Arcadia's Ignoble Knight: The Sorceress of Ashtown

A Glimpse of Loss

Caspian's scowl was a fierce sight to behold, which the many maids who ran from him as he stomped down the hall could probably attest to.

Damn that arrogant, good for nothing Sorceress!

Anger wafted off his frame in waves, like smoke pouring from a volcano that was ready to erupt.

Caspian couldn't remember a time where he had ever been this angry before. Christo annoyed him, but the young man had never angered him to the point where he wanted to beat something to death. Erica had a way of getting under his skin that no one else had ever been able to do.

There was no destination in mind during his angry march. He stomped up and down stairs, through hallways, and across lobbies. Yet no matter how far he stormed, or how many maids he sent scurrying from his malicious presence, the boiling hot anger remained.

At some point Caspian located a door, through which he entered and discovered a familiar room. It looked a lot like an entrance hall, for it was large, long, and rectangular in shape. Yet Caspian had been here before, and he knew it was no entrance hall. The stone floor gleamed brightly as if freshly polished, and a long mat covered a good portion of that floor. Padding had been laid out along the walls, and several weapons racks sat off to the side along with half-a-dozen training dummies.

Feeling the need to relieve himself of this anger, Caspian wandered further into the room, yanking his sword from its sheath as he stepped up to the nearest training dummy, a human-shaped object made from straw and wood.

Thrust. Hack. Slice.

Caspian let himself fall into the age old routine that he'd created for himself. His movements were harsher than normal. Vicious chopping motions mixed with furious hacking attacks. Stilted movement. Tense form. Caspian could tell that he wasn't as graceful as he normally was. His timing was off, his rhythm shot. He might as well have been wielding a club instead of a sword.

It didn't matter. He couldn't care less about grace or speed, swiftness or surety. Finesse was lost on him. All he wanted, all he needed, was to release the pent up anger that had been building inside of him since he'd met Erica on that Spirits forsaken train.

"It's not often I see someone else in here," a ragged voice said suddenly. Caspian was so surprised he almost dropped his sword. He spun around and saw Derek standing several feet away, posture slumped, his pale face reminiscent of death warmed over. The older man grinned at him, despite his obvious exhaustion. "You've got talent, though your movements seem labored and unnecessarily wasteful."

Caspian scowled. "I couldn't care less about being wasteful."

Derek raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yes, really."

Derek continued to study him as if he was a puzzle that needed solving, his eyes far keener than Caspian had seen them since their first meeting. "You seem to be a little frustrated. Would you like to talk about it?"

Caspian stared at the man in red armor for a moment longer, grunted, then went back to swinging his blade, his movements every bit as jerky and vicious as before.

"No, I would not like to talk about it."

"Suit yourself." Derek shrugged. He then walked over to a section of the wall, leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest, watching.

Caspian tried to ignore Derek. He moved through his forms, but where before his movements had always carried an undeniable grace, now they were harsh and stilted, like an ogre trying to dance. He couldn't concentrate on anything except his anger, which continued to bubble beneath the surface, throwing a red haze over his vision. He felt ready to explode.