[RP-Story] The Tournament - by Wyatharis

((copied from http://forums.wow-europe.com/thread.html?topicId=12304390937&postId=123028738850&sid=1#2 - Vyp))

The Tournament

About 20 years before the first war...

Wyatharis walked down the streets of Lordaeron, his elven face full of confidence and superiority as he watched the human commoners scurried about doing whatever menial tasks they where assigned to.

“Master Wyatharis, are you certain about this? I doubt your father would be pleased at all”, his aide asked. He was the half-elven servant his father had assigned to him. His weaker elven blood made him appear middle-aged while Wyatharis still seemed like a man in his early twenties.

“My father would only be pleased if I married one of the Windrunner-sisters and usurped the throne, Talieth.” He glared angrily at the half-breed. “I do this for my own sake, not his”.
Wyat walked up to the Bladesman's Hall, the town center of training and competition in the art of weaponry. His aides shoulders slumped but he followed his master obediently.

The humans inside stared at him as he swiftly made his way toward a man with a short line in front of him, he seemed to register names. Wyat had little patience so he shoved his servant ahead of him.

“My master wishes to register for this days competition.” The balding man looked up, his face showing a certain dislike for the half elf, but he did his job anyway. “Name?”

“Wyatharis Brightshield second son of Laraneth Brightshield Lord of..”
“Wyatt Brightshield it is then... Next!”

If Wyat had any dislike for the one taking the names, he hid it well, his face was devoid of any emotion bar disdain for the sweaty humans who fought with their training weapons. Such lack of finesse and style... He knew their every trick though, he'd best them all at the evenings tournament.

Talieth looked at the young master - even if Wyat was ten years older than him, he still saw him as the “Young master”. His life was barely getting started, while Talieth was reaching the point where he half expected to find a gray hair at any moment.

He thought about the times he'd spent “playing” with him as a child. Wyat had found some task like “Find the glove I lost in the dog pens.” or “Steal me a pie” Yet Talieth had looked up to the boy back then. Now things were different. He pitied the spoiled elf, he had no real friends, only people who agreed with him. His sword master had been the only man the elf had listened to, and who had been allowed to scold him. Now that he had passed away, Wyatharis was left uncontrolled. His first week away and already he was getting involved in a competition to satisfy his own vanity.

Talieth sighed. Wyat's father was too busy working the politics of Silvermoon to care what his second and non-consequential son was doing, he'd probably just be given command of some troll hunting squad or made a captain the city guard and married off in a convenient manner. Wyatharis wouldn't even need to think about his future now. Once again, Talieth sighed. Wyat was almost like family to him, and it was sad to see him with so little choice in life... even more sad that Wyat did not really care about it.

Wyatharis glared at the humans as he sat down on a training mat in the corner. He did not care much for them. He had heard about this tournament from time to time, how the humans glorified the champions and how the lords and regents of the land showered the victor with praise.

Wyatharis would show them how futile it all was, that they could not hope to match an elven swordsman, especially not one partially trained by a human. No, they where not worthy of his attention right now. Instead he sat in a tailor's position and closed his eyes, blocking out the curious eyes and the shouts from those training. This rabble had nothing on him. He'd make sure his master saw him from the afterlife and show him that he was wrong, that Wyatharis did fight with his heart as well as his mind.

As the evening grew close, the courtyard outside the hall was filled with seats. The balcony watching over the area was reserved for nobility, and was slowly filling with the 'riff-raff of human upper classes' as Wyat saw them. Less dirty humans with fancier names.

The first few bouts where fought as Wyat passed the time flirting with one of the girls. He had no real interest in her, but he needed to pass the time, before and after the competition.

Then it was his turn, his first match. His opponent was a young man with a lot of fancy clothing on him, a noble's brat who'd gotten a free pass through his fathers court-manipulating. The young one looked at Wyat with a look that could only be described as condescending. Wyatharis stared back at the snotty bastard and turned his back on him. He could hear the stuttering anger coming from the brat but did not care. He just pulled off his shirt. The custom was to fight bare chested so it was easier to see any bruises from “killing blows”.

“Seconds, out.” He heard the judge shout, and nodded to Talieth who just sighed and walked out. He could hear the other man's second talk to him. “Don't rush in, you know nothing of this elf, nor his trainer.” Wyat stopped listening and rolled his shoulders, grabbing the blunt practice sword by the hilt.

Noting that both where in their corners, and had their swords in hand. The referee yelled: “Sir Wyatt Brightshield versus Sir Ulath Mannerheim. Begin!”

Wyat didn't even turn to face his adversary, who stared in disbelief. “Cowardice elf...? At least face me so I can attack you witho..-”

And it was over. Wyat used his superior speed to hit the man three times over with the wooden blade, each hit leaving a stinging red mark on his opponent. First his hand which in itself was a win since he dropped the sword and grabbed his hand in pain. The second hit was over the collarbone of the man, the force brought him down on his knees, and the third came across the man's face sending him to the mat. Humiliated.

The air was silent, never before had someone showed such disrespect for the rules of engagement. The first hit had clearly been a winning one, yet the elf had pressed his assault.

“Oh, I'm sorry, I had no idea it would be this easy.. I got carried away.” Wyatharis smiled and scratched his neck. Then the applause began, even if he had won in an unorthodox manner, it had been a startling display of speed and control. Rarely did elven swordsmanship make its way to the capital city, and it seemed as if the majority of the spectators had never seen it before.

Wyat walked back into his corner after his opponent refused his hand; Wyatharis sure didn't intend to force the man to accept his help. He looked out over the crowd, still clapping their hands as if he was some kind of hero coming home from a war. Distasteful, but it kind of grew onto him... the admiration, the ladies looking at him with renewed interest. He sure could get used to this.

The following matches where also short and in the same style, however Wyatharis took a more stylish approach to his bouts, toying with his foes and showed off his martial skills with ruthless efficiency. Not one bout did he finish in the same way, and the crowd was wild after each match; new humans came to congratulate him, both common and seemingly “noble” ladies left both subtle and obvious invites for him. He wondered if any of the human women could compare to the beauty of the High Elven ones though. “However there are none of them here”, he thought to himself smirking.

But soon, he was at the finals. Only once had he been forced to defend himself and that had been because of the humans reckless assault that left him wide open afterwards. Between bouts he had relished in the glory and ignored his opponents as they fought their way to the finals.

The final fight approached, and with it came the night. Lanterns lit the arena for everyone to see.
The crowd was silent in anticipation for this next bout. Wyatharis had no idea how this man would fight, nor did he care, he was just another foe for him to defeat.

The preparations came to a close, but for the first time Talieth approached Wyatharis, speaking in Thalassian. “Careful with this one, master Wyat. He fights with both head and heart.”
Wyat just laughed.

“I'd hope so, I don't want to win without something of a challenge, it lessens the impact.”
Talieth just shook his head and turned back, while Wyat threw a glance at his opponent who was kissing a woman, right before she turned back. The man seemed to be a commoner, nothing special about him. He was about as tall as Wyat, which made him short for a human, but he seemed to be built out of muscles, no excess fat at all.

“I hope your lady is loyal, even after seeing you lose.” Wyat smiled; it was a friendly smile, with a hint of cockiness in it.

“I'd hope so sir, she's my wife”, he smiled back at Wyatharis. There was no hostility in his face or tone. Wyat laughed, the human had a sense of humor.

“Let's make this a memorable bout then...” Wyat bowed before the man, something he'd not done for any of the other fighters.

“Seconds out!”, yelled the referee for the last time of the night.
Wyat smirked. He'd give the humans a show before he bested this one, after all, this fellow was likeable, for a human, even the second place would be glorious this year.

The match began. Wyatharis was just about to open with a feint to the head when the other man came at his legs with a low strike. Instinctively he jumped back, and it was the first time he'd retreated that night. He was a bit dazed as he realized he had probably underestimated his opponent.
Thinking made him slow and he was almost caught with the second blow coming up against him; he barely had time to meet it with his own sword. Wyat grit his teeth as the shock traveled through the sword into his arm. It took him a second to regain composure, but he sidestepped the stab that came at him, then he fell onto his opponent and started raining attacks at him.

[ Post edited by Wyatharis ]

((continued from previous post))

Back and forth they fought. Wyat was the aggressor most of the time, but he never managed to unbalance his opponent; instead Wyat was unnerved, the human fought in silence. He barely even grunted or showed any signs of excertion as Wyatharis relentlessly assaulted him.

Wyat was beginning to tire however, slowly but surely he was losing speed and strength. He knew this and every blow was becoming more and more reckless; he needed to finish this soon. In his anger and frustration he failed to see how the edge of his blade was splintering and falling apart.
The human decided to finish it there, with a shoulder tackle as Wyat was about to make an overhead blow. He forced the elf to stumble backwards, in a last desperate defense Wyat went down to his knees and then sprung up to stab his foe in the chest.

For the first time in the fight the man seemed surprised, he'd never seen such sheer desperation when he watched Wyat fight. Yet his instincts made him try to avert the blade with his own, but it was to slow, and only managed to lead the blade to his throat. Wyat's rage and desperation made him strike hard and fast. His anger made him want to actually hurt the man instead of just winning over him, and he shoved the blade forward.

And then it was over.

He laughed, as the human sank to his knees, touching the place where the winning blow had been struck. Wyat smiled as he turned around to face the crowd, raising his fist as they cheered.

Then he heard the “thump” and turned around. Quietly he wondered why there was blood around the man. He bit his lip as he looked down upon his fallen foe and things began to come together as his mind came out of the battle rage and victory rush.

It all began to seem so surreal, he looked at his blade. The very edge was splintered... and bloody. By now, the crowd had quieted down, the first thing Wyat heard was a female scream, piercing the night.

“What have I done...?” Wyat stared at Talieth, who was running up to the arena. “We need a medic!”, the half-elf screamed as the arena filled with people. Wyatharis just stared at the scene, not understanding.

Wyatharis came out of the Bladesman's Hall, his eyes showed no emotion at all.
He had been declared a winner, the one preparing the training swords would be whipped and it was all deemed as an accident. Wyat was the champion.

He loathed it. He hated himself, hated his life, hated everything. There was no honor here, only a mans life which he had taken. He'd looked upon the man as he bled to death, gasping for air as he drowned in his own blood. Wyat wondered if he ever realized what had happened before he died.

Quietly Wyatharis left the hall, he stole a simple brown cloak, leaving a gold coin behind for the owner as he hid his face and dissapeared into the night.

He'd asked the officials where he could find the wife of the man he had killed. To apologize, he had said. They had nodded, and given him the information..

Surely the official blame fell on the man who'd supplied the training sword, but Wyatharis knew better... he was “The murderer of Bladesman's Hall.” The arrogant elf who stopped at nothing to achieve victory. Had he halted himself as soon as he even touched the human, he'd still have won, and none of this would have happened.

Those thoughts went around in his head as he stumbled through the commoner's quarters, the man had been a favored student, rising up from the slums as an aspiring champion.

Wyat had stopped that ascension.
He knew he'd come to the right place when he saw the grieving people gathered outside the house.
He did not dare approach, and hid in the shadows as the people said their farewell to their local hero. He heard the blame passed around; some blamed him, some said it was just bad luck. One by one they went inside to pay their final respects, and one by one they left, until morning was almost upon them. Wyatharis wondered, if the roles had been reversed, how many would have grieved for him?

Finally he dared to approach, his lips trembled as he wondered what he'd say.

The door was still open, he figured the wife had left it for the grievers to come in as they pleased, and he ventured inside.

There he lay, dressed in his finest clothes. To Wyatharis it seemed like little more than rags, but in this neighberhood it probably was the finest cloth some would ever see.
He approached without speaking a word, reaching for his pocket he fished out a golden chain, with a miniature khorium sword adorned with gems along the blade. The winner's medal. He placed it upon the mans chest and then turned away, feeling cold, so cold.

“Can I help yo..-” the woman started as Wyat turned around to face her, sitting in the corner, Wyat had not noticed her nor the priest who kept her company. When she saw the amulet on her husband's chest, and the elves face, she began to shake. Wyat simply fell on his knees.

“I have done you a terrible wrong.” He grabbed his knife. “My life is yours to do what you wish with. If you want I shall end myself this morning, to redeem this terrible deed.”

He caught a glance of the woman as she stared down at him, anger and disbelief shone in her eyes as she brought down her fist on his face.

“Get up you wretched creature, and get out of my house! You'll not get away from your shame that easily!” She kicked him in the ribs as he began to crawl outside. The priest had to drag her away so Wyatharis could rise, he felt lucky that none could see him, the screaming might have woken some, but they didn't seem to have gotten out of bed to investigate. Instead he stumbled and grabbed hold of a lightpost. Coughing and wheezing.

He didn't know for how long he stood there. But after a while, he felt a hand upon his shoulder, he looked back; the priest had come out to talk to him.

“My son, if you truly wish to redeem yourself, do not seek death yourself... seek out those in need, save them from what you have brought upon this family today.”

He paused.
“Come; let us go to the church, I sense you need someone to talk to.”