text: [Themes: fantasy, war, fantasy, humor, action]
  
  She said it herself, the stronger one is meant to achieve victory here. Being the daughter of Malic'ant, you're certain that E'ffy had significant training, perhaps even beyond your own. But training decays over time, a sword rusted and brittle from lack of use. Better to possess a sword of well-maintained quality rather than an initially well-crafted one, poorly handled. You shake the analogies from your mind as you take the offensive. Better is the quick cut of a surgeon, an emotionally-surgical sever than the unsure hands of a novice afraid to make a mistake. Another analogy slipped through. You make it the last, feeling the ever-familiar flow state take hold.
  
  It's not limited to the battlefield and forged weapons. It arrives during any fit of combat, hand-to-hand included. You may seek to end the show early, but you'd prefer to avoid knocking E'ffy out senseless. As soon as the thought appears, you almost turn back on it--a cross, designed to knock you out senseless barely misses, fired from the chieftain's daughter. She's quick, dangerously so, always sliding just out of reach, closing in before your defenses can fully manifest itself.
  
  And you realize she has to be. The woman herself can't outmuscle you; the strength discrepancy must be even greater between her and a Blackbird, standing a full head taller than you. E'ffy fights like a floating butterfly, a hornet from a disturbed nest. You, on the other hand, stick to your training. Countless hours of drilling instilled within, emerging whenever the flow calls upon. E'ffy dances about. You cut her off. She presses. You give ground. She feints. You don't bite.
  
  You act like you're moving left but then quickly switchstep to catch E'ffy unaware. Both arms find an entry, hands locking behind the woman's torso. She'll not break from your grasp easily. Her style only works if she never finds herself caught, pinned down, which is exactly where you take her. You use your superior strength to wrestle E'ffy to the ground, hand still clasped holding the priestess in place.
  
  "There is only one way this ends," she whispers, too soft for anyone else to hear. "No mercy. Give no ground. Show strength."
  
  (Knock her out.)
  
  She's at your mercy, held down by your grip. Knock her out? The sparring matches of Alteran end here, with one member subdued by the other. Knock her out? It's dirty. Unsportsmanlike. The goal of sparring is to improve one another's skills, not seeking to harm the other by any means, besides harm that naturally occurs in training, that is. Furthermore, and not that you've been the most chivalrous of men, but there's the fact that E'ffy is a woman, a beautiful one at that. Something about knocking her senseless just doesn't feel...right. You sense the eyes of Malic'ant, her father, watching your next move. It's time to pass judgement.
  
  > show mercy
  When it comes down to it, you aren't like them. There wouldn't be a single Blackbird warrior in the camp to make the decision you're about to. E'ffy's completely at your mercy, and you don't finish her off. It's not the way you treat an ally. On the field of battle, there's no mercy. Simply, it can not exist if death is to be escaped. Here, however, there's room for it; need for it, a trust that's built between fellow members.
  
  Instead of ending the skirmish with a single blow, you hold back.
  
  Visible anger appears on her face. E'ffy's mouth becomes a tight slit, eyes following closely in the shape. The redness on her face, a subtle shade of crimson, begins to glow brighter, adding to the physical proof of exertion. The whites of her eyes expand, nostrils flared.
  
  "That is a mistake, bondsman," she utters.
  
  (I whole-heartedly agree.)
  
  With a cry, she then takes the offensive against you. E'ffy charges forward, arm cocked back to throw all of her weight and momentum into a single punch. You welcome it. Best to let the woman take her aggression out, even if her aggression might take the form of a bruise on your cheek the next day.
  
  Chieftain Malic'ant's voice stops E'ffy mid-step, like the wind was taken out of her sails, the anchor dropped at the exact same moment. She stops, turns, and faces her father. You remain where you are, noticing Redding and Onng watching from a distance. The chieftain's hall becomes silent as any grave, as any morning after burying the dead the day before.
  
  "Step forward, outsider," the chieftain orders. You comply. It takes exactly twelve steps to reach the other side of the training pit towards Malic'ant. With a half grunt-half groan of annoyance, the large Blackbird stands to his feet, pulling himself upright with his spear, at the same time waving off his royal guard, or whatever the chieftain protectorate is called. Crippled from age, Malic'ant still towers above you. Standing in his shadow is like finding a great oak in the midday of summer.
  
  "You showed my daughter mercy," he flatly growls.
  
  You find yourself nodding. "She is not my enemy, a worthy opponent, however."
  
  (Suck up.)
  
  Chieftain Malic'ant ponders a moment. His hand raises to scratch at his chin, the other remains firmly grasped around his spear. Up close, the spear is razor sharp, expectedly so. Feathers line the top, sending the blade protruding from underneath a wing, a common analogy for the Harri'ar. Malic'ant's eyes scan you for signs of deception, the look every father gives his daughter's guest, especially that of a male variety.
  
  "You do not have my blessing."
  
  Behind you, E'ffy spits on the ground. She doesn't look surprised, however. She must have known the path your actions set you upon. Onng wears a similar expression; Redding, oddly enough, looks disinterested. His mind is made up either way. Having the blessing of the Blackbird people is simply a formality in his mind. Whether having the backing of E'ffy's father, he's still going to take the fight to the S'umbra.
  
  After all of this, the struggle that you've undergone, making yourself enemies of both superpowers in the Old World, to find yourself here, at E'ffy's father's hut denied, sends more than a single thought of rage into your mind. Not to E'ffy's extent, but you've not exactly shown a containment over passion yourself. The two of you are similar in that way, yet one is but a sliver of the other.
  
  "And just why is that?" you find yourself saying.
  
  "You do not hold the strength to do what is necessary," the chieftain says. "You have skill, yes. But in the moment when action was required most, you did not do what needed to be done."
  
  "It's your own daughter!"
  
  Despite the lower volume, his next words seethe with more rage than the words shouted.
  
  "Bondsman or no, you do not have what it takes. Find another's support."
  
  You know there's not a single other chieftain in the war party that would lend support. The ability to defeat the S'umbra by lawful ways ends here. You've still got Amir'sshan and Redding who would die fighting by your side. E'ffy, you know, won't approve of any unlawful means. Breath still occupies your lungs, but you've found yourself strayed from the path. Your journey may still continue, but among the path of the storyteller, it dies here.