[Arvedui III]

Habit was a wondrous thing, Telson decided as the North Wind pulled alongside the opposite vessel, taking fire from enemy catapults as she did.

What battles he had fought in before were on firm ground, but the cold apathy that drained into his body upon seeing his foes had thankfully not changed. Combat was the one thing in which he held no humor nor keen memory of, and for the stillness and veil the crept over his mind he was eternally grateful. Naught but the grim discipline of lifetaking guided him, and it was with no feeling at all that Telson swung across onto the other ship when the call came to board, fear and noise and pity forgotten. It was a horrible word to use, but in such a state Telson found battle to be nothing but boring.

A bloodied corsair at least twice his size rushed him, yet by a simple side-step and drawing his swords, Telson impaled the man and moved on to engage another with a business-like air. He swung his blades in a wide dance long memorized, quickly finding the weaknesses in the cutlasses most corsairs used and making quicker work of their owners. As he worked his way to the port railing, however, Telson found his opponents to be much more difficult, and the obfuscating vacuum of fighting an inferior foe left him. For the first time he heard the deafening roar of the wounded, blood-yells and catapults hurling everything they had at one another.

And into this he found himself falling onto the deck more and more, dodging an oddly-shaped spear, trying to maneuver over the dead and wounded while at the same time trying to get onto his feet and stave off the wide-eyed, laughing corsair who was attempting to drive his sword into Telson's stomach. By luck it seemed, an arrow felled his antagonist, and rising back up Telson drove his swords into the back of a corsair rushing a scared-looking boy who had just swung onto the ship. Forgetting his pounding heart for a moment, Telson gave a quick nod to the boy before working his way up amidship, his strokes more wild and reckless. It was better, he thought grimly as he trapped a gaunt pirate's blade between his two, to wound many corsairs in good time rather than spend forever killing only one. And, for a long while, he did just that, not taking notice of anything else save those he had to cut down.

But, with a sickening rip and an immediate and fierce pain in his left arm, Telson's legs buckled and he found himself kneeling at the mercy of yet another corsair with tree-trunk arms and a toothy smile. A sort of grim resignation filled him, and in that moment, he was acutely aware of every part of his body, the rest of the world seeming very far away, the beads of sweat running down his forehead and the blood flowing through his right hand replacing the din of battle. But he refused to stay still and accept his fate. As the corsair raised his sword for the kill, Telson kicked out and sent the startled pirate onto the deck with a satisfying thump. And grasping the man's cutlass, Telson drove in into its master crying, "GONDOR!!!!" and "TELCONTAR!!!" as he did so.

His blood was up now, perhaps the battle-lust was on him more than it had ever been, and Telson forgot all about the slash on his arm, running back into the fray. But this time he made sure no man was uncertain about who and what he fought for, because with every corsair he strove with, Telson made sure that ‘Gondor' was the last word the traitor ever heard.