If Dawn Brings Justice

If Dawn Brings Justice

Sweating and with strained muscles, the night elf brought the glaive up to bear before her. The mid-day light bounced off the circle’s three blades; one such ray caught the elf’s eye. She adjusted her grip more surely on the weapon, noticing the dashes of green and bits of grass clinging to the blade’s edge. A low growl escaped her lavender lips and the last impediments to her bubbling anger gave way to full rage. Too many times had her glaive met the field beyond her target and too few the training leathers of her sparring partner.

He had not always donned the leathers, but had quickly found them after, blind with anger, she could not stay her hand in an attack. Swallowed by her fury, the weapon had accidentally slipped a fraction of an inch in her palm, creating a small cut on the upper shoulder of the Keeper. From then on, she did her best to be careful but found that the hate within her made her reckless at times. And when her blows more or less found their mark, she reigned in her temper only as much as the prevention of serious danger allowed.

“Again,” she roared, wiping a stray violet strand behind her long, pointed ear. Clothed in the weighty armor that had become her signature for the fear it spurred in her rivals, the Watchers’ most dedicated leader brushed aside her cape and barked the order to her companion. “Now, Califax!”

“Maiev, I must protest,” the Keeper of the Grove started. Tired himself, he pawed the terrain beneath with an aching hoof. “We have been at this practice since the sun’s rise. Does your kind no longer grow weary in day light?”

Maiev snorted in derision, batting away his question with an errant wave of her hand. “Are you no longer the night elves?” he persisted.

“Enough!” She snapped. Pain and fatigue had eaten away at her patience for hours. Her body had grown accustomed to the rigorous training schedule she afforded it but still the day wore away at her more quickly than she would have liked. Always pushing herself, a singular drive to train, to improve and be a better hunter—killer even—kept Shadowsong at the task long after her fellow Watchers had taken to bed.

“You know why we spar, even at this bright hour. Now, again.” She said the last with added firmness, raising again the glaive she had dropped in exasperation at his pause.

“Humor me, priestess.”

Maiev bit back her rebuttal, knowing that a display of offence at the title would only prolong the recess further. Although she no longer wore the robes of the acolytes of the Goddess Elune, that did not prevent Califax from addressing her as such. She had left the simple unassuming robes, and the mantle ‘priestess,’ in her past.

“Because, Keeper, our enemies train in daylight. They grow stronger while we lay comfortably in our beds. They know our weaknesses and so we must eliminate every last one, until none exist and we alone stand ready. I say once more, now, Califax.” When he did not raise his weapon, a mace she had requested with the intention of perfecting counters to its attacks, harsher tones found her voice. “That is an order, Keeper.”

“Very well.” Reluctant still, the centaur aligned his hooves, bowing deeply to show his respect before beginning their match. Maiev returned the gesture quickly but gripped her glaive more securely. She would not let her weariness way down the weapon. When her opponent gave ground to the barrage of her attacks, she wanted it to stem from her superior skill and not a fear of her lack of control. As before every bout, she mentally combed a list of opening moves to upend her rival and escape the bite of his mace.

Across the field, Califax tightened, constricting his hind legs into a coil prepared to spring. His coat, already wet with sweat, rippled with the pressure his legs exerted. And then, without thought and relying solely on instinct, the centaur rushed the heavily-clad night elf with full force and ferocity. With the grace and agility natural to her race, Maiev closed the distance between them in long, nimble leaps.