Tomebreaker || Mastery Drabble: Grappler
words: 1,387; TW: descriptions of violence
Back when the laguz referred to beorc as humans with disdain, the main category that was regarded with both hatred and a dose of fear were magic users.
Their skin thin and their bones soft by Goddess’s design, the humans hid their weaknesses behind whatever tools they had at their disposal, many of which were not difficult for your kind to figure out and counter against. They covered their bodies with metal plates – but, although they protected most vital organs, a skilled laguz would still ignore the shield above the heart and reach instead for the exposed neck. They armed themselves with blades and pointy sticks of various nature – but try though they might, they remained slower and weaker, and the swing of a human arm holding a sword often could not match the brutal strike of a Tiger’s claw or a Hawk’s talon. Even if they injured or killed one brother, they immediately fell to another.
(Or, as was often the case with you, you did not even need to display your full form and strength to the pathetic weasels supposedly guarding Begnion ships. All you did was pick up one unfortunate guy by the neck and watch his squirming body go limp as you felt that familiar click under your fingers, then throw it at his friends with a smile befitting your reputation as a barbarian pirate spawned by demons. Not that you cared, of course. Back then, striking fear into their hearts was the closest you got to entertainment out of that whole disaster.)
So it was infuriating to the laguz, that the most dangerous among the beorc were often the ones least armed – cloaked in not armor but mere robes, wielding no blade, but only a book. To fall to one such as that? They knew it were not truly so, but it still felt shameful.
For beorc magic was carefully crafted and perfected over generations among the higher, most educated spheres of Begnion, and designed for the very purpose of serving as a countermeasure against the laguz, with the different elements countering the special properties of different tribes.
A unit of Cats or Tigers charging at a squadron of Fire mages would swiftly receive a most painful reminder that their hide was flammable; manes, tails, eyes and ears burned away, brothers set each other on fire as they squirmed in agony and chaos, and soon they were all reduced to a pile of corpses, not reaching even one of those despicable charlatans for a scratch. Against your brethren and your Raven brothers, they would deploy mages wielding Wind, in turn; wild gales whispering in crazed tongues you could never hope to understand would strike at their wings, tearing out feathers and snapping bones, sending them all crashing to their deaths in a manner both brutal and, truthfully, embarrassing. And even Dragons, the ever stoic and infuriatingly neutral Dragons, could find their scales pierced by the strikes of Thunder should they ever dare (or bother) to step out of line.
Cast from range, and utilizing arcane arts beyond your reach or understanding – magic was the most brutal foe that humans conjured for you, and soon became the most hated.
You knew you could never hope to grasp the intricacies of this art, nor were you truthfully interested in doing so. You could not care less for learning to utilize it for your own ends. All you wanted to be able to do was counter it – find an effective way to brave the flames, storms and winds, reach for the mage’s disgusting, smarmy little face and relish in the fear in his eyes before you tear him open and familiarize him with his own insides.
(Nowadays, you would rather say that you simply wanted to protect your people. But there was no denying the pure fury you felt at the time, the rage that stung painfully at your heart every time you watched a brother fall. You wanted to kill. You know better than to try and deny that.)
You began to treat the Begnion ship raids and other weakling encounters as training sessions. Thunder and Fire mages quickly stopped posing a serious threat to you. You swiftly figured out that Thunder magic seemed the most difficult to cast, and was also the least accurate. You learned to recognize that spark that formed before the spell was cast, and after just a few tries, found it easy to simply step out of the way – usually forward, towards that soft, exposed neck. Fire was unpleasant on the skin, but you quickly realized that feathers were less flammable than fur, and a few twirls and barrel rolls were all it took to put it out – all while doubling as a distraction for the mage, who quickly lost track of you, only to suddenly have his spine crushed from behind by your deadly grip.
(To this day, you sometimes question whether or not you miss that sensation.)
Now the Wind mages were a tougher nut to crack, for they wielded the very weapon crafted to counter you specifically – one of the few weapons, in fact, that you actually needed to seriously watch out for. For, while you were stronger, faster and more durable than an average Hawk, having your wings broken would be just as deadly to you as anyone else from your tribe. However it infuriated you, you had no choice but to avoid their spells more often than not, grimacing to yourself as the wind, normally a kindred soul whispering of joy and freedom, suddenly spoke to you in wicked incantations – it felt like watching a friend mutilated beyond recognition, and it took a lot out of you not to get distracted by that horror show. Eventually, you began to carefully dip into the gale with one wing, then another, as though feeling out a boiling pool with the tip of your toes before you would try to dive in.
You despised the sensation with every fiber of your being, but a feeling slowly arose in your heart – a feeling that you could defeat this accursed power.
Finally came the ultimate test – the one fateful ship raid when you found out just a bit too late that they had deployed an Archsage for protecting the goods. What he unleashed was not just a gale – it was a tornado, full power of the wind bound to his will and twisted into the ultimate form of magic. You barked at your men to retreat as soon as you made the terrifying realization, but one was still swept into the hurricane – you still remember his screams as his wings were shattered into pieces and he fell into the sea as a barely recognizable bag of flesh.
In that moment, you thought for the first time since the Massacre to abort the raid, but then your eyes locked in with the mage, and something in your mind snapped. You repeated your orders to stay away, but transformed and charged forward yourself. This was your fight now.
The cloaked man waved his hand again in a motion you were familiar by now, and the gale rushed forward anew. The winds soon enveloped you, trying to bewitch you with their crazed whispers –
Left wing upwards. Right wing downwards. Tail to the left.
– You began to steer through them, and the mage’s eyes opened wide at the display. He sent forth a new spell – but you simply adjusted, getting closer, ever closer, close enough now to see that fear, that spark of fear you so dearly desired to see in that gaping stare. You smirked for just a moment, then refocused, you cannot get distracted now, you are close, so close –
Talons outstretched reached for the chest shielded by nothing more than a layer of fabric, and the wind petered out abruptly as you closed them, strangling his feeble attempt at a scream.
To the jubilant cheers of your brothers, you turned around, facing the rest of the soldiers, grinning as you dislodged your talons from the flesh. Your other leg reached for the bloodied tome and tore it to shreds as you let out a battle cry, and soon death itself descended upon the ship.
On that day, you became the Tomebreaker.
