[writing] The Brothers Kryze

[Oddball]

“The ebb and tide of the wrists in a flurry of blades is just the waves of the ocean, lapping upon sharp tipped rapier points. Back and forth this ever raging tide christens each hand anew with scrape, crimson stains upon the frills of the white crested arm. A blow of fresh air from coarse lips smooth as sand to remove the obstruction, strands of hair abide and flutter into the air with few spoken injuries to one another. If but for a moment, it is as a standstill. Then again it begins, the patience of each only related in the extent of the duel. Shoes click against the smooth marble floors shining new as if only yesterday they were placed. Coat tails sway back and forth and spin and turn in ever increasing rhythm.

Plucking strings of nerves of noise of music, onlookers gaze out stoically from their stone prisons. They are grand observers of the olden day, naked with their own graces and frolicking among the laurel. Grand pillars stand vigilant obelisks of their masters whose days had since past, curled then in their sheathe of green and flourishing flowers. At last a cry of ‘A ha!’ breaks the ever dulling silence. New marks made marring the once merry man’s visage, most warily many men would make, but of this man only one thing can be said; his grace is masterful and his poise most indifferent of the inherent rage growing within Marcus’s own brother.

Upon the charging shoulders mount a single pointed horn of perilous intention; A parry alone would not repel the extent of such a thrust and knowing this it is taken with great care. A spin and a turn with a glancing strike against his own rapier cast the thrust awry. The most perfect defensive tact, to mold among the enemy as if a stone cast at water. And like liquid he is, rolling along the length of the blade next to him to the throat of his own kin. A blade nary an inch from the fount of life, a breath in, a breath out.

Cold breath carries among the crisp air, dancing upon the blade and making with it a pattern fit for a child’s ever creative finger. The two sets of stern eyes set upon one another; each surveying the suppliance of the other. There was none to be had.

A flit of the wrist and a quick double step bring to bear two perfect mirrors. As scorpions, venomous remarks coating the bladed tail arced overhead. A scalded leaf bore from a tree overhead droops warily unto the surface of the tile. Beforehand, not a move is made nor a sneer wore. The intense gaze of sapphires bore into the sinking coals, wounds festering with toxic envy. Exchange of words once past now bears striking resemblance to the spark of the blades ignite; the ting of the metals overtaking any hallowed thought. Brothers in life shall share the same, brothers of death do take to pain inflicted upon one another in life as the ideals of the battle royale.

Young Renoir would stake his claim as of now. His advance, unprecedented. His presence now scarred of life, though the blood would stop flow, it would never cease to pour out. Those wounds which art dealt in blindness strike deeply, where those struck with sight are precise and mutual. And young Renoir would deal such a deeply aggravated blow that none may see of Marcus again.”

“And that is the story of Young Renoir, blind of eye and heart. What questions have ye, children?” The old man leaned forward upon his stool, just short of toppling upon them, drunk as he was.


I don't really know what the eff I'm doing with this.
I just kinda started writing it.

Any comments? Crit?

[Comix]

It's interesting. Doesn't really feel like a story that an old man would be telling children though, as it feels more like a narrative from somebody writing it down as opposed to actually speaking it.

[Oddball]

It's not particularly a story being told by an old man, as that was just me being silly.
The real thing is the italicized bit.