cathedral steps, the grey-haired man and Reis standing over him. The grey-haired man's thin eyebrows were arched, as he gave Beowulf a careful once-over. "I'll grant you this," he said. "He doesn't lack for courage."

"He's worth it, Alister," Reis replied, running a soothing hand down Beowulf's face.

"Reis?" Beowulf muttered. "What's..."

"You can't use magic, right?" Reis asked.

Beowulf was too tired to feel embarrassed. "How did you-"

"I started to piece it together back in Fovoham," Reis replied. "Healing you was...hard. Most healing magic, you kind of boost people's own processes. Yours aren't..."

Now the embarrassment was managing to win through, in spite of his exhaustion, "I can't be a Templar," he whispered.

"Says who?" Alister asked.

Beowulf glanced up at his attacker. Alister's eyes had narrowed into a glare. "What you lack is a certain raw power, but that doesn't mean you lack ability," Alister continued. "It will be harder for you, much harder...but that doesn't mean it's impossible."

Beowulf stared at Alister. In spite of his grey hair, his face was rather young: certainly younger than Beowulf's own father. "Who are you?"

"Silencer Alister Rosenheim," Alister said. "You know what a Silencer is, boy?" Beowulf shook his head a fraction of an inch, and Alister continued, "An old Ydoran art. Not quite as a rare as, say, a Vampire Knight or a Dragoner-" he gave Reis an amused look. "-but rare these days, and difficult besides. They were called Mage Mashers, sometimes, because the best of them could turn any magic against its wielder. Turn their field against them." He poked at Beowulf's still-numb legs. "What I did to you? I did with your piddling magic." He locked eyes with Beowulf. "So imagine what a Silencer can do to any mage of any power."

A flicker of hope in Beowulf's weary heart. "A Silencer could be a Templar?"

Alister grinned. "A Templar?" he repeated. "A Silencer, properly trained, properly armed, and properly talented, could become a gods damned legend."