BYRON: POWER?

The heavy makeshift bag was being pummeled and hammered by the massive fists of the densely muscled barbarian. Determined to keep up his morning routine even whilst based here at Carowyn manor, Byron had managed to get his hands on a couple of thick leather ox-hides  which were then double stitched together, strengthened with wide off-cuts of leather suitable for seams and was now finally hanging in the back garden of the manor, filled with sand and heavy curtain material, giving the bag weight, heft and durability. The pugilist's  substantial opponent was well over 5 feet tall and suspended by chains from overhead beams of an ornate but sturdy pergola and was now truly being tested by the morning's punishment.

The joyous celebrations of Taylon's and Alice's wedding had done much to alleviate the fear, dread and gloom that permeated the group of weary fighters known as the Flowers of Korvosa and the families that surrounded them.

Indeed more than just the immediate families and those associated with the group had taken the opportunity to celebrate the joyous occasion of Taylon the hero of Korvosa's marriage to the beautiful Alice. Many of the citizens of the beleaguered city had grabbed hold of this moment whether they knew the happy couple or not just to celebrate. To dance and sing, to eat, to be joyous and thankful. They would mourn tomorrow but for now they were just thankful they had lived, they had survived. 

And Byron had indeed enjoyed the moment, the occasion. Escorting Alice down the aisle of the Grand Bank of Abadar was unbelievable. Drinking with friends, laughing loud and long, drinking, eating and dancing. Life was good! He'd never danced so much. All the girls from the Rest had put aside their tears, their recent tests and fears and like Byron were enjoying this moment, this revel, for all it was worth. Overjoyed for Alice they danced the evening away, each one pulling the barbarian up to dance. Little Greta was relentless pulling him on to the floor as she pin wheeled around the dance floor, an exuberant young dancing dervish that he couldn't keep up with. Only to find himself holding onto Calli, the beautiful young singer and bard, who fought alongside him, who had saved his life at risk of her own on so many occasions and who now led him through another of life's more perplexing challenges, the difficult steps of various court dances. At this moment he cared not that he, a lowly fighter from Old Korvosa was dancing with such a beautiful young woman from the heights of Korvosan society, only that he didn't step on her feet too much! But she seemed to laugh it off and pulled him closer. Living was for the now, tomorrow could wait.

But for Byron it was now 'tomorrow', thinking of all the people lost. The laughter, the dancing none of it was enough to keep away the dark thoughts of loss returning, tumbling to cloud his thinking. 

He tried focusing on the bag.

Jab, reverse jab and slip.

The memory of the destruction of Ruby's Rest was devastating, its charred black skeletal remains.

Duck, slip and jab.

Horrific to think of so many dead piling up on Volshyenek Street, the un-dead feeding off all that pain.

Left hand palm strike, right hand ridge hand and weave.

The Maidens, heartless and uncaring when blocking off Old Korvosa, condemning the people of the old town to death.

A hard round house kick followed by a vicious turning hook kick.

Fighting a nightmarish battle down Wyndon Street with Trevor, Captain Perrith and Sirrius against the deranged Clowns through the streets of the old harbour-side, the place he once called home now gone erased by fire!

Cross, reverse cross, roll out from the bag, elbow strike.

Bitterness swelled when thinking of losing Mrs Cooper, losing the orphans, losing Ally, losing dear Susie who used to sit up with Greta. Old man Parker was so besotted with her he'll be heartbroken. 

Thrust kick!

Almost losing Devlin!

Thrust kick!

Almost losing Greta!

Thrust kick!

Gina lost!

The dark thoughts kept jostling for attention stoking his anger, each recollection fuelling his strike.

Right hand cross, cover up, left hand straight punch.

With each combination the power of each strike was increasing, the bag now heavily protesting the injustice being done to it in this seemingly unceasing bout.

Byron focussed solely on the bag, his peripheral becoming dark as his anger began to manifest into something more. 

His face took on a look of almost bestial savagery, with a snarl curling his lips, the veins throbbing at his temples, his eyes widening as his pupils focussed to almost pin-holes set only upon their objective, the bag, the Maidens, the Queen!

The rage in him started to burn, his physical form began to reflect that inner storm with his back, arms and legs appearing to get bigger, his musculature more taught and defined, almost painfully, as if his skin couldn't contain a newly emerging mutating beast, the blood in his arms and legs could be clearly seen as the vascular reaction was almost grotesque, the capillaries and veins beginning to bulge, stretching his skin even further, his rage bursting through his frame. The destructive emotions of anger began to dominate, that anger born from the injustice that he felt, the fear and loss of the last few days became real, made flesh as his fore-arms became almost un-naturally knotted with thick compacted corded sinews, his arms even more deeply etched with the engorged capillaries as this bestial transformation continued. 

The pounding the substantial punch bag endured, increased even, its thick hefty mass the object of this primeval force made manifest trying to release the frustration of the inequities and the turmoil of the loss through physical action.

But still the loss hurt, he wasn't strong enough to stand against it, all he knew burnt to the ground, those he'd grown to care for, he was unable to defend. Those who looked to him for protection and safety, for him to be a bulwark against the harsh realities of Korvosan life would have found him wanting as he was unable to stop the death, the loss, the chaos and madness that surrounded them. 

As the tempest in him stormed, the fury was more substantial,  the sense of powerless-ness grew near overwhelming, his transformation became complete as an incoherent bestial roar was loosed, wrenched from his throat - his inadequacies of the moment made real. His strikes had lost all finesse, just fists forcefully hitting the bag, harder and harder when suddenly two bone claws ripped from between his knuckles, their serrated edges cutting through the flesh of his hands. His forearms  grew immense swelling instinctually in response to the vicious looking talons. His own blood began to slowly trickle down the length of the talons that had violently erupted from his hands. If there was pain he was unaware of it as he plunged both wicked sharp lengths of serrated  bone deep into 'that' which was confronting him. He bellowed his frustration as he reduced the substantial bag to nothing, its tattered remains hung limply, the only witness to his frenzied attack. With a contemptuous flick of his hand he cut the chains holding the bag aloft and as it dropped to the hard-standing floor Byron tried to regain control of himself, to release the bestial power that was but a moment ago swirling inside of him. But it was difficult to let go!

His eyes burned with impotent frustration!

His home, still gone!

His bestial muscled form tense and taught ready to move!!

The Maidens were still there!

His breathing hard, his senses keen, keen as the claws dripping his blood into the earth.

The Queen, still there!!

What to many would be seen as a symbol of power, this bestial rage that he could harnesses, to him in this moment was a symptom of his powerlessness. 

His breathing slowed as his heart calmed, his pupils dilated as awareness returned.

 "Damn, " whispered Byron as he looked down at the shredded remnants of leather, curtain and sand. His breathing now more under control, the barbarous rage relinquishing its hold, the cruel claws withdrawing back into his hands as the blood and sinew diminished as the warrior started to come back to himself. The hard feral countenance left the tall man's face leaving behind the deep concerned facial lines of Byron.

 "You'll need to get another bag," commented Devlin as she approached Byron from the ornate double doors at the rear of Carowyn manor. 

 "And a pergola, " continued Devlin, noting the damage done to the large wooden structure that had been supporting the once heavy bag.

 "It's fine," asserted Byron gently prodding the wooden structure, only for the wooden frame to give an ominous groan protesting its punishment. Both Byron and Devlin momentarily held their breath wondering if the ornate garden trellis-ing might stay in place. The wooden framework  shuddered, seemed to sway ever so slightly and then settled in place accompanied by the slow releasing of breath from the two Korvosans.

 "See told you it was fine," Byron joked whilst leading Devlin away from the now rickety edifice. 

 "Indeed my dear," answered the older woman. Looking at her Byron couldn't believe that she was at death's door but a short time ago. The Crimson Veil had ravaged Korvosa mercilessly, many thousands falling victim to the supernatural plague, Devlin almost being one of them. Yet here she stood apparently none the worse for wear,  strong, vital and powerful, her grey hair tied up in her customary bun, neat and tidy, her glasses hanging around her neck from a simple silver chain, a present Byron had bought for her last festival day. Her wardrobe was the customary dark long dark pleated  skirt with a matching dark coloured blouse. Shoes would be simple flat soles and of black leather but hidden beneath her attire. 

But her power came not from costume, adornment or affectation but from herself, an inner resource of strength with her back straight, un-bowed by anything that beset her, head held high able to stare down the worst of calamities. And despite everything that happened - here she was organising the girls, the orphans and staff who were now living and working in Ausio Carrowyn's manor house. Everyone seemed to defer all decisions to this wonderful matriarch, even Ausio himself was seen diligently following her orders, taking her suggestions as gospel. Now that was power, benign constructive caring power.

Byron himself completely understood Ausio Carowyn’s capitulation to this woman. Hadn't he been stopped by her in the street at the height of his infamy as she fearlessly admonished him for his association with the crime boss Geadren Lamm completely disregarding any danger to herself. Hadn't he also gone running headlong into a burning building for her, jumped out of the upper story window whilst cradling her to keep her alive.  Yes he thought he understood Ausio, he would do anything this woman would ask of him. 

 " Are you alright my dear boy, " Devlin enquired, resting her hand on his arm, the other gently on his back, " as you seemed a little angry? " She said the last with a little smile obviously having witnessed the violent transformation of the now placid younger man.

 "I'm fine now nan, everything is under control," replied the big man feeling a little embarrassed by his violent display of destruction.

 " Well that's good to hear as I don't think Ausio's garden furniture can take much more, " she joked with a smile to show that she was more concerned for him than the now fragile looking garden edifice. 

He smiled in return.

 "Greta is looking for you," Devlin went on, " said something about you showing her The Waddle of the Heron? "

 " Way of the Crane," answered Byron. "With Gina gone she's scared and she feels she needs to be able to defend herself, so we don't worry about how she put it." 

 " Dear child, " whispered Devlin almost to herself, " doesn't she know we'll always worry for her? "

 "She'll be better when Gina returns," asserted Byron. 

 "Byron you need..." 

 " No she will be back, " Byron quickly cut across Devlin's words, " I will find her! " 

He said those words with such finality that Devlin knew that nothing she could add would get through. He would cling to the hope that the female warrior was still alive, they all did but for Byron and Greta it would be a devastating blow if she  wasn't. Damn it they'd all lost enough!

Noticing the tell- tale lines of brooding and anger beginning  once more to take hold of the young barbarian, Devlin quickly changed the subject.

 "Well if you're sure about the Heron thing?" 

 "Crane, Nanny Linn," responded the Bear with a small smile, " it's Crane and it'll be good for her. "

 "How so?" Was Devlin's quick reply.

 " She's part orc, so she needs to be able to channel the aggression that is part of her, " was Byron's reply. " And that aggression will come so this will help do that and it'll help distract her."

 "Teaching her how to fight will help with her aggression?" Devlin sounded doubtful.

 " We can't ignore her heritage, for an Orc, even for a half Orc aggression is part of the culture, part of her roots, " Byron offered by way of explanation, "The Way of the Crane is all about defensive movement, channelling aggression, moving out of harm's way. A way to harness and control her power. Gina agreed we should do this. " 

The mention of the missing woman's name brought the two of them to a stop. An uncomfortable heavy silence just hung in the air.

"Well if you're sure," was Devlin's awkward reply. She loved the missing warrior woman like a daughter she'd never had and she absolutely adored Greta, her dancing, pirouetting, joyous innocent child and this was a sign that things were changing, that she felt was losing something precious. That what was happening around them was affecting them all and she couldn't stop it. Byron's introspection was apparently contagious!

 "Gina was going to teach her herself," Byron's voice continued breaking into Devlin's thoughts, "so I'd thought I'd better start or Gina will give me hell when she returns." 

 " Well what Greta needs is to do her numbers and letters, " observed Devlin and looking at Byron added, " and Gina will be really upset if we haven't kept that going. "

 "But there is no sign of Miss Cooper," replied Byron, concern edging his voice .

 "True and I worry for the safety of Agnes too,  however Greta needs her lessons and not just about the Stork."

 " Crane, " corrected Byron. 

 "Of course," replied Devlin.

 Byron made  a suggestion " Maybe you could ask Carrowyn about tutors ? " 

 "I could do that," agreed the older woman, " but Greta would respond better to someone she already knows and trusts? " 

 " Well I suppose... " replied the barbarian and though he could read and count this was a subject he knew very little about, " Maybe you could take up her lessons? " 

" Me I would love too but what with running the house, Ausio's staff, the girls, the orphans I may not have time  " then Devlin's eyes seemed to take on a little bit of glint, 

"You could ask your friend, the girl with the pink hair? "

 "What Calli, I think she'd be too busy as well,' answered Byron to Devlin's suggestion.

 To which the older woman replied," I'm sure she'd make time, if you asked. " 

 " Oh I don't know Nanny Linn, I'm sure she'd be too busy?" 

 "I'm sure you know best," Devlin continued, "but Greta does need her lessons. And speaking of the devil she's sure to appear." 

 Bursting out of the back doors towards them both running wildly and shouting "Granny Linn, Bear I'm here," was the child Greta, all ankles, knees, elbows and energy! 

 "There you are,"  she yelled with joy as she jumped into the big warrior's arms whilst Devlin stroked her hair.

 "Granny Linn, Bear's gonna teach me how to punch," said the half orc child excitedly .

 "Well I never said that I would teach you how to punch," responded Byron to the young girl's exuberant statement.

 "Well aren't you going to teach me how to punch," enquired the young half orc?

 " Well yes....even.... " was all the warrior could get out before the excited young child continued.

 " See Granny Linn, I told you Bear was going to teach me how to punch, " exclaimed the young girl again, her excitement barely contained!

 "So you did little one," replied Devlin smiling at the young girl's enthusiasm , " don't punch too hard, don't want you hurting Byron now do we. "

Greta just giggled at the thought.

"Well in that case I shall leave you both to your bird watching," replied Devlin gently kissing the child on the top of her head and headed back to the house. 

 " I thought you were teaching me how to punch, not watch birds, " was all Devlin caught as she made her way back to the manor and her duties for the day ahead, with a smile playing across her face.

 With Devlin gone Byron was now confronted with his young charge hands on her hips looking up at him expectantly, demanding that he teach her how to punch. 

 "Are we really watching birds," asked Greta? 

 " No we are going to learn to walk, " said Byron realising almost immediately that he'd said the wrong thing.

 " But I know how to walk, " came Greta's quick bemused reply, " so we can move straight to the punching! " She threw out a few imaginary jabs just to accentuate her point.

Byron smiled as he followed the irrefutable logic of an 8 year old child. This was going to be a little more tricky than he thought.

 " To throw a punch you need to be in the right place little Bear, " countered Byron looking down at this young wide eyed girl,  "and that place has to be somewhere your opponent wasn't expecting you to be. Understand. "

Byron smiled. Pleased with his explanation.

Greta just stood there looking up at the towering man trying to piece together the sentence. 

 "And this all involves watching birds?" This was all a little confusing to the young orc girl. Why didn't he just teach her how to punch was Greta's immediate thought. Then if the bad men come I can hit them!

She looked at Byron a little skeptically.

Byron looked back, he too a little unsure, as the direction of this conversation was quickly getting away from him.

Remembering the festivities of the previous evening and the dervish-like exuberance that Greta displayed, a thought suddenly occurred to the big man.

 "It's a dance," exclaimed Byron grasping hold of any straw in a storm 

 " A dance, " echoed Greta suddenly excited " I love to dance! " 

 "I know," replied a relieved Byron.

 " You're going to show me a dance?" 

 "I am," enthused Byron.

Greta's excitement stalled a little as she put a mental finger on a flaw in the big man's plan, remembering how he danced at Taylon and Alice's wedding, a note of incredulity tinged to her voice as she said, " Are you sure? "

 "I am little Bear."

 " Well, if you're really sure. " 

 "I am, so let's begin," desperate to get started Byron continued, " this form of movement ...dance is called The Way of the Crane. "

 "So we are bird watching," answered the little half orc child now thoroughly confused.

 "It's just what it's called little Bear now let's begin." 

And with that Byron stood facing Greta, the Korvosan Bear, the feared tattooed pit fighter of Old Korvosa facing off against his most dangerous opponent, Greta, a young half orc who wants to learn how to punch!