The kitinology course took place outside Pyr, at the top of a dune in the welcome shade of the olansis. The wind carried with it the smell of resin and sawdust, while the students waited in anguish. Among them, Phaïstos, a naturally curious young homin unaccustomed to austerity, watched with palpable apprehension the imposing figure of Azazor, their new kitinology teacher.
Azazor was everything one could imagine of a brutal warrior: an imposing build, reinforced by heavy black armor etched with the marks of past battles. His hardscrabble face, pockmarked with scars and burns, was a living map of unequal combat against kitins. He held his axe firmly in both hands, a massive weapon adorned with what he had called a "dragon's tooth". The axe seemed almost alive in the harsh morning light, and he wielded it with as much ease as another teacher would have wielded a walking stick. When he spoke, his hoarse voice cracked like a whip:
- Stop yawning at the kitins, you toubs! Today, we're going to see what you've got, or whether you'll end up like those morons who throw themselves headlong into a colony of kirostas. Grab your sticks and shields!
The tone was dry, brutal, and the students obeyed in silence, their eyes glazed over. Phaïstos, though terrified and having no idea what he had planned, felt a strange admiration for this homin who seemed to have seen hell and back. Beneath his fear lay a genuine thirst for learning.
Azazor began his lecture by walking ahead of them, his every step pounding the sawdust like a war drum.
- Kitins," he growled, "are not creatures you can underestimate. Any one of them, even the smallest, can tear your leg off. They have a strategy, a hierarchy and, above all, a group intelligence that none of you can hope to surpass. Your only chance? Learn to understand them. And to outsmart them.
Then, without warning, he swung his axe at Phaïstos.
- You, youngster. Think you can outrun a kincher? Explain their strategy of encirclement.
Caught off guard, Phaïstos felt his heart pounding in his chest. Yet he summoned up his courage and stammered out an answer, remembering the textbooks he had devoured.
- Uh... kinchers... they... attack by forming a circle around their prey to... cut off any escape. Then, the fastest... uh... throw themselves forward to... weaken...
Azazor interrupted him with a roar.
- Louder, Phaestus! Your whispers won't stop them!
The teenager straightened up, the gaze of his comrades burning into his back. This time, his voice was more confident.
- The kinchers surround their prey to exhaust it and cut off any retreat! The fastest strike first, while the others... keep their distance to block any escape.
A silence followed, then Azazor nodded slowly.
- Not too bad. But never forget: it's not by reciting that you'll live. It's by doing! Now, let's get down to business.
The group emerged from the reassuring shade of the olansis into the sweltering heat of the desert. The scorching light of the day was relentless at this hour of the day, and the sawdust kicked up by the wind seemed to cling to their skin in a sticky layer. Azazor was relentless.
- You're going to play a battle against kinchers," he announced, a cruel sneer on his face. Some of you will be kitins, others prey. And to motivate you, know that I won't hesitate to strike. A kitin never holds back, so I won't either.
The students organized themselves, some taking up sticks and adopting threatening postures, imitating the kinchers with varying degrees of success. Others, including Phaïstos, prepared to play the role of prey, their muscles tense with nervousness.
- Start!" shouted Azazor.
Chaos ensued immediately. The kinchers pounced on their comrades, simulating bites and pawing. But Azazor wasn't faking it. His axe struck with the flat of the blade at stragglers and those who dared to slow down.
- Faster, faster! You call that a dodge?" he roared as he brought his axe down on the trembling shield of a student, who wobbled under the impact before falling to his knees.
Phaïstos, short of breath, narrowly dodged a student playing kincher. He turned just in time to see Azazor hit another classmate on the shoulder, sending him rolling into the sawdust.
- Get up!" spat the kitinology professor. A kitin doesn't give you time to whine! You're allowed to fall, but if you stay down, you die!
Heat, burning sawdust and pain weighed heavily on the group. Several students were on the ground, injured or exhausted, but Azazor didn't care about their condition. He pursued relentlessly, barking orders, hitting, correcting.
- If you can't survive here, in this exercise, you're screwed in a real fight! he growled.
Phaïstos was in pain, his muscles screaming, but he found himself captivated. Azazor's every word and gesture seemed to be a lesson forged in blood and experience. He wasn't just a warrior - he was a survivor.
When the session finally came to an end, the students collapsed in the sawdust, panting and their skin covered in bruises. Phaïstos, exhausted but on his feet, felt a glimmer of pride. He had stood his ground.
Azazor towered over them, the cold sharpness of judgment in his gaze. Red, terrifying eyes.
- Not bad for a first day. But remember: in the face of kitins, hesitation is death. Rest if you can. Tomorrow will be worse.
Despite the brutality of the training, Phaïstos felt a strange gratitude. Azazor wasn't trying to break them. He was forging them.
Azazor was everything one could imagine of a brutal warrior: an imposing build, reinforced by heavy black armor etched with the marks of past battles. His hardscrabble face, pockmarked with scars and burns, was a living map of unequal combat against kitins. He held his axe firmly in both hands, a massive weapon adorned with what he had called a "dragon's tooth". The axe seemed almost alive in the harsh morning light, and he wielded it with as much ease as another teacher would have wielded a walking stick. When he spoke, his hoarse voice cracked like a whip:
- Stop yawning at the kitins, you toubs! Today, we're going to see what you've got, or whether you'll end up like those morons who throw themselves headlong into a colony of kirostas. Grab your sticks and shields!
The tone was dry, brutal, and the students obeyed in silence, their eyes glazed over. Phaïstos, though terrified and having no idea what he had planned, felt a strange admiration for this homin who seemed to have seen hell and back. Beneath his fear lay a genuine thirst for learning.
Azazor began his lecture by walking ahead of them, his every step pounding the sawdust like a war drum.
- Kitins," he growled, "are not creatures you can underestimate. Any one of them, even the smallest, can tear your leg off. They have a strategy, a hierarchy and, above all, a group intelligence that none of you can hope to surpass. Your only chance? Learn to understand them. And to outsmart them.
Then, without warning, he swung his axe at Phaïstos.
- You, youngster. Think you can outrun a kincher? Explain their strategy of encirclement.
Caught off guard, Phaïstos felt his heart pounding in his chest. Yet he summoned up his courage and stammered out an answer, remembering the textbooks he had devoured.
- Uh... kinchers... they... attack by forming a circle around their prey to... cut off any escape. Then, the fastest... uh... throw themselves forward to... weaken...
Azazor interrupted him with a roar.
- Louder, Phaestus! Your whispers won't stop them!
The teenager straightened up, the gaze of his comrades burning into his back. This time, his voice was more confident.
- The kinchers surround their prey to exhaust it and cut off any retreat! The fastest strike first, while the others... keep their distance to block any escape.
A silence followed, then Azazor nodded slowly.
- Not too bad. But never forget: it's not by reciting that you'll live. It's by doing! Now, let's get down to business.
The group emerged from the reassuring shade of the olansis into the sweltering heat of the desert. The scorching light of the day was relentless at this hour of the day, and the sawdust kicked up by the wind seemed to cling to their skin in a sticky layer. Azazor was relentless.
- You're going to play a battle against kinchers," he announced, a cruel sneer on his face. Some of you will be kitins, others prey. And to motivate you, know that I won't hesitate to strike. A kitin never holds back, so I won't either.
The students organized themselves, some taking up sticks and adopting threatening postures, imitating the kinchers with varying degrees of success. Others, including Phaïstos, prepared to play the role of prey, their muscles tense with nervousness.
- Start!" shouted Azazor.
Chaos ensued immediately. The kinchers pounced on their comrades, simulating bites and pawing. But Azazor wasn't faking it. His axe struck with the flat of the blade at stragglers and those who dared to slow down.
- Faster, faster! You call that a dodge?" he roared as he brought his axe down on the trembling shield of a student, who wobbled under the impact before falling to his knees.
Phaïstos, short of breath, narrowly dodged a student playing kincher. He turned just in time to see Azazor hit another classmate on the shoulder, sending him rolling into the sawdust.
- Get up!" spat the kitinology professor. A kitin doesn't give you time to whine! You're allowed to fall, but if you stay down, you die!
Heat, burning sawdust and pain weighed heavily on the group. Several students were on the ground, injured or exhausted, but Azazor didn't care about their condition. He pursued relentlessly, barking orders, hitting, correcting.
- If you can't survive here, in this exercise, you're screwed in a real fight! he growled.
Phaïstos was in pain, his muscles screaming, but he found himself captivated. Azazor's every word and gesture seemed to be a lesson forged in blood and experience. He wasn't just a warrior - he was a survivor.
When the session finally came to an end, the students collapsed in the sawdust, panting and their skin covered in bruises. Phaïstos, exhausted but on his feet, felt a glimmer of pride. He had stood his ground.
Azazor towered over them, the cold sharpness of judgment in his gaze. Red, terrifying eyes.
- Not bad for a first day. But remember: in the face of kitins, hesitation is death. Rest if you can. Tomorrow will be worse.
Despite the brutality of the training, Phaïstos felt a strange gratitude. Azazor wasn't trying to break them. He was forging them.
---
neya fyren orèch, ney fyros gladùchorum gesun, fyrak a oren depyr
Tant que le Feu Sacré nous lie, nous fyros combattons
Le Désert nous parcourons pour un jour pourfendre le Dragon
Biographie sur le wiki