Your support makes Blue Moon possible (Patreon)Seven years.
Seven years ago, Toumas had lost everything. The attack had been swift, brutal, and random. He'd survived by luck- that was a dirty word- and he did not regard it much kinder for it. Dainel and Aquaris might not have been trained for combat so much as he, but they had been far from helpless. It had only happened that he'd been the one sent to fetch water from the stream while the roadblock was cleared that had saved him. The reavers hadn't even been anything special- just more brigands, no face he could have sworn vengeance on to vent his sorrow out into anger. But they'd been many, and their caravan without enemies or valuables enough to beg much guarding.
And she'd been taken away just before it all.
There was no vast wealth of inheritance, and had there been physical comforts would have meant little and less. His parents had been priests, and while Toumas was not without his sins, greed was not one of them.
It had been a long walk to civilization, and a long journey to collect and reinvent himself. Sorrow would not be his end; so instead he'd collected what there was of himself, and sought a purpose. Religion. Martial expertise. His magic. But in the end he'd found himself most consumed by the cause of an absentee sister. The one thing he had left. Locked away in safety, in training. And not in need of a blind and broken brother to crawl back out from his grave. And so, whilst she studied, Toumas set himself to uncovering what lay behind his conundrum of an adopted sister, and the place she had come from. A venture that had borne too much fruit, in some regards. Reinvigorating and surprising in ways. He had returned knowing she would, at least, remain safe within the temple's walls.
Only by the time he had returned, she wasn't within them any longer.
It should have been a time to confront her, but with the moment of decision already long past, that instant simply never came. So he had watched from a distance- been her guardian angel. Or just a stalking shadow, perhaps. She lived her life, and he lived his between shifts of watching, in what ways he could. But it was no safe circles his sister preferred- much as he knew it would be, and much to his displeasure. It was not to say that she wouldn't have made note on some occasion of a familiar seeming figure once again within whatever bar or establishment she was frequenting, but far too many liked to lurk in corners and keep hoods up. But he had always assumed that sooner or later he'd be forced to play his hand out to save her from violent hands, or a man too bold.
Which is why this situation prickled so severely at his pride.
"No stick?" the man had asked. "No dog?" obnoxiously. Not everyone noticed his blindness, but this man and the bottle and a half on his breath clearly had. He tried to be clever, made some play about how Toumas should pay him to "see him safely home" and doing his very best to stem his pride, the blind man had simply told him he wasn't much afraid of tripping and turned his back to walk away.
Some men didn't like to be ignored.
Pulsing with pain, Toumas' side brought him down over a table as the rest of the room scattered to give space for the quickly moving fight, escalated in a moment from an fist for a fist to blades. He'd turned aside the man's knife a multitude of times, but all it took was one small wound to get through and he felt on the edge. His sword would have made it a trifling matter even so. To grab it out of the scabbard would have been leaving a wide window to leave a few more marks on him though, in such tight quarters, with steel already bared.
Pushing up the blindman rolled aside, staggering to his feet to face his assailant again and raised his knife to turn aside blind thrust after swipe, each motion rippling too much fire through his side to allow him to follow through. Life tingled on the table, beyond his fingers, though. Two mugs it felt like, one overturned and the other full. Concentration came easily even when a proper thrust would not, and the man's angry cauterization stopped suddenly- a glassful of lukewarm liquid hissed like an arrow through the air and caught him across the jaw.
It was no right hook, but people always seemed to like to underestimate just how much quickly moving liquid could hurt.
Before anyone could notice he hadn't splashed him in the face, or the fellow recover for another swing, he reddened his fingers- splitting skin and tossing blood but causing no real harm as he caught the knife and flicked it from his grip, following with a knee to the gut.
Elegantly, more so than really should have been possible in something as crude as a bar brawl, he ended it shattering the mug over the back of the other man's head. Perfectly timed.
Because about an instant afterward the violent yank it had given his wound caught up with him in a blinding- a very poor metaphor, perhaps- jolt of pain.
Toumas wasn't really sure what happened after that, except that he suddenly wasn't standing up anymore, and he could feel warm life creeping out between his fingers slowly.
Seven years ago, Toumas had lost everything. The attack had been swift, brutal, and random. He'd survived by luck- that was a dirty word- and he did not regard it much kinder for it. Dainel and Aquaris might not have been trained for combat so much as he, but they had been far from helpless. It had only happened that he'd been the one sent to fetch water from the stream while the roadblock was cleared that had saved him. The reavers hadn't even been anything special- just more brigands, no face he could have sworn vengeance on to vent his sorrow out into anger. But they'd been many, and their caravan without enemies or valuables enough to beg much guarding.
And she'd been taken away just before it all.
There was no vast wealth of inheritance, and had there been physical comforts would have meant little and less. His parents had been priests, and while Toumas was not without his sins, greed was not one of them.
It had been a long walk to civilization, and a long journey to collect and reinvent himself. Sorrow would not be his end; so instead he'd collected what there was of himself, and sought a purpose. Religion. Martial expertise. His magic. But in the end he'd found himself most consumed by the cause of an absentee sister. The one thing he had left. Locked away in safety, in training. And not in need of a blind and broken brother to crawl back out from his grave. And so, whilst she studied, Toumas set himself to uncovering what lay behind his conundrum of an adopted sister, and the place she had come from. A venture that had borne too much fruit, in some regards. Reinvigorating and surprising in ways. He had returned knowing she would, at least, remain safe within the temple's walls.
Only by the time he had returned, she wasn't within them any longer.
It should have been a time to confront her, but with the moment of decision already long past, that instant simply never came. So he had watched from a distance- been her guardian angel. Or just a stalking shadow, perhaps. She lived her life, and he lived his between shifts of watching, in what ways he could. But it was no safe circles his sister preferred- much as he knew it would be, and much to his displeasure. It was not to say that she wouldn't have made note on some occasion of a familiar seeming figure once again within whatever bar or establishment she was frequenting, but far too many liked to lurk in corners and keep hoods up. But he had always assumed that sooner or later he'd be forced to play his hand out to save her from violent hands, or a man too bold.
Which is why this situation prickled so severely at his pride.
"No stick?" the man had asked. "No dog?" obnoxiously. Not everyone noticed his blindness, but this man and the bottle and a half on his breath clearly had. He tried to be clever, made some play about how Toumas should pay him to "see him safely home" and doing his very best to stem his pride, the blind man had simply told him he wasn't much afraid of tripping and turned his back to walk away.
Some men didn't like to be ignored.
Pulsing with pain, Toumas' side brought him down over a table as the rest of the room scattered to give space for the quickly moving fight, escalated in a moment from an fist for a fist to blades. He'd turned aside the man's knife a multitude of times, but all it took was one small wound to get through and he felt on the edge. His sword would have made it a trifling matter even so. To grab it out of the scabbard would have been leaving a wide window to leave a few more marks on him though, in such tight quarters, with steel already bared.
Pushing up the blindman rolled aside, staggering to his feet to face his assailant again and raised his knife to turn aside blind thrust after swipe, each motion rippling too much fire through his side to allow him to follow through. Life tingled on the table, beyond his fingers, though. Two mugs it felt like, one overturned and the other full. Concentration came easily even when a proper thrust would not, and the man's angry cauterization stopped suddenly- a glassful of lukewarm liquid hissed like an arrow through the air and caught him across the jaw.
It was no right hook, but people always seemed to like to underestimate just how much quickly moving liquid could hurt.
Before anyone could notice he hadn't splashed him in the face, or the fellow recover for another swing, he reddened his fingers- splitting skin and tossing blood but causing no real harm as he caught the knife and flicked it from his grip, following with a knee to the gut.
Elegantly, more so than really should have been possible in something as crude as a bar brawl, he ended it shattering the mug over the back of the other man's head. Perfectly timed.
Because about an instant afterward the violent yank it had given his wound caught up with him in a blinding- a very poor metaphor, perhaps- jolt of pain.
Toumas wasn't really sure what happened after that, except that he suddenly wasn't standing up anymore, and he could feel warm life creeping out between his fingers slowly.