Wilhelm Nacht
Wilhelm looked around the small weapons training room. His left hand already began to tingle and he hadn't even taken the glove off his hand yet. Maybe it was a sign of things to come? His position was the self defense instructor which meant training student in art of using their abilities to protect themselves, as well as how to use weapons, and hand to hand combat. The hand to hand combat part was the one he didn't like. To much of a chance that some might touch him.
"Nun, warten keine Verwendung." Well, no use waiting.. He sighed and pulled the simple, but fancy looking glove off his right hand and stuffed it into his back pocket. He did the same with his right hand and glove, then he turned to stare at the weapon he need to become acquainted with. It was better to do it now than wait till the middle of class. Touching a old weapon for the first time was always overwhelming for the twenty-three old human.
"Bitte, kein Problem."...Please, no trouble...It was something along the lines of a pray. Some energies that clung to weapons could be very..unsettling, unnerving, deadly..all were the right words he supposed.
Wilhelm wrapped his left hand, his dominate, hand around the hilt of the claymore. He focused on keeping his breathing even but not even a second after first contact he let out a loud gasp that echoed out the empty room and down the empty hallways. A string of words, that sounded like just random words, excited his mouth. First in his native German tongue, then in his second language of English with a heavy German accent, followed by a Scottish voice that was not his own. The left over energy from the first owner of the sword had entered him and now it was up to him to conquer it so that he could conquer the sword.
The English horses with their knightly masters were charging down the hill towards the clearly outnumbered Scotsmen. Fear, it beat through him faster than the horses that were coming towards him. He was afraid, he knew, they all knew, that they would shake hands with the Reaper this day. Nearby a better educated Scotsman was saying a pray in Latin. He culdn't understand what his countryman was saying. He had grown up in a poor family that had more children than they ever knew what to do with. Had. There had been so many children to his family. Now he and his sister were the only ones. Even his own son was dead. By the looks of things he would see his son soon. Damn the Irish. They were late, always late they were. Some one barked out an order and the first two lines charged forward to meet the horses. Oh, those poor souls. They didn't stand a chance. How brave they were to sacrifice themselves for a freedom they would surly never see.
Another order, it was his turn now. He heaved the huge sword up, the muscles in his arms bulging under the weight. It was a fine sword, a sword that had proven itself in many battles already, it was the last sword his brother had made. Someone called his name and quickly made his way over to where instructions were being given. Good, they were not to take on the horsemen. No, they would handle the foot soldiers heading their way.
Despite his slight appearance Wilhelm hefted the sword up with ease and began to perform what had often been described as a Dance of the Spirits. It was not Wilhelm who fought long dead enemies but the original owner of the sword. If one were to look close enough, and with something other than their eyes, they would see not a brown hair, brown eyed german but a Red head Scot where his family's design in his kilt, his face would of been painted for war, and his blue eyes would held the gleam of battle rage. The sword's point buried itself in the ground just inched from a wooden dummy, Wilhelm was hunched over the hilt, and his mouth open so that he could emit a loud growl that couldn't possibly of come from someone of his frame. The growl/scream was one of pain, grief, and most of all rage.
The English fell before him. Off went that man's head, blood gushing out the stump of a neck, it's redness added a fearsome edge to the deadly Claymore. The world around him was painted in red as his family's famous battle rage consumed him. A soldier dressed in the King's colors back stepped and tried to escape him. He let him go since to more soldiers confronted him. He fell the two rather easily and turned to seek out the escaping first, but the man was shot in eye with an arrow. Looking up at the hill He spotted his distant cousin/childhood friend smiling down at the field. His longbow was notch but not for long. He let the arrow fly into another solider. Suddenly a rain of arrows fell among the Scots. He dropped to his knee and roared in pain was an arrow tore into his arm. He looked up and his eyes locked on the hill were his beloved friend had been. Except not his friend was at the bottom of the hill, arrows piercing everywhere. Grief out did the Rage, for a few short seconds, then he was back on his feet and charging. A beast like roar tore from his throat and revenge was set in his heart. Somewhere, distantly, he was aware that the Irish had arrived. But he didn't care anymore. They did not matter, were not needed. He would slaughter the English himself. The Claymore came down and an arm went flying.
The arm of the wooden dummy went twirling through the air as the old Claymore cute cleaning through. The sound of shattering glass brought Wilhelm crashing back to reality, back to himself. The Claymore dropped to the ground as his arms could no longer left something so heavy. His chest heaved as he sucked in the forest air that came through the window. It could not be that cold but his body was steaming and sweat dripped off of him. He quickly removed his hands from the sword, reaching into his back pocket, and pulling on his gloves; his safe guards.
"Great! Noch eine andere verdammt Fenster!"...Great! Yet another damn window!...He had broken a window in a different room earlier that week when he touched the stair railing. Usually he wore his gloves, and he had been that day, but that day he had a hole in his right glove that he was clueless about. Nothing like being a little girl falling down the stairs to wake you up in the morning. With his gloves securely on Wilhelm exited the room, walked quickly down the hallways, and out into the courtyard that the dummy arm had flown into. "Oh, entschuldigen Sie mich" he said as he noticed two people in the already occupied the space. One was a young man, somewhere around Wilhelm's age, though the guy had about 2 inches on the 6'1 Wilhelm. The other was a very young looking girl, thirteen perhaps, though Wilhelm gather she could be older due to the look in her eyes. Maybe she was just an old soul.
"I said, Excuse me. I am sorry, I often forget that English is the native tongue here." Wilhelm translated what he had said earlier. "I did not mean to intrude, I have lost my arm. Have you seen it?" He knew the dummy arm had to be around here somewhere. There was only room in the weapons training room and it lead to his courtyard. Wilhelm glanced at the young female then turned most of his attention on the man. He was older appearing, as well as dressed in a military uniform, there for Wilhelm felt he was the one he should be addressing. As he waited for his reply he wonder what exactly he had interrupted. Surely this man was not flirting with a young girl, if she was a young girl. At this school you just could never tell.
Out of Cream: Oh god, I made it too long again T.T..so sorry
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Cynthia waved to the pair as Kaitlyn wandered outside to speak with someone else. It seemed everyone was arriving at the same time. She was asked a question, and Cynthia began to answer, but it seemed it wasn't her turn. She let Astin finish speaking before doing so herself.