Age of Faith

Episode 11

Curse his black soul! Curse his waist so that they will never make anyone else like him. Curse— “Not worth it. Arm yourself!” He picked up the stick, repelled the next attack, and became the attacker.

The wand fell between them, but Wulfrith was firm. Almost chest to chest with her, attacked by a strong, masculine scent, she looked up. He looked down. "Unworthy. You fight like a girl.” Exhaled by the hot breath of revelation, Annyn forgot her pain.

Does he fight like a girl? Did he see Annyn Bretanne? Or is this part of his training? Surely the last one, because he barely fought like a girl.

Indeed, he had forgotten about Jame Braose and made good use of Rowan's training. "I'm afraid I'm in a disadvantageous position, My Lord, because you're actually two of me." Lips curved. “Maybe three.” He pushed it back.

Influencing the untried man of Jame Braose, she staggers before coming at him again. However, further pretense was not required when the next their staff met. For all of Annyn's training, her skills were like water for her wine. He turned his staff, met her, pushed back, met again, pushed again, and dropped her so hard to the ground that the stick slipped out of his hand.

Holding back the cries of her pain, Annyn lowered her head and showed her hatred. "That's what we're going to use," he said. "Anger makes a man strong." As said to make it strong? "You but need to learn when to use it and to what degree, little priest." His reminder of who Jame Braose was cooled down his expression of hatred. "Now mop." He turned. A mop? Then what else? When Annyn got up, she saw that the field was empty.

Measured by the descending sun, the dinner hour was near. And he is alone with Wulfrith— a certain advantage is that he is able to take revenge without hiding. “Bration!” Murmuring slowly, he chased after her.

He stood in front of a wooden pole that was installed on the ground. "Your sword." He stretched out what he was holding. His fingers touched his fingers as he twisted the hilt, and he felt his blood rushing about.

How strange the hatred— The tip of the sword touched the ground, and he gazed down along the length of the sword before realizing that he had been given the blade twice the weight of others. Although he knew such a sword was used to develop muscles and grow muscles accustomed to using weapons, Rowan never forced him to swing it."Are you hungry, Braose?" Dare he wish he'd forgotten this exercise? "Indeed me .. my lord." "Then the sooner you bring the mop to the ground, the sooner you can fill your belly."

All the way to the ground? Although he should have been grateful that the pole was not thick, he hated Wulfrith even more. He took a step back, closed his other hand on the hilt, and raised his sword up. It wasn't a bullet he hit once.

It was the image he called from Wulfrit. He hacked until his arms trembled. And still the pole was not half. A raw throat due to shortness of breath, he lowered his sword. “You are very angry for the one promised to the church,” ponder Wulfrith. He looked to where he was leaning against the fence.

How did he respond? As James Braose. "Whether your own destiny is taken away from you, you will also be angry." He scrunched his eyebrows. “So I'll do it.” He stepped off the fence and advanced towards her. “Solve with the mop and come to the hall.

He heard his footsteps retreat. When he was pretty sure he was gone, he looked over his shoulder. Only he stays on the training ground, and somewhere out there, Rowan. With a grunt, he raised the sword and swung it. The blade was bitten, causing the wooden pole to shake and the fragments to fly.

If it's the mop Wulfrith wants, the mop she'll give him. On a darkening day, Garr looks down from the fort to the youth on the training ground. Although Braose's arms and shoulders must have gone berserk, she continued to swing the weighted sword.

He's not as expected. Despite the many years of a man's body, he is not fragile and fights well for someone who has received little training in weapons. And the anger that stained his eyes! It reminded Garr of the anger he himself knew as a boy.

But Braose seems to go beyond losing the church. Indeed, as if directed at Garr himself. Because Garr was standing by Stephen's side and the little preacher who was the heir had gone over to Henry's side? That the young man's father had not told in a letter sent two months ago begged for his son to be admitted to Wulfen.

As for Jame's insolence, he dared to desperately when told that he agreed. As for the face, she was almost beautiful, her skin was smooth and unblemished and had no proof that the beard would soon grow. There was something else in him that was disturbing. Although Garr was trained with eyes, the emotion was more telling than a man's lips, something that dwelled in the young man's hatred that could not be read.

But before long she'll realize it, Garr hopes, because her reading of the man's eyes has failed once. Only by the grace of God did it not sacrifice hundreds of lives. She brushed her hair with her hands. While nothing is certain in life, there is the benefit of seeing eyes to actually getting to know someone — more precisely, a man, because can one really know a woman?

And will someone want it? The bully creature, his father, Drogo, often said. But they are useful, because without them there would be nothing, Garr admitted nothing more than what his father and grandfather had done. Still, to be honest, he never approached a woman other than through her ease, and only with prostitutes.

At the age of four, Drogo took him from Stern Castle to begin his training in Wulfen. The same thing happened to the two brothers who followed him, never knowing much about their mother or sister other than a visit once, sometimes twice a year.

Women are a bad influence, says Drogo. They weaken a man's heart when it needs to be strong. So, as it happened to the generation before Garr—men who knew women only for ***** and got the heirs—as well as the next generation.

Garr looked at Jame Braose for the last time. Whatever it is about the young man, he will find him. Secretly cursing that he was late for prayer, he left. When the irony of his blasphemy struck out, he raised his eyes. “I'm sorry, Lord.” That was how difficult it was to even put one's mind to a woman. They always turn someone away from their goal.