[IC/OOC] Fade Rift Inbox & Contact

[faithlikeaseed]

(( Need to get a hold of Myr? Drop him a line. Notes, in-person visits, sending crystals, spooky Fade dream shenanigans, you name it. Just specify the type of contact in the first comment of the thread and away we go.

Need to get a hold of the player? Plagueheart#0051 @ Discord or a DW PM is the easiest! ))

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[faithlikeaseed]

It's the logical question to ask, after an opening like that. It's logical--but no one's ever had to ask it of Myr, because everyone around him knew. Word spread fast in a Circle; rumor had wings, even more so among a population cut to a third by rebellion and runaways, forced to draw in on itself for survival. He takes a sharp breath in before he can catch himself--but that's the only indication of emotion that gets away from him.

His answer is equally careful: "After I was blinded, my mentor declared I would be more a liability than an asset in battle. She decided--and I agreed--to cease my training."

It had been a matter of months. He'd been near enough to full-trained to stand the line with Hasmal's templars when the uprising began--hoping beyond hope even then that a violent solution wouldn't be necessary. (Thank the Maker he'd never had to learn whether he could raise blade or spell against one of his Circlemates. But for the rest--)

"I didn’t argue with her decision; she was right. But she'd have nothing to do with me after." There were reasons for that, he'd told himself. She'd other apprentices to rush through their training--to relieve their templars in guarding what remained of the Circle--and they'd all been stretched so thin with the needs of survival it was a miracle she'd found time to instruct anyone at all.

Yet it didn't explain her conspicuous avoidance--how she'd be polite with him and no more whenever he'd cause to speak to her. It didn't explain the chill in the voice that had once instructed him in duty and chivalry and tactics, the loss of the woman who'd had more hand in shaping him than his own mother--

(And then one night she'd gone with any apprentice who'd follow her--and not a word of farewell to him.)

He shakes his head, once, and shoves the thought away. "So. I don't claim the title I never earned--she'd be disappointed in me, I think, for clinging to it. But," and here he manages a smile, wry and painful all at once, "powerful as her disappointment is it's not like she can discipline me now; she gave all that up when she left."

[paladingus]

"No, she can't."

The strength of his own outburst surprises him, the force in his tone, the indignation--stronger than indignation, the offense on Myr's behalf. It comes without warning, that seething how could she that could so easily be projection rather than sympathy, could so easily be calling images of Wren's face to mind, and yet--isn't. Yes, Myr's reticence all makes sense now, every bit of it, but why should it have to? Why should this have happened to him, when Simon's seen him fight?

"She didn't give it up when she left; she gave it up when she was wrong about you and never even gave you a chance to show her. Blind or not, you can knock a templar twice your size on his arse when you're hardly even trying. It doesn't stop you. You're here, aren't you? It hasn't stopped you. She--"

Maybe he's getting ahead of himself here, pouring this out without thinking of what it implies about him, but there's nothing that eats at Simon now like perceived injustice, and Myr being cast aside without so much as a chance to demonstrate his worth--how could anyone?

"She owed you better than that. You don't owe her the benefit of the doubt in turn."

Especially not if she went and abandoned you right after, he would say, if he fully realized that's what Myr meant by that. As if Simon's ever been one to talk about abandonment of duty. If Myr were harmed by it, he'd account it an even higher sin.