Rise of the Blade - Charles Moffat [11]
Despite that, his shapeshifting skills were limited and the drider was always forced to return to his cursed form. He had tried many times to remove the magic of his transformation but the dark rites that had changed him were too powerful and even the strongest of mages and clerics could only offer temperary relief.
Marque Draque too had sought a cure for the drider, but not out of friendship, but out of pity for the beast and his own hatred of looking upon the misshapen form. Rambertz saw the hatred of his form every time he faced the drow and saw it in his eyes, tried to ignore it but couldn't help but wonder where this hatred stemmed from. What had happened to Marque in the past?
Only Doctor Pierce knew, and Rambertz was glad of that fact. He really didn't want to know where Draque's hatred sprung from.
Hiram passed through the swinging batwing doors of the kitchen carrying a wooden spoon, and a bowl of nuts mixed with dried bits of fruit. He walked through the halls lazily, his broad shoulders and shaved head causing the students, both young and old, to stand aside. He was not a large man, rather he was of average height and built like a moose. His skin was a weather worn leathery hide and many a student was scared of his hardy visage.
Hardly the image of a chef, but he didn't care. No one poked fun at his apron unless they really wanted to get in the boxing ring with him. His glare alone could chill hot chilly, so whispered the rookies.
He passed several dwarven carpenters working on a window. It seemed like there was always something being built here at the Academy. Whether it was fighting arenas, more gardens or refining the current buildings, there was always something. So long as they didn't touch his kitchen he was happy.
Munching on his breakfast, the ex-boxer wished he had added some fresh milk or even some cream. Recently he had found he was getting pickier with his food, desiring to spice it up more, alter it somehow. Maybe its just the cold weather getting to me, he mused.
Entering the amphitheatre, he took a place along the wall and leaned against it, eating his breakfast and studying the anxious rookies fighting back forth, blades flashing in the air. The sun streamed down upon the combatants from the windows and mirrors placed strategically in the domed ceiling so that every part of the amphitheatre was lit. He smiled up at those windows knowing that a druidic dweomer was at work amplifying its brightness.
A scream from the floor and the one of the youths crumpled to the ground, his hand going to his chest. His opponent and referee rushed to his aid, as did many others who turned and ran for help.
Hiram hurdled seats and ran up to the quickly drawing crowd of people just in time to see the youth stand and knock his opponent's blade away and pin his neck with a rapier. A sudden silence followed. A simply acting ploy perhaps but that last move had been amazingly quick and was no small feat of finesse.
"I withdraw," the youth's opponent said quickly, taking several quick steps back, feeling his neck to make sure there was no blood there.
Hiram drew closer to the youth, a fiery red-headed boy of seventeen winters. He didn't look like much more than a pretty face and yet the chef knew better than that. This boy had the look of one of the rich brats that hang out in the slums just for the excitement.
"You think so eh?" Pierce glanced at the youth from across the grounds. He smiled at his own words and looked back at his father. He knew exactly what his father was thinking.
Hiram nodded and went back to munching on his cereal. "He's enroled as a commoner and yet I'd swear he's had formal training. That's not something you come across easily unless your father happens to be a fighter."
Pierce nodded in agreement. "I'll meet you in the cafeteria for dinner okay?"
Hiram never answered and simply waved over his shoulder as he walked away.
Walking across the grass Pierce arrived at the training rope, which was,