Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

Tyr improved. Just a little. Certainly nowhere as near as skilled as the others, but as the air grew colder – his stamina grew with it. Growing used to the repetitive movements and feeling the effects of it throughout his body. He'd expected to grow a bit around the shoulders, but it had shaped him everywhere. Chipping away at his body fat and leaving him leaner and more cut.

“You're not built for this kind of work. Too thin in the waist.” A voice came from behind. As smooth as honey or syrup, with an accent of the far south. Far, far south – Varian by the sound. Thomas with his dusky skin and dark eyes.

“Are you sacking me?” Tyr asked. As it was, this job was purely commission based. None of these men earned a wage other than the taking for the trees they felled that were purchased by the sawmill. Tyr's takings had been rather light in comparison to the others. Barely enough to feed himself, if he'd had a need to pay, which he didn't. One could earn a stable taking by hauling, but Tyr owned none of the equipment by which to do so. No hooks or carts or horses. Men would come, take their commission, and then a second shift at the sawmill. Every other day, one job paid through merit and the other more stable.

“Not yet.” Thomas chuckled. “But I find myself curious. Why do you do this?”

“Do what?”

“Is it a complicated question? Why do you, a nobleman – I am not so daft as to not see this – arrive suddenly with an interest to swing the axe? It puzzles me.” Tyr turned to face the man, standing some meters apart from him with a stalk of some plant held in his mouth. Chewing it slowly, Thomas' eyes were as indiscernible as they were dark. Dark like stained wood with flecks of gold. He was a bit advanced in years, but very handsome. Clean, with sharp features and a lean body similar to Tyr's own which made the claim that Tyr's not being 'built for it' quite strange.

Tyr wanted to be honest. He didn't want to lie to the man who had sacrificed one of his best woodcutters to train him at a job nobody expected him to keep long term. He also ignored the accusation that he was noble, no more pretending – at least in confidence. It was quite obvious how pampered Tyr was, the cut of his equipment and clothes would be enough to make it obvious. “I want... I want fulfillment, contentment. This is a challenge, and it is fulfilling. Is it not?”

“I suppose it could be.” Thomas shrugged. “Do you love the trees?”

“Love?” Tyr wasn't sure what the man meant. How could he love trees? That was an odd way to state his own interest. It was, at the end of the day, a cylinder of wood connected to a root system buried in the ground. A plant like any other, no matter how magical or expensive it was.

“What isn't to love?” Thomas asked, patting the axe holstered at his his belt. “Out here in nature, free from your burdens. A simple task. I didn't always, but I learned to love the trees. Now... I have few other passions, or diversions. Trees are living things, a vast network of life that I find to be far more nuanced than what we'd call animals. A man can love a dog, yes? Why not love a tree?”

“I get what you mean...” Tyr sighed, before correcting himself. “In part, I guess. Just... I find it very strange to be passionate about trees.”

“You think so?”

“Yes.”

“All men should have a passion. Double so for knights. There had to be a reason for your oath beyond duty.” Thomas began to stroke at the tight beard framing his jaw. “What's your passion, young Tyr the knight?”

“I'd like to find out.” Tyr wasn't sure he'd ever know. His passion? Four years of revenge had encapsulated his mind, but he didn't think he was passionate about it, just hungry. Now, he was like a famished wolf in a forest where all the prey had suddenly vanished. He had no goal and no ambition, and that was a poor way to live, even he knew that. “That's why I left the city. As I said, to find fulfillment. How did you discover yours?”

“I could tell you that.” Thomas replied, crossing his arms and staring down at Tyr with assessing eyes. They were sharp, like the obsidian quarried from volcanic floes. “If you tell me the real reason behind your walkabout. Fulfillment? A boy at your age seeking a fulfilling, contented life? Where's your passion, your adventure, your manly spirit!? Show me your hot passion!”

Suddenly, the old foreman was shouting, baring his chest enthusiastically in his demand for an answer.

Surely I'm not the primus of woodcutting. Although that would at least be useful.. Something is better than nothing.

“Are you alright, foreman?” Tyr tilted his head in astonished confusion, beyond baffled at the strange behavior of the man. Typically so flat of tone and expression alike. “I can understand where you're coming from. I want to be...”

“Different than you are, as you are now. Correct?” Thomas needed for no spoken answer, he was a perceptive one. Tyr wondered where that ability came from. That which men used to see to the truth of things in their totality. It was a gift that he had only begun to learn, far from mastering. His father was the best, followed by Tiber, then some of the more hawkish nobles with a predilection for trade and the political. Almost as if they were reading his mind at times.

“Different?” Tyr looked at him. They were of a similar height, and with his experience regarding men of authority this made it difficult to see him as a superior. There was a thing to that as well, experiencing a new food chain beyond the palace or the city limits. Men who deserved no disrespect, though Tyr knew he was treating them as an equal when custom would dictate otherwise. To them, he was just a knight – and a boy at that. Haran was a nation that, at least in theory, prized and respected its elders. Yet... Nobody had sought to correct his behavior. “Why should I be different? I don't think I hate myself.”

“You don't have to hate yourself to accept that weakness or fault within you must be peeled away to progress. Any progression requires a modicum of deprecation in the self. I am not this thing, because I lack a thing, and so I need to rid myself of a thing to become that which I wish to be. That logic applies to all men, and all things besides. Men should constantly be striving to be better. Even princes.”

There was a fear in Tyr. A fear of being read like a dusty old tome that hadn't left his gut since he'd spoke with a being that claimed to be a god. To be known. He didn't want to be known, hells, Tyr couldn't be sure if he wanted to truly understand himself let alone allow others to do so. Before he knew it, axe and knife were in hand. This man, Thomas, had a way about him. Men had pasts, histories and experiences. Tyr had the creeping suspicion that this man was more than a simple woodcutter.

An intent lay in each of his words pressed against Tyr's psyche like pressure points. Thomas, alarmingly, remained calm. They were alone in this forest, only now did Tyr realize that the other men had left. Bizarrely, even Samson. A domain. A rare thing that few were capable of. Not always a thing of magic, but of the raw power of will. There was magic in emotion, but nothing a dusty old wizard could explain in detail. Magical, elemental, mana domains – these were considered 'false'. Tyr had very little experience with them, but he could tell immediately that this is what they'd call a 'true domain'. Something beyond the active use of an aura, a marked sign of incredible power.

“How...?” Tyr kept his words focused and his mind as clear as he could in a situation like this. Thomas was no enemy, not yet. He wasn't a friend, either. Thomas pulled his axe from the loop at his belt, holding it loosely in a relaxed grip.

“Sam--!”

“He cannot hear you.” Thomas' voice came from everywhere, yet nowhere. All at the same time. A domain, one akin to that which Tyr had only felt a single time in his seventeen years on this earth. “Nobody can.” Thomas, or whatever his name was had an edge in his voice. Domain users were rare, rare enough that Tyr should have been able to recognize one at a glance. Rafael, Aurelius, Tiber, Regar, hell – even Kael Emberwind... All national heroes, great warriors or mages celebrated throughout the known human kingdoms. None of which were capable of such an esoteric power. A power over not only the self, but over all things around you within a predetermined distance.

Steel in a man, steel in the hand. Tyr would die if he didn't act. He was like to die regardless of his actions, but he wouldn't surrender without a swing. He had his pride, and the arrogance of an imperial prince. That would have to be enough.

Axe in the right, grandfathers knife in the left. Distance need not be closed between then, Tyr swung with all his might at the placid faced man. His axe sailed through the air with a whistle, smashing into the mans neck before it was stopped. As if he'd struck stone, Tyr balked at the shock rolling up his arm. A substantial force held his blow just short, until his eyes adjusted to reveal that his axe had been intercepted by Thomas' own. Effortless, lazy, apathetic – with no sign whatsoever that the man had made any attempt to move in the first place.

Domain.

Thomas remained still, and silent. Tyr was less so, growling like an animal and swinging at the man with a viciousness. Nothing made it through the steel curtain surrounding his foe. Tyr was slumped and breathless while Thomas remained as fresh as a summers day. The haft of the axe buried in the princes stomach moved silently, no excess motion. Tyr hadn't seen so much as a turn of the old mans shoulders before he was looking down at the stain of crimson on his linens. Not so much as a sting or a squelch, it all happened so fast that one could say it had always been there and, in this moment, he'd have no arguments.

“Is this a primus?” Thomas asked, retaining the same position he had held throughout their entire conversation, the axe buried in Tyr's gut was not held by his hand – sinking into flesh of its own accord. “I find myself unimpressed. I, too, had a passion once. Thought I'd have forgotten it by now, but upon seeing your face... The fact of my greatest enemy. I find myself unable to release my hold on the past. A fault of my own.”

“...Why?” Tyr had panted, muscles sore and torn under the assault and unable to move. He was no stranger to the hateful eyes of men, but he had two concerns. First, greatest enemy? He was absolutely certain that he'd never met this man before. Second, if he was an enemy of this man, why had Thomas not struck sooner? Clearly he was capable enough to have taken him out on his first day.

“Why?” Thomas pondered the deep question with a furrowed brow, remaining rooted on the spot. “Why, indeed. Why anything? Why live after your family has been slaughtered under order of your father. I see now that my purpose was to be here, at this moment, to meet you. I'll admit, I knew who you were the moment you came here, and I tried to resist. But I am a man like any other.”

“I'm not inclined to the academic.” Tyr wheezed. “I don't care about your family or you. I am not some toy to be played with. I am a prince and I deserve the--!”

'The respect of a quick and honorable death.' Thomas would not allow him to speak the words, he'd seen through that claim as easily as he saw through this troubled young man.

“You deserve nothing.” With the authority those words carried, one would have expected them to come in a shout. Not a soft tone full of loss and mourning. “I see the stains on your soul. You've killed men, a great deal of them. Women too. Many sins stain your soul. But I'm not interested in that. I'm no paladin, nor templar. No knight, nor priest. I offer no judgment, nor benediction. Only the truth. You are a fool. An arrogant boy. Selfish, friendless, and as vile as your father. Yet...”

“...Yet?” Tyr asked. The man spoke in an odd way, a traditional and overly formal way of voice that made his long winded monologue difficult to follow. “I've perished once already, don't think you can bait me with some fear of death. Send me to the black, I am not afraid.”

“Mm...” Thomas snorted in amusement. “The 'one eyed prince' they call you. He who has conquered death. Still, I remain unimpressed. Your kind are nothing but demons. I wonder at the world we live in at times should your kind cease to exist. A better world, I'd expect. But I...” He sighed, seeming dissatisfied with himself while dragging the axe free and slotting it in his belt loop once again. Disgust was plain on his characteristically calm face. Whatever happened to this man, it had warped him, his determined glance seemed lost and haunted. “I will not kill a boy. I can't, this is my weakness.” He concluded.

“That's all well and good.” Tyr replied, bowing sarcastically with both weapons still in hand, refusing to trust the man. That hole in his gut didn't hurt as much as he thought it would have. “If that were the case, then why do this at all?”

Thomas stepped away to seat himself atop the gnarled remains of what had been a mighty yew, right on the bisected trunk. “I was filled with rage for so long, and I thought myself past it. In truth, I wish to die. I yearn for it. To see my wife and children again, and feel their warmth. That which was taken from me many years ago. I have found no solace in this place, as much love for the forest as I have.” He patted the knotted trunk of the tree, an act that would seem far less strange if it had been hound or horse.

“You hate my father?” Tyr asked our of raw curiosity. Everything had happened so fast. So... Anti-climactic. He'd have expected... More. This man, whoever he was, was far beyond him. If Thomas had wanted to – truly, he'd have made fair headway to the palace alone. Men like him were exceptionally rare. A true master. Granted, Jartor would crush him near instantly, but Tyr doubted the kingsguard would pose much of a challenge. Regar was great, a model knight, but he was still within the realm of human capabilities.

Thomas nodded. Simply, a truth to it that defied such simple body language.

“Me too.” Tyr continued the dialogue even if Thomas seemed intent to not. He felt emotion welling up in him for some reason. Perhaps it was the silence or the appraising, patient eyes of the man observing him. He didn't know. Would never and could never know. “I was born worthless, mocked and disrespected. Forced into a life I'd never wanted to lead until I was caught in a bloody game of cat and mouse. I don't want to hate him, but I do. I wish...”

He felt a tightness to his throat and a pressure behind his eyes. Tyr hadn't cried since he'd been a young child, squeezing at the handle of his knife until it had begun to split his raw blisters courtesy of the days work at the axe. He wouldn't cry. Couldn't cry – though he realized he was obeying his fathers orders even in that singular, warped decision not to. That was a struggle of personal philosophy in and of itself. He felt himself torn apart by these contradictions day after day. How he felt versus how he'd been taught to feel.

“Mmm.” Thomas sighed, losing any aggression that might have remained in his eyes. “My father was a real bastard, too. Finding what you wish for is an important part of life, young man. Understanding when the determination to achieve that wish had come to its end, even more so. My entire life, I had a dream – only to find it replaced by a nightmare. The things we live for. I'll ask again, what do you live for?”

Tyr replied honestly. “I try so hard to understand what my father is going through as a primus and I just... I can't. He's so...”

“Such an inhuman, monstrous, vile fiend?” Thomas spat. There was honesty in his voice too, as well as a hurt that Tyr could never possibly understand. A depth to his melancholy that was tinged with rage. Why the man hadn't done so, or at least tried – Tyr couldn't understand. As he'd already observed, not a single member of the kingsguard would be a match for the old man. He was something apart from baseline humanity. They'd need mages to stop him, and even that was no guarantee.

“Not quite the words I'd use. Inhuman, though. It's troubling.”

“You're not at an age where the responsibilities of adults or the deeper meanings of duty should be anything but fantasy. Wisdom comes with age. You cannot force it. But at the end of the day, you are a boy that craves the validation only a father can provide. There is nothing I can do for you to fix this.”

Tyr sad beside him. Something had changed, or clicked within him. After seeing Thanatos and the lands of death, he didn't fear them so much anymore. At one time he'd have screamed and howled in refusal of a death. Now...? To say he was a changed man was false. He felt the cracks and all of the flaws he'd been left with at the end of his journey to avenge his mother, but at the very least... He had no fear of dying. As long as it was quick. It helped that Thomas had such an open wisdom to him. He was old, too. Fatherly, almost.

“Will you tell me your story?” Tyr asked.

Thomas did. Without reservation. Tyr felt like he'd left some details out, but the man was honest beyond expectation in the telling of it. Sinea. A nation that had one existed to the east between Harani lands and the coastline. A land of foothills, mountains, and bramble stricken forests – and not much else. Once, that nation had been a land of the beastkin. It was, at times, difficult to tell the difference between beastkin and man. Close neighbors in genealogy, the experts said, who appeared just as they were named. Beast-like and no strangers to the violent, mindless ways of an animal. Cultured, though. Some said otherwise, the prince wasn't sure where truth and myth separated.

Tyr had met a few, but never known one intimately. The first fang, they called him. Rare for a human, but Thomas had – in his days as a knight of the republic – fallen for a beastkin trader woman. It had been difficult at first, their relationship. Never the courting, beastkin were open and with a mind toward a strong mate, but rather the reaching of her heart. Eventually, after great effort, he had succeeded. Humans and beastkins paired very rarely, and children between then were even less common. Yet they'd go on to do so. Three girls, with Thomas becoming the 'first fang of Sinea'. A great warrior.

The prince knew little of their history, but Thomas' own abilities indicated that it was a prominent position never held by a human. Their most able fighter. Until one day, without warning – Haran had attacked. History tended to be... Washed by the victor. He found himself carried away from what he'd heard from the histories and lectures, heart heavy at the deeds of his father. Sinea was a simple nation with a primus of their own, something Tyr had never known. He'd only ever known four, but the primus of Sinea...

Each and every primus was human, or... Whatever they truly were. The primus of Sinea, in the words of Thomas, was a man – and a terrible one. Rapist. Murderer. Slaver. He mistreated the beastkin, and eventually they rebelled against him.

“You... Killed a primus?” Tyr exclaimed, aghast at the concept. He consider himself no true primus, but to hear of such a thing. It was impossible. No primus had died at the hands of man.

“Ancient magic, or so I'm told. I was not there for it. There were, at one time, powerful beastkin far beyond the others you might have interacted with. All dead now, I suspect. This is something you will never hear from the mouths of the clergy, and should never repeat to any man if you value your life.”

Tyr shivered, listening on. Their primus, Cortus, was not the king or ruler of their country. Rather, he was a drunk and a degenerate who had arrived from lands unknown to live among the beastkin. For a time, he was of great assistance. The far east along the coast was dangerous, and a primus was a valuable ally. Beyond that, there was another beastkin nation across the sea right on the cusp of the fog, and Tyr knew them to not be much of an ally to any of the various kingdoms. After a time though, it was clear that this individual was wicked in both disposition and deed.

It didn't take long for him to connect the dots. The primus of Trafalgar, though Tyr knew as little about the man. He was dead now, presumably, so it mattered little. Thomas was not aware, but Tyr knew. A man that had supposedly died some time ago during the fall of his nation. Less a hero, if the mans words were true, and more of a coward, some claimed that Jartor himself killed the man. Cortus the Black, though he went by another name in his time among the Sinean's.

As one might expect, the invasion of Sinea came shortly thereafter. Contradicting Tyr's own knowledge of events, it hadn't just been his father – but the primus of Varia as well. Both of them exterminating near all of the inhabitants of the nation. A genocide... Thomas' own family included. No quarter given to those who would stand against the divine mandate of a primus. Those who would render five into four deserved no such mercy. Tyr's own mind echoed these thoughts, whether he'd willed them or not. The idea of, in comparison, the commoners rising up to kill his own father... Hate the man or not – it was sacrilege. A primus was the most holy office held by all men. Tyr felt his gut grow turbulent at the thought of it, but he'd be raised to believe such dogma even if he realized the fault in such thought.

There were so many stories. Thomas' story, conventional knowledge that said Jartor and the Moon Legion invaded alone. The primus dying in Trafalgar, then that Jartor killed Cortus himself. Tyr didn't think Thomas a liar, but it left him wondering which story was true.

There was one factor that one would have to consider in the telling of such a tale, however...

“Why you?” Tyr asked, raising his eyebrows. “How'd you live, while all the others died?”

“Because of your father.” Thomas replied. “I remember him staring down at me, that day. I'd tried... To kill him, that is. He said 'I've come to kill beasts, not men' and left me broken and bleeding on the stairs of what one might call the palace at Sinea's capital. As you'd expect, I was no match for him.”

Tyr nodded. It wasn't such a shock. He'd expect his father to kill the man, but his understanding of his father's character was a weak thing. Jartor was an enigma to him. His power, however, was not. Thomas may be far beyond the prince, but he was still a man. No match for a true primus – which served only to exacerbate his feeling of inadequacy.

“I'm sorry about your family.” Tyr was honest in that. A man's duty came first to the gods, second to the family, third to the kingdom. At least by Harani custom. His only example was his mother. Enough to lend immutable truth to his sympathy.

Thomas snorted. “I've lived with this burden for so long. Even at my age, with all my so-called wisdom, I can scarcely believe that you're the only one I've told. Ever. The son of my greatest enemy and a man I dreamed of throttling nightly for so many years.”

“I was probably the least appropriate person to tell, regardless of my patriarch. Still, this turn of events was unexpected. What do you wish of me?” Tyr asked.

“I wish for nothing.” Thomas responded. “Like I've said, I cannot bring myself to kill a boy. Whether you deserve judgment or not. I will leave these lands and never return. My anger... My rage. I feel that it has become rusted with time. I have no designs to kill you, not your father any longer. Not that I could achieve it no matter how far I ran or how hard I pushed myself.”

“Where will you go?” Tyr asked.

“Another forest. Somewhere far away. To hew trees I've never seen and conquer them. I do not lie when I say this is my passion. One I'd never have expected. Trees, such as they are, tend to live long beyond the men that seek to warm themselves under the kindling they provide. Rarely will they let you down if tended to properly.”

It seemed odd. A man who liked to hew trees and end them, so passionate about the 'lives' they lived. Like, he loved trees – but wanted to chop them? Thomas waxed on further, about these lives. Sheathed in bark and rooted deep into the earth.

'A tree is just another form of the universal pillar beyond the ken of a humble mortal. I wish to be like them, to feel the way they live.'

Like those ancient western proverbs said to come from the lost continent. Tyr found it a bit difficult to stomach, far too romantic for his taste. It was a tree... Thomas' hot breath as he communicate his passion for trees and forests made the prince uncomfortable, to say the least. There was passion in men. Passion to win, to be validated, to live up to a standard. Passion to make. Or to hew and grow, to provide for ones family. This was something else entirely. To Thomas, the act of chopping trees was what kept him going in life. His 'hot flowing passion' for lumberjacking...

“You are a strange man.” Tyr observed, a feeling of intense pressure building up in every corner of his skull. It had been an hour, the sun was low and Thomas had never once stopped dropping tree related facts on the prince.

“Ah. My wife said the same.” The old man snorted – not so depressed after being give the chance to talk about trees. There was a power and vitality in his body that stood through the ravages of time. Not unlike Rorik, or Tiber for that matter – though both men would fair little better than Tyr had in a fight. Thomas seemed... Ageless, almost. His apparent age only aesthetic, not extending to the limbs.

“If I were in your shoes, I'd kill me. You say you won't kill a boy, but by Harani standards I'm one year a man. Was Sinea different?” Tyr asked, curious. He enjoyed learning of others lands, but the historical texts and most of his tutors had been vague at times. Or flat out wrong, if Thomas was telling the truth. Too much nationalism existed in Haran to properly communicate the ways of 'minor nations'.

“Patriarchy has no place in Sinea. Had no place. Male and female beastkin are equal in a way that an imperial would not understand. Age of majority comes at fourteen, or when you're able to complete a specific ritual trial. I have no idea what it is, as I was not permitted to attend. Only an honorary citizen, I was not allowed to make face with their gods, but some became what you'd call an adult at the age of twelve years old based on talent.”

“Hmm.” Tyr sighed, wishing he could've seen it. An inhuman race, even inhuman gods. Not that many of his own gods weren't depicted as animals in some cases, he still wondered what they looked like. Truly. Thanatos certainly hadn't fit the expectations he'd had for a divine. Unless that was all an elaborate hallucination.

“I won't kill you, perhaps because I doubt your father would care overmuch. Could always have another son, immortal as he is.” Thomas' tone soured at that, his eyes reflecting a bit of pity for Tyr. A man who could only laugh in his fashion, not so different from the barking of a dog. “With little to gain besides more blood on my hands, you are simply not worth it. Even the challenge of you is so small that I find myself uninterested. You are very weak, for a so-called primus.”

“Mmm.” Tyr couldn't refute it. Couldn't do much more than agree. The man had not spoken false. “Will you tell me how to manifest a domain?”

Thomas turned to raise an eyebrow at the snow headed prince. “The son and heir of my great enemy, and you'd ask me to train you?”

Tyr shrugged in response. “Because you're a boring old man with no legacy to show for your long life?”

“When I was a teacher.” Thomas remained still, with only the lightest of twitches tugging at the corner of one eye. “My students were more respectful. Especially those who sought my instruction with no references.”

“You were a blade master? You said you were Lyran, right?”

“Blade master.” Thomas must've found that incredibly amusing considering the look of mirth in his eye. “I did receive the early instruction of my youth in the republic, but no. Their ways were not for me.”

Doesn't seem like he'd answer me even if I guessed at it. There were schools of the martial vocations, a great many of them in actuality. Foundations for learning and training. Tyr had always wished to attend, but had never been permitted to do so. In a society of knights, adventurers, and all sorts of passion for the physical arts – they were tremendously popular. At least, some were. Some were small and insignificant, and some were massive foundations that could rival the various academies for magic.

A squire would typically begin at one of these institutions before graduating to find a chapter or individual knight willing to sponsor them. Tyr had, only recently and through a great deal of complaint even been allowed to become a member of the defunct order of the dawnguard. Enough to call himself a knight, at least. Despite his intermediate skill with bladed weapons, he'd never been allowed to leave the palace for lessons. Surely, the masters who instructed him were competent, but...

Ah, I made three of them leave in anger. In a row... That's probably why...

Thomas spoke again. “Alright. I will train you.”

“Really?” Tyr asked, suddenly excited. Tiber was a skilled swordsman, but he was too young to be a true master. Not that many knights were. If one could truly master a martial art, they weren't likely to remain a simple bodyguard or errand boy. This might be Tyr's last chance to find one. He wasn't overly concerned with the fact, considering that he didn't consider swordwork his passion. Fighting was nice but he... Did he love it? Maybe. It was fun, but he didn't spend all his time thinking about it.

It's something to do. Maybe this will help.

Hope as he might, Tyr was not confident. He had no passion. Didn't even understand what 'passion' felt like. He was interested in some topics. History, for example. Tyr liked history and the old stories. Liked them. There was none of the passion of one who collected or curated those, only a passing interest. He liked fighting, but he didn't love it. Fighting was just a means to an end, and killing even more so – Tyr didn't feel the urge to walk about slaughtering everyone he saw. Not anymore, at least. If given the opportunity to walk around doing whatever he wanted when the fancy struck him, that was all he could think about.

Oh, I love eating. Is that a passion? Tyr asked this of himself, but he wasn't sure. Gourmand's considered food a passion, but they tended to be rather too eccentric. Tyr didn't feel passionate for the three day aged tenderloin of a Lyran hookbeak left to braise for six hours in an oil of mermaid semen and aromatic herbs from the mountains of Tamarin. His favorite food was beef shank... Or perhaps pork loin. Prepared simply. Food was just food, he liked it but would feel just fine eating pretty much anything edible...

“Yes.” Thomas replied, face placid once more. “You will suffer. If you try to give up, I might just kill you for real this time. This is a contract between men. Deal?”

“Thomas, what's a passion?” Tyr asked, curious as to what the man would say. Surely some nonsense about boiling blood and a solidarity of the soul to still the beating heart.

“What is a passion? A strange question, lad. Everyone has a passion! A boiling of the blood!” Thomas cried. “What is a passion, a solidarity of the soul. Your life's greatest ambition!”

I'm...

“I don't think I have a passion.”

“You'll find one. Few men or otherwise at your age know what they want to do with their lives, let alone where their true interests lay. When I was your age, my passion was that of the sword, or so I thought. Now...?” The old man rested his weathered hand against the root upon which he sat. A tender hand, like that of a lover caressing the cheek of his muse. “It's this. The swinging of axes and feeling life blooming from loamy soil. Not just the trees, but all life that blossoms. Every time I lay my hand against this bark, I feel a--”

“Fine, old man.” Tyr cut him off with a raised hand, uninterested in a waxing soliloquy about nature and forests and the sturdy hardness of wood. “I'll do as you ask. Help me find my passion. It's not trees though, I promise you that.”

Thomas nodded contentedly.

Tyr felt like he was going to regret this, but he didn't have much else to do.