Nuada Silverlance of Clan Bethmoora (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
whyfearthedark) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
taxonomites2013-08-30 08:45 am
whyfearthedark) wrote in taxonomites2013-08-30 08:45 am
Entry tags:
[location: central] let's do the time warp agaaain - backdated to before the system glitch :D
One might think that an elf bound by his own code would rush to fulfil his end of a bargain, and one would be right given a few prerequisites: one being that the elf in question didn't feel cheated, and was not prone to hold a grudge.
One Paul Smecker lost him his one pastime (or a rather substantial chunk of it), and Nuada, who can be said to be so many things, is not one to forget past slights. He gorges himself on them, and lets them fester and rot in his belly until they burn hotter than the sun.
This is not to say he's no intention of honouring their deal. He is bound by honour, after all, and as much as he is vengeful he is honourable.
Some may complain that he wiles away the days and the nights, that he does nothing to initiate his lessons in close quarter combat. Hand-to-hand, foot-to-temple, elbow-to-nose - oh, he shall teach them. He shall teach them pain, and its consequences. He shall push them until they bleed, the little cockroaches, and they shall have to prove to him that they want to learn.
All in due time.
First, he needs a venue.
He isn't particularly in the mood for shopping gymnasiums. The thought amuses: to find and make use of an ancient Greek gymnasium, with all its rules and regulations. He doubts most of the modern humans would overcome their modesty and fight in the nude.
More's the pity. What better way to learn than to be completely stripped of their imaginary armaments? A slip of fabric won't save them from evisceration, after all.
He walks the streets with purpose today, with some form of measured intent; one after the other location is dismissed and discarded at first or second glance, until finally he finds it. It.
It is a small school, where Extra children go to learn nothing at all. It is a small school with a big enough PE hall.
The Extra coach, complete with whistle hung around his neck, looks none too pleased to have him there. "Excuse me, mister, uh, if you need to talk to your kid, please do it after class--"
One white hand shoots out, grabbing the simulacra by the leather whistle strap. "This. Is. Mine. You need to leave now. You and your children."
The Extra blinks, glassy-eyed with a lack of comprehension. Nuada watches as another light flicks on behind the fake eyes, and the man plasters on a cheerful smile. "Oh, of course sir. Right away, sir."
"Yes. Run along now. Don't come back."
"No, of course not, sir." The coach blows his whistle, catching the attention of the prepubescents and the adolescents. "Everyone! Outside! Laps 'round campus!"
The desolate chorus of teenagers shuffling their feet out the double doors is like a kind of music to Nuada's ears.
There. Now to test the equipment.
One Paul Smecker lost him his one pastime (or a rather substantial chunk of it), and Nuada, who can be said to be so many things, is not one to forget past slights. He gorges himself on them, and lets them fester and rot in his belly until they burn hotter than the sun.
This is not to say he's no intention of honouring their deal. He is bound by honour, after all, and as much as he is vengeful he is honourable.
Some may complain that he wiles away the days and the nights, that he does nothing to initiate his lessons in close quarter combat. Hand-to-hand, foot-to-temple, elbow-to-nose - oh, he shall teach them. He shall teach them pain, and its consequences. He shall push them until they bleed, the little cockroaches, and they shall have to prove to him that they want to learn.
All in due time.
First, he needs a venue.
He isn't particularly in the mood for shopping gymnasiums. The thought amuses: to find and make use of an ancient Greek gymnasium, with all its rules and regulations. He doubts most of the modern humans would overcome their modesty and fight in the nude.
More's the pity. What better way to learn than to be completely stripped of their imaginary armaments? A slip of fabric won't save them from evisceration, after all.
He walks the streets with purpose today, with some form of measured intent; one after the other location is dismissed and discarded at first or second glance, until finally he finds it. It.
It is a small school, where Extra children go to learn nothing at all. It is a small school with a big enough PE hall.
The Extra coach, complete with whistle hung around his neck, looks none too pleased to have him there. "Excuse me, mister, uh, if you need to talk to your kid, please do it after class--"
One white hand shoots out, grabbing the simulacra by the leather whistle strap. "This. Is. Mine. You need to leave now. You and your children."
The Extra blinks, glassy-eyed with a lack of comprehension. Nuada watches as another light flicks on behind the fake eyes, and the man plasters on a cheerful smile. "Oh, of course sir. Right away, sir."
"Yes. Run along now. Don't come back."
"No, of course not, sir." The coach blows his whistle, catching the attention of the prepubescents and the adolescents. "Everyone! Outside! Laps 'round campus!"
The desolate chorus of teenagers shuffling their feet out the double doors is like a kind of music to Nuada's ears.
There. Now to test the equipment.