Post by Deleted on Aug 15, 2015 20:36:23 GMT -5
Brooding.
Even the happiest, most cheerful people brood now and again as life is not always sweetmeats and puppies, but nobody in the world can brood as hard or as deep or as absolutely undeservedly as a wealthy teenager.
All night, Simon had brooded. He paced the palace halls. He paced the grounds. He paced by the stables until the stable master had politely asked him to move on. And the thing he brooded on was, in essence, the thing that vexes all men. Women. But after that, he brooded on another matter.
He brooded on something that every young person broods on now and again. He brooded on the fact that he had absolutely no... no... DRIVE. He had no cause. Certainly he was a squire of the realm, training and studying to be a knight, but... the realm was defended. He distinctly remembered at the young age of 8 when he first became a page that Sir Edmund,then a younger man, had told him that the key to being a warrior in peacetime was to find something or someone to protect or fight for and make it your own.
And he had not done so. Certainly he was a talented swordsman, better than anyone else at his level, but he was still. Lost. Mired in the complications of youth and not yet with the responsibilities of manhood.
He had brought his blade with him, more on a whim than any other reason. As the sun began to crest in the east, his anger, impotent rage, and deep-seated frustration culminated in his inability to come to any conclusions. He marched with great purpose to the training grounds and, with a barbaric scream that smacked of the berserkers of Lindblum and unloaded, double-handed on his bastard sword, on the training post.
Nicholas Miller
Even the happiest, most cheerful people brood now and again as life is not always sweetmeats and puppies, but nobody in the world can brood as hard or as deep or as absolutely undeservedly as a wealthy teenager.
All night, Simon had brooded. He paced the palace halls. He paced the grounds. He paced by the stables until the stable master had politely asked him to move on. And the thing he brooded on was, in essence, the thing that vexes all men. Women. But after that, he brooded on another matter.
He brooded on something that every young person broods on now and again. He brooded on the fact that he had absolutely no... no... DRIVE. He had no cause. Certainly he was a squire of the realm, training and studying to be a knight, but... the realm was defended. He distinctly remembered at the young age of 8 when he first became a page that Sir Edmund,then a younger man, had told him that the key to being a warrior in peacetime was to find something or someone to protect or fight for and make it your own.
And he had not done so. Certainly he was a talented swordsman, better than anyone else at his level, but he was still. Lost. Mired in the complications of youth and not yet with the responsibilities of manhood.
He had brought his blade with him, more on a whim than any other reason. As the sun began to crest in the east, his anger, impotent rage, and deep-seated frustration culminated in his inability to come to any conclusions. He marched with great purpose to the training grounds and, with a barbaric scream that smacked of the berserkers of Lindblum and unloaded, double-handed on his bastard sword, on the training post.
Nicholas Miller