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We are not men disguised as mere dogs, we are wolves disguised as men. - Jin-Roh: The Wolf Brigade

“Stop dropping your sword, girl.” The old man lectured me again, haughty from his perch on this hill above me. Angrily, I push myself off the ground, brushing off the icy powder of the snowdrift I had landed in. I wasn’t a stranger to conflict, but despite the human’s inferior stature and composition, the Magister’s holding in combat was...surprising to say the very least. My lungs ached in the cold air, the dawn of the day just creeping up over the frosted peaks of Lornar’s. The snow beneath us was utterly trampled, mottled with bodily impacts and foot prints alike. All mine. With a huff, the wooden practice sword is plucked from the ground, brought up in a weary guard. “We’ve been at it for hours, Magister.” I lunge forward, swinging at his head in a flurry of sweeping swipes. It would have made more sense to aim for his core, a larger target, but fury had overtaken me, frustration seeking to bring this affair to an end quickly. The Magister met each strike with a block of his own, and my frenzy clumsily passed him in a sidestep to my open side. A swift knee to the gut was my only reward for that transgression. “You haven’t stayed on your feet for more than five minutes. When you do so, then we can stop. Guard. Up.” Hawthorne commanded, taking a few paces away in the snow to reset our duel and begin again. The same cycle repeats itself, this time dragging my strike up from the ground to throw frost in his eyes with my swing. Fatigue sends it wide, and my outstretched arm is grabbed and thrown. I skid to the ground with another thud, growling as my body came to a halt. “Four minutes.” He says, holding a silver pocket watch in his left hand. “Consistent over our past five duels.” I plant my sword in the ground, using it as a prop to rise to my feet in a daze. No energy left though, only rage. My persistence was my only saving grace, using my slight advantage in height to keep pressing the attack. “Why.” Cut to right shoulder. Blocked. “Did.” Cut to the left. Another block. ”You.” A thrust that he sidestepped. “Choose.” I try for an upward strike at his wrist, but his guard drags down in interception. Hawthorne surges forward suddenly, now within my deadzone and pushing my weapon back. I had lost the leverage I tried to exploit. “Me?” I spit at his face, my only respite in this lock, but his greying mustache sealed his lips closed in silence. “I was just a fucking Scholar." An opening finally and I kick him away. With him off balance, I lurch forward with a heavy swing, only foiled with a persistent guard that my weapon got caught in again. Another stalemate. "Nothing to do with protecting or fighting. Battlelost norn are a copper a dozen.” Gravity rebels against me again, the world inverting as I was hoisted up and thrown over his back. My body lands with another ungracious thud, devoid of air as the snow gave way to the hard dirt beneath from our extended melee. “Because it takes more than just fighting.” Hawthorne drawls over my prone form. “Because you've experienced what failure means. Its dangers, consequences and results we work to prevent and correct.” The Magister extends a calloused hand down, beckoning in support. “Don’t you want to get to breakfast today, Morgain? It’s apple fritter waffles day. At this rate, they’ll be gone before we get back to the Priory.” Begrudgingly, I grip the hand, pulling myself up. My stomach rumbles as I retake my stance and begin again.

Dcoi phone worm on Flickr.