What is this waste?

“What is this waste?”

     “Waste?” Shefa asked 

     “What you call fighting. What method are you using? Who taught you
this?” The elf asked.

“I’ve had many masters. I learned Leaf on the
Wind
from the elves. I learned Axe and Hammer from the dwarves.
The humans trained me in Grace and Beauty, the methods preferred by
the Blood Soldiers of Loria. Every thrust, twist, punch and kick the Monks of
the Emerald Fist developed over a thousand years.” A long silence passed
between them. “And I learned to win from the greatest warrior the Emerald
Isle has ever known.”

     “Garrimond,” the elf said with something approaching reverence.

     “yes,” the boy king whispered.

     The moment passed, and the elf returned to form. “This is your problem.
Too many leaves grow foul the lan,”

     “The fuck what?”

     The elf sighed his frustration. “Humans,” he mumbled. “Too
many masters ruin the student. Too many cooks spoil the soup. Too many pricks
ruin the flower. Yes?”

     “Yes, I understand,” Shefa said beneath his childish chuckle.
     “Good. You will show me what you know, all of it.”

“HA! All of it? Everything I know?! That would take
years!”
“Ha!” the elf barked back. “You are King God and Lord of fools
if you think I will be wasting years on this foolishness.” Like the northern
wind, his mood changed with a harshness worthy of song. He took four, exactly
four, he seemed to always take four, steps to put his nose half a hair’s width
from the Chimera’s.

“I am more. I am not a scholar. No teacher. I train
the elves of my house to bring death to those my highness deems bladeworthy. You … king are the funk that squeezes from the rear end of
insects,”
     Shefa’s brow furrowed. Anger boiling in his belly, he was never one to suffer
insults, but above and below that rage swept a nauseous screeching wind,
confusion. Master Na-zii had always told him “Nothing is not weakness,
often it is the highest wisdom.” so he waited.

     “You fight because you like fighting. You fight because you want to
win. This makes you a fool.”

     “You don’t fight?!”

“No, fool boy, I don’t fight. I kill! I destroy! I
crush my enemies, grind them into the dirt! Were I free to follow my own heart
I would REND every foe whom has ever stood before me and craft from their blood and marrow a potion that would lead me to the cunt-sickened womb that spawned them that I might thrust frigid steel to the depths of her bastard hole and
saver the final shudder of the damned. THEN … I would clean my blade, hold my
charm, pray to Sillius of the Leaf and Raynoria of the Fall to lead me straight
and true to every creature large and small who carried half a droplet of her
blood in their veins. And I would leave them each in seven equal pieces.”

Shefa’s heart was racing. He was nervous. He was
twitching on the very edge of battle fury. A drop of sweat tickled each side of his face even as he noted the honey sweet breath of this devil-spawned hate machine filling the whole of his view his with his empty sinister eyes. Then,
again, the monster spoke.

     “This is why I win. This is why you fail. There are no leaps or tricks,
fancy kicks or golden spells in my arsenal. I do not ‘fight battles’, I wage
war. Every step, every second, until my foe is none. You will show me what you
know, all of it. Then you will discard this waste that your childish mind
favors as fancy and when we are done … you too will be an emperor blade …
king.”

 

 

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