Shadow of Mirkwood

Insanity

There's a fine line between genius and insanity. She has erased this line.

a few weeks later 

In the training hall, the sounds of grunts and heavy breathing echoed sporadically, creating an uncharacteristically subdued atmosphere. The usual tang of sweat hung faintly in the air, mingling with the quietness that enveloped the space.

Through the intricate wooden mosaic windows, slender rays of sunlight filtered into the hall, casting luminous beams that danced upon the myriad gleaming blades adorning the walls. The interplay of light and steel transformed the typically dim interior into a dazzling spectacle.

Within the hall, a select group of seasoned warriors engaged in their training regimen, while a smattering of novices idled on the sidelines, their lack of motivation palpable. The notion of joining the training seemed to elude them entirely, content instead to observe the skilled elders in action.

        "You seem to have lost some of your speed," remarked the elf with hair as dark as the night sky, deftly disarming his sparring partner with a swift maneuver.

        "Don't be so quick to judge, Fernas," retorted the blond with a smirk, capitalizing on Fernas's momentum to unsettle him further. 

As Fernas stumbled, caught off guard by his opponent's tenacity, he found himself vulnerable, unable to defend against the unexpected onslaught. With a grimace, he attempted to recover, but it was too late—the blond seized the opportunity to assert his dominance, pressing his blade against Fernas's throat with calculated precision.

        "Apologies, Alerion," Fernas conceded, as Alerion sheathed his blade and offered a helping hand to assist Fernas in rising to his feet.

The two warriors exchanged a companionable pat on the shoulder, their familiarity spanning several centuries, though the exact origins of their acquaintance remained shrouded in the mists of time.

A smattering of applause resonated through the hall as their sparring session concluded.

A distant groan drew their attention, prompting them to glance toward the source. Only a handful of other warriors remained engaged in their training, their exertions punctuated by subdued sounds emanating from the shadowy recesses of the hall where the light struggled to penetrate.

Platinum blond strands whipped around the elf's head as he staggered under the weight of unseen blows. Sinewy muscles flexed across his bare back as he relentlessly assaulted the training log before him. Despite the rawness of his skinned knuckles and the trickle of blood tracing down his fingers, he remained undeterred, consumed by the intensity of his practice.

Fernas rubbed his temple and turned to Alerion. 

      "How long has he been at it?" he inquired.

Alerion shrugged. 

       "For hours," he replied.

The novices observed with a mixture of admiration and trepidation. However, even if they harbored a desire to emulate him, their bodies refused to comply; weeks of neglecting their training had left them out of condition.

      "Move, come on!" Fernas bellowed at the novices, but they remained rooted to the spot.

       "I said, move!" Fernas reiterated, but his exhortations fell on deaf ears.

        "Don't," Alerion muttered, attempting to console him. "Their allegiance lies solely with the general, and the general..." He left the sentence unfinished.