#travinter

When fighting one's mind should be empty of all distractions, all meaningless weight, the slightest wayward thought might delay a life saving parry or the winning break in their stance. Though the years had dulled his discipline and his thoughts ran free. He considered himself, thought and pondered the circumstance of what it takes to make a man so capable of ending lives without so much as a single hesitation. Could he really consider himself the good as he gouged out the eyes of some young man trying to survive tooth and nail, even if he fellow into banditry? Was it his right to separate another from their head? His right to disembowel another solely because it served his needs and those against him were seen as criminals?  

"Wheres... Mora." he ask the last one still alive. Lifting him up against a tree. "There was word she was here." He would dig his fingers into the man's throat his fierce animalistic eyes boring into the younger bandit, blood spray clinging to his face and clothes.

"I don't know who that is you psycho!" He'd scream trying to claw at Travinter's face, trying to break free. "Get off me.... fucking monster!"  There would be silence as Travinter ran his sword up under the man's chin... blood flowing down his neck as he drew his sword and let him drop. The Adrenaline was fading... the pain in his joints started burning again, his lungs half filled with blood and phlegm. He'd double over hacking the crimson coated gunk onto the floor falling to one knee. Maybe he had more in common with the bodies that lay around him then he thought. Shite lungs, shite limbs, and shite eyes... hell he was half in the grave already at his age. Yet here he was chasing a woman he'd never be able to admit his feelings about.

Love? Was that even something he could feel between the decades of blood shed and battle? Was it loyalty to his friends... the way things ended maybe they were just allies of convenience. Hell who can say what drives a logical man as numb as he to pursue such folly. Maybe deep down the killing and fighting was all that could pierce the numbness... make him feel alive again. I suppose in the end all that can be said is it was important to him and that is all there really was to it.

The chill of the night washed away with the rising sun and the caw of the vigilant rooster. The aging man woke with a gasp of pain. Every breath a searing pain met with the taste of copper, the bitter taste of old wounds. Every bone ached, muscles sore, breath labored. He rose up from his bed slowly his body still laced with muscles even though his skin was a canvas of arcane tattoos and scars. He'd look at his callused hands weathered with age and hardship, blurred by failing vision Traviner would stumble to his feet. His left knee barely able to hold his body weight anymore he'd find his way to his cane to support himself.