taciturn vigilem [c]

[jachaiharvey]

Jachai stood with his hands pressed against the bark of the trunk, his pokey visage peering out from behind the tree as he watched the strange purple-haired man. Sword in hand, the blade cut through the air with grace that Jachai couldn’t hope to hold a candle to. Swordplay was an ancient art, a dance that many were talented enough to partake in. Jachai would be the one sitting on the sidelines, reveling with awe written all over his face.

His narrowed eyes, however, zeroed in on the intricately-crafted blade in the stranger’s hand. It was slender and appeared to have no cross-guard on its hilt, though it was apparent that it was actually a part of the blade itself. It was nothing like the swords Jachai had seen in the illustrations in his book of fables. It made the stranger look like royalty, equipped with a sword that was both ornate and functional.

As the blade flew through the air, Jachai curled his nimble fingers around the hilt of his own makeshift sword—a wooden stick that was worn and tattered with childhood use. He tried to wiggle it a little, but doing so would give away his position to the man. He instead chose to continue peeking from behind the safety of the tree, like a young child hiding behind his mother with his sticky hands gripping her skirt.

He didn’t seem to notice that a whole half of his body was sticking out.

[Deleted]

[atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=style,background-color: #EBEBEB;] ◤ ◥ TAGS Jachai WORDS 365 NOTES Fancy Letting out a controlled exhale, glistening sweat marred Fenryl’s skin as he stretched and twirled the sword between his hands. Ten minutes. Ten measly minutes was all he was offered by the Goddess to stay in shape and practice his form. But gradually, slowly, he could feel his old strength returning in microscopic amounts with every slashing of the bark on the tree. Every subtle turn and step of his feet, every refined movement of his body to align with his blade, he curved with it, becoming one with it. Spinning the blade up into the air with casual twirls, Fenryl resolved his little training with a few fancy sword tricks that boredom taught him and muscle memory recalled. But a man with his senses heightened from training wouldn’t be ignorant to his surroundings or any watchful eyes. His only indication of knowledge a slight pause, grey eyes narrowed a little. What to do... he mulled it over. Sheathing his blade onto his right hip with small shunk, Fenryl wiped his brow with his sleeve and bent down to pick up his canteen and book, quenching his thirst with the water of the former. At least until miserable droplets of water fell to the ground. Sighing a little, Fenryl collected his belongings, and began walking at a casual pace in the direction of his onlooker. He was poorly hidden, and the Merperson masked his surprise with a poker face, not even giving him eye contact. But in his peripheral vision, he had spotted the wooden stick that resembled a sword, and the boy’s hesitant manner. Afraid, shy? He knew not. Even so, Fenryl gave no indication he noticed him until he stopped walking a few steps after the boy’s tree. “You’ll learn little from a cripple, boy,” he said crisply, raising his head to the canopy, summer’s bounty of the forest giving a kaleidoscope of colours and sounds. A nearby stream that connected to the lake and river trickled nearby. He turned his head to face the boy. “Why do you like swordarts?” he asked bluntly. After all, the sword was a weapon, and the boy didn’t look like the soldier type…what was it then?

[atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=style,background-color: #EBEBEB;] MADE BY AYU OF BACK TO NEVERLAND (★) ◣ ◢

[jachaiharvey]

Jachai jumped back, standing erect like the tree trunk he’d pressed his body against as he spied on the man. A cold bead of sweat dribbled down the side of his face, and he bit his lower lip as the gears in his mind spun for a reasonable excuse that didn’t make him seem like such an obvious stalker. He wasn’t a stalker! He was only curious.

His anxious gaze fluctuated from the man’s stern face and the dirt that collected at his feet, lacing his hands behind his back as the wooden stick fell from his hands with a muffled clatter.

The purple-haired man’s head turned, and his intimidating gaze seemed to pierce right through him. Jachai froze, plagued by his own guilty thoughts as his hands unwound and instead clenched into nervous fists.

Keep still, he ordered himself.

Still. . . .

His gaze, once again, fell upon the man’s intricate sword, and a great wanting overwhelmed him like a big, black wave. He was drowning in his own desires, and he couldn’t do anything about it, because addiction was a powerful thing. His expression was sheepish when he answered.

“I liked it because it’s, um . . . fun,” he said with a mouse-like voice. He was only being honest. However, he dreaded to think of what the swordsman might think of him because of hit, for he looked serious as he waltzed with the blade in hand. For Jachai to be so naïve to think that swordplay was just for fun . . . wouldn’t the man be angry? “I can’t do real swordplay because I’m not good enough. And it’s dangerous.”

He hung his head.

[Deleted]

[atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=style,background-color: #EBEBEB;] ◤ ◥ TAGS Jachai WORDS 431 NOTES Just wait for the transformation... At first Fenryl was suspicious of the boy’s motives. Of course he was. The kid was as silent as the grave and as hesitant as a schoolgirl, so the Merman had little option but to put his guard up, at least initially. However, it wasn’t the first time Fenryl had seen others intimidated by his presence, although he had to say he preferred it that way; it meant he could continue this solitary peaceful life as a lone wolf. But as he crossed his arms awaiting the boy’s response, which was being continually postponed by constant changes of his gaze, Fenryl raised an eyebrow and smirked a little. “Relax, I won't bite,” he chuckled lowly despite his unchanged expression, still waiting patiently. “I liked it because it’s, um . . . fun.” Liked? Fenryl thought, noting the past tense. His expression was quizzical on the boy’s change of heart, but he couldn’t help but wonder… what if the boy simply wanted a means of defence, but couldn’t go through with the implications and responsibility the skill would give? It would be nice after all if the only things Fenryl had to cut up were imps in this world…but no dice. Yet still, the Merman couldn’t help but smirk at his response, a little “Heh” escaping his mouth. Those words couldn’t help but jog his own memory really. The kid seemed to remind him of himself, back when he was new to swordsmanship as well, when he first joined the militia… “I can’t do real swordplay because I’m not good enough. And it’s dangerous.” “Ah, but you want to learn don’t you?” Fenryl said knowingly, bending down to the ground to pick up the wooden stick the boy had dropped. A good clean stick, firm and comfortable to grasp too. After a couple of twirls with it, he held it out for the boy to take. “Good choice of stick. Keep it,” he said, before beginning to walk on past the boy again, boots bristling the leaves on the ground and disturbing the wildlife of the undergrowth. Stopping a few paces away, Fenryl would kick a good looking stick into the air, catching it and snapping off the extra offshoots from it. Resting it on his right shoulder, he turned back to the boy. “Besides fun, any other reason you want or wanted to learn? Protecting loved ones, someone to kill? Depending on your answer, I might teach you.” He smirked. “It’s Fenryl Cyflym kid, so what’ll it be?” he said, daring him to challenge him. Show me you got some balls, come on! he thought.

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[jachaiharvey]

Did he want to learn? Jachai wasn’t sure, so he tried to retain a passive face as he sorted out his jumbled thoughts.

He eyed the sword in the man’s hand. And then his measly stick.

His breathing quickened and a bead of sweat appeared from under his bangs. No, he thought, clenching his fists as he tore his gaze away from the sword, looking for something that did not look like a sword somewhere in the grass to his right. He hadn’t even done anything yet, but the guilt was overwhelming. Just the thought of it made him sick.

“I . . . do,” he said, unsure of his own words. Again, that wave of guilt that made his heart stop crashed down on him. “Yes. I do have a reason.”

Inside, he was screaming. Everything he didn’t want to say was tumbling out of his mouth, but why? Even as he asked himself, he knew the answer. It was the jolt of adrenaline that ran through his veins, the thrill of wrapping your fingers around something that didn’t belong to you.

He thought he could make the game a whole lot easier.

The man with the purple hair was facing him now, with an expression that made Jachai both angry and scared. His fake conviction seemed to leak onto his expression, because the man looked like he expected something of him.

Jachai gulped, curling his fingers tighter around the pseudo hilt of his makeshift sword. He didn’t want to do anything, but his mind was still unstable. He almost turned around to run away when he set his eyes on the sword once more.

I want it.

And he ran, charging straight at the man, his arms raised, ready to strike down on the man.