#kinsword

All the Atreides seemed to have the heretical fire of a people who would seize the thrones of every god who reigned above and below and still not be satisfied with what they had won. 

That fire burned in the dark green of Leto’s eyes as he stood with Arthur on the practice floor. In these practice bouts between them there never seemed to be a clear winner. It was all tension, tension that failed to be released. 

Leto pulled back first, tossing aside the dulled practice knife and deactivating his shield. His eyes stayed locked on Arthur, daring him. But the fight was over, so what was he daring him to do just now?

            And even if he should be good, in an honest sense, a real sense, the notion of good men and saints alike have always made Isolde’s stomach turn to moths. A grandiose man to meet, much larger than herself, well-adored and loved . . .   she’d be a fish out of water, dropped on the edge of a great big pond, wiggling against the pebbles and scraping itself helplessly. She could only imagine, at this moment, making a fool of herself at best, and letting heartache get the best of her at worst. Would it be a scandal, she wondered, to allow herself a few cautious tears? Would it be taken as an affront, some egregious insult of a man, a king, she knew so little, personally, of? Only that he is a good man, Isolde. Stand with your shoulders straight and chin high, a leanbh.

           Rationalize as she might, only cold envelops her, and she feels the strangest, most foreign discomfort, and a dryness in her throat –– a longing to be back home, if not with the man she loved. Her thoughts consume her so completely that she finds herself a beat late in standing for the arrival of King Arthur; a face obscured by a scattering of taller members of the crowd who had stood on the other side of the table, all of which slowly and haphazardly begin to disperse, allowing Isolde a chance to see. The avoidance of her gaze, of course, is still immediate. Even unobscured, she finds herself terrified to finally meet the eyes of   𝕶𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝕬𝖗𝖙𝖍𝖚𝖗.   Instantly, nervously, she dips into a delicate, honorable bow, nearly in unison with the rest of the court. It’s then that she finally allows herself to glance towards him, a doe-eyed expression worn as a silly, haunting thing  ––  with it, in time, a smile.

@kinsword​​ said:   “  need a hand?  ”   /   3, 4, 5 word prompts

          rarely did he end up  in over his head during a battle.   one did not last long acting foolish when a dagger could easily find its way into their back or across their throat.   still there were times where he overestimated his own abilities.   one too many gaps he left open,  opting for deflection and redirection rather than the simple solution.   the fey were getting better as well.   more suited to dueling red paladins. 

          the girl came out of nowhere with a snarl and a blade in her grasp.   he tried to side step but she was faster,  digging the knife into his shoulder.   she cackles as he howls,  fingers pressed against the ichor quickly spilling out.   monk drops to a knee,  longsword slipping from his grasp,  as she circles around him.   carden’s words reverberate between the grunts of pain  --  get up,  boy.   do you think the fey will take pity on you?   he would not falter.   the weeping monk does not falter.

Those in the north of what the Romans had dubbed Brittania had always considered it a point of pride that they had never been conquered like their weaker cousins to the south. In their country beyond Hadrian’s wall, women still rode alongside men in battle, painted with woad. Heads still counted as a prize akin to gold when it came to a warrior’s reputation and loyalty to any Chieftain was measured in the spoils he gave his warriors and how well he kept the geasan- the sacred obligations with which a warrior could gain power or destruction. 

Among the blacksmith of such a people had Conan been born, and he had decorated his father’s walls with the heads of warriors he had slain. It had been enough to win his family’s glory and to make him restless. Restless enough that he journeyed here to the south and to see a King, a grander one than he had ever served in the north.