"Oy, Trevelyan. Bring me my greaves, they're in the kitchen."

The sunlight slanting in through the barracks' windows brought with it the heat of summer, the humidity ferocious, a thin film of sweat already on his brow even though it was barely mid-morning. Last night's cold was worse, biting deep into his bones, his thin blanket barely enough to keep him warm, adding to his inability to sleep.

As Mother would confide in him, "She blows hot, she blows cold, but Ostwick is a bitch either way. Maker help us."

That was one the rare moments Maxwell Trevelyan had heard his mother using inappropriate language. Somehow, instead of lowering his opinion of her, Maxwell always had newfound respect for Mother, a sane voice in the midst of the madness that was the nobility of Ostwick. He didn't mind her language; he himself was guilty of far numerous - and worse - curses. Not in Mother's presence, though, no.

She's a bitch. A perfect way to describe the current situation.

He stood, dressed in a simple tunic and breeches, a pair of leather strips in his hand. Around him, his fellow templar trainees - former fellow trainees, he reminded himself - were busy preparing for their initiation into the Templar Order proper, filling the barracks with the clanking of their armor and weapons. Swords were being sharpened, shields checked for cracks and dents, helms and chestpieces polished, and friendly ribbing exchanged. No one knew what the initiation entails, and the nervousness was palpable.

He alone stood out amongst the thirty or so soon-to-be templars. He had been busy too; instead for the initiation, however, he was packing to go home, his armor and sword returned to the armory, a disgraced trainee. Not that he was complaining; he had been wanting out of the templars ever since he was forced to join at the age of thirteen.

Three years - that was how long he'd been wanting to leave the Templars, and three more years to build up his hate towards his father.

Gerald Arroughs. That was the name of the arrogant prick who'd just called out to him. Son of Knight-Captain Arroughs, the head of the Templar Order in Ostwick. Maxwell had hated him since their first day in the barracks. Loudmouthed and a lout, Maxwell was of the private opinion that he wasn't fit to be a templar. In fact, he would fit right in in the downtown districts, where Maxwell was fond of visiting. But that was neither here nor there. What mattered right now was the insolent manner in which the prick had called out to him. Sure, they had their verbal conflicts in the past, but this was taking things too far. Maxwell placed the leather strips gently on top of his pack, turning to face Arroughs.

The din in the barracks quieted down as the trainees noticed what was going on, clearing the path between the two. The enmity between the two was well-known amongst them all, with some taking Arroughs' side against a pariah amongst his peers, a nonbeliever. Some of the others were more sympathetic towards Maxwell, but were too afraid to show it, lest they become shunned merely by being associated with him.

He didn't blame them one bit. This was a battle that he needed to fight on his own.

The silence stretched as Maxwell stared down the prick. Gerald Arroughs was easily a head taller than he was, and was fully armored save for his greaves. But Maxwell wasn't without a few tricks up his sleeve. He raised a hand, making sure everyone could see him, and swept imaginary dust off his shoulder.

"No."

The single word seemed to echo around the spacious room. Though it was sunny, a few of the trainees shivered as though the word had brought winter itself into the barracks. Some shifted uncomfortably, the rough circle of trainees around Arroughs whispering uncertainly to their leader.

Arroughs shoved the closest templar away from him roughly, Brea. She stumbled and nearly fell over, the venomous look she cast at her lover lost on him as the Knight-Captain's son stepped forward menacingly, his mailed hands slowly curling into fists.

"What did you just say to me?"

Maxwell laughed, long and loud, the sound entirely at odds with the tension of the situation.

"What's so funny about this, Trevelyan?"

Maxwell chortled, holding his hands out to the side. "Nothing, really, except the fact that you think you can push me around, Arroughs. I'm not a trainee anymore, remember? You have no authority over me," Maxwell bowed slightly, his tone becoming mocking. "My Lord."

Linnea's hand on his shoulder. "Max... don't do it."

Linnea, Zachary, Portos. His friends, amongst the very few he had. He turned his head slightly to meet their eyes. "Thanks, you three. I appreciate everything, but this is something I need to handle before I go."

Arroughs was grinding his teeth, his hand on the pommel of his sword. He'd chucked his shield to one of his lackeys, who was placing it gently on Arrough's bed, making sure not a ding was on it. Brea had vanished, probably to notify the Knight-Captain what was going on. It mattered little to Maxwell.

He didn't care anymore.

He took a step forward, Linnea's hand sliding off his shoulder. He rubbed his hands together, his eyebrows raised, tone still mocking. "Oh, forgot about that, Lord Arroughs? Why, I believe your mind is more occupied on more important matters. Finally becoming a templar, congratulations, by the way. Goes to show that they'll take anyone in nowadays, even the dumb ones."

"Don't you dare speak of my father, you fucking peasant!" Arroughs managed to spit past his teeth, his fingers tightening on the hilt of his sword.

"Ah, the eloquence of language. I'm afraid I can't understand you, my Lord, as I am but a humble peasant," Maxwell bowed again mockingly. "You wouldn't hurt a peasant for not understanding what you said now, would you, my Lord? After all, you -"

The sound of a sword being drawn. Arroughs leveled his blade at Maxwell, sunlight gleaming off its edge, the flames on the sigil of the Templar Order seemingly come to life.

"Fuck you, peasant."

He charged.

Maxwell smiled. He'd goaded that bastard. Now to take him apart.

He stepped aside at the last minute, the blade cutting the air where he was. In that split-second, he could see his own eyes in the blade, reflected, a pale blue.

I have no regrets. What I've done up to now, all of them were my own decisions.

Then the beet-red face of that prick, eyes widening as he realized he'd fallen for the oldest trick in the book.

Maxwell pushed his body forward, raising his knee. It connected with the prick's chestpiece, and since he was off-balance from the sword-thrust, Maxwell's attack sent him sprawling, bouncing off a bed or two, dropping his sword. A lance of pain shot through Maxwell's knee, but he welcomed the pain. He raised his fists, settling into a fighting stance as Arroughs pushed himself up from the ground, the weight of his armor slowing him down.

"Ah, the Lord is not beyond harming those beneath his station!"

Arroughs yelled, arms outstretched, intending to tackle Maxwell to the ground. Maxwell ducked and moved forward, himself charging into Arrough's exposed knees, nearly flipping him over. The prick grunted as he hit the ground once more in a heap. Maxwell looked down at the prick, brushing himself off before stepping over him and heading for his bed, where his pack was.

The humiliation was probably enough, Maxwell figured.

The clanking of armor was the only warning he had before the prick was on him.

Maxwell jumped forward and twisted in mid-air, but the prick's hand shot out, grabbing his wrist. Maxwell planted a boot in Arrough's chest, and kicked him in the face with the other. The nose piece of the helm bent inward, and a snapping sound told everyone present that Arrough's nose had probably been broken. The grip on his wrist lost, Maxwell landed on his feet, his eyes now hard.

Arroughs was groaning, his hands coming up to staunch the bleeding but was blocked by the mangled wreck that was his helm. Maxwell straddled him, the other trainees hurriedly backing away, pinning his arms to his sides, Arroughs roaring in pain. He fitted a finger under the edge of Arrough's helm, and unceremoniously tore it off Arrough's head, eliciting another roar of pain from the prick.

Arrough's face was bloody from the broken nose, and it appeared he may have lost some teeth as well. He bucked, trying to throw Maxwell off, but Maxwell held on like a hungry bloodbug on a raging bull.

Maxwell leant in close to Arrough's ear. "This is for all the people around you who you have mistreated. Thinking you're the shit, you're the son of the Knight-Captain, that you could do as you please? You do know," Maxwell smiled slowly, drawing his lips back, a feral smile. "When you push hard enough, someone would push back? Knight-Sergeant Melvin, lesson three. I am the one who pushes back, you fucking prick. Now lie there and take it, like everyone did when you pushed them around."

And, to the growing horror of the trainees in the barracks, Maxwell gloved his fist with Arrough's helm, and got to work.