1865-06-23: Embrace The Fury, Become the Shadow
Embrace the Fury, Become the Shadow
Summary: The Night of the Tournament Ball… Henric is late to the party (because of RL) but still doesn't receive a kind word from his brother. Thus, after a night out drinking with people who claim to be his friends, he comes back to trash his Tourney pavilion and consider his future…THIS IS STRICTLY FROM HENRIC'S PERSPECTIVE & PERCEPTIONS
Date: 1865-06-23
Related: Yes, Pending
NPCs: {$npc}
Players:
Henric  

Henric stared at his own hands. He had regarded his palms for endless moments in time, wondering if the stretch of lines would indicate his future as some believed they would. He found no answers in this, as expected. His palms curled up into a fist, squeezing his hands together until the knuckles turned white, as if the rage had made his blood grow cold.

Raised fists abruptly clanged and rattled against burnished metal. He was up on his feet, chest heaving, teeth gritted, vision red, and fists wailing time and time again on the full plate armor. Again and again, fists connecting, banging noisily against the metal plate, leaving dents that would have to be worked out. Again and again, until he realized the spatter and smear of blood was his own. With a frustrated yell, he heaved the armor upon the stand aside, sending it crashing thunderously to the floor.

Next is the mirror. He looked at it. He saw his reflection staring back at him. A tall young man, wearing a black overcoat with golden leaf threads, presentable as a Champion. His anger ignited at what he saw. He reached for the closest thing available to him and hurled his shield across the tent space, sending the shield crashing against the mirror, creating an explosion as billions of tiny fragments of glass sheered away from the frame. Henric stared now into the remaining chunks of glass left hanging in the bent frame, slumping to his knees, nearly out of breath for the taxing exertion.

He’s drunk, yet, not without cause. His mind kept repeating a scene from earlier that night - the moment his brother walked out of the grand ball, without a thing to say to Henrc. And here, Henric was supposed to have been a tournament champion. He considered the facts, that through the entire tournament, not a single word was spent from Jaren, not to wish him well, not to congratulate him, not even to chastise him. Nothing. He felt the sting of that blow worse than any other blow he had received in the tournament or spars prior.

Why was he never good enough? Anger lanced through his heart as his green eyes opened, looking at the destruction of his pavilion tent. He looked down at his hands again, bloody and bruised. His bandages are found absently in a kit and he began to wrap them as he leaned back against his cot.

He was doing it all wrong. This would be the last tournament he would ride in. This was the last time he would ask for the Rose to give him her favour. Those are the things Jaren’s known for. He has to distance himself from his brother’s reputation. He eyes lowered as he continued to wrap up his knuckles. This would be the last time he cared what his brother thought of him, for as his brother didn’t care about him, why should he care about his brother or his brother’s opinions? He was just in Jaren’s way, as he had always been… underfoot.

If he was to be in the shadows…

He just needed to embrace the fury and become the shadow…

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