It was as if Sol had just been hit by a sledgehammer. He could feel the blood rising in his head, a trait shared with his master. He curled his fists into balls several times, minuscule veins popping out in his forearms and forehead alike. His color had changed to a light shade of purple, and he would have burst, literally, if Jeyna had not swung her head curiously around. Unintenionally, her eye caught him in a rather reddish complexion, and seconds afterwards Sol himself noticed she was gazing with her mouth open at him.
Without a single thought or even the slightest idea of hiding it, he simply stormed across the large hallway, his soft-soled shoes thundering ominously as he stomped on each of the floor’s wooden planks, as if it was Lorc’s face. The same procedure continued as he flied across the staircase, racing past his master’s bedroom and up towards the attic and his own little sanctuary. He slammed the door behind, the poor wooden thing screeching in protest as it dragged across the floor before finally resting in a half-open position as it bounced against its frame from the force. With a curse, Sol slammed it shut and pulled the bolt, securing it tightly to prevent anyone intent on consoling him from even trying to.
And then he vented his frustration.
He stomped on the floor, yelled loud, upturned his workbench, threw little gears and various other mechanical parts on the flimsy wooden walls of his room. His latest invention was not spared from his wrath as he grabbed it without even thinking what was on his hand and flinged it across the room. It hit the wall with a myriad of little metallic-on-wood clanks and thuds, supplemented by the sound of finely crafted glass shattering into tiny bits and pieces that showered the rest of the little bronze parts that now littered the floor. The sextant’s cracked wooden frame lay sadly on the floor like the skeleton of some poor little creature, a remnant of Sol’s outburst.
Yet it didn’t stop him. He went on and on, raging against the contents of his room, kicking the wooden bench into oblivion regardless of the blistering and swollen state of his foot. His rant would go on without stopping before he dropped from exhaustion, but a knock on the door gave him a pause of a few seconds, time enough to hear Lorc’s words muffled beyond the wooden door.
A sudden urge to open the door and beat Lorc’s ungainly dark-skinned face to a bloody pulp, and he did take a few steps. Unfortunately, that was enough to reach the door and pull the bolt and swing the door open forcefully. Lorc was there standing stunned, looking at a puffed and red-faced Sol who gazed at him with undue hatred. He seemed to have no idea at what was happening- even when Sol’s large, swollen fist came down hard on his face.
Caught unaware, the fist hit him square on his nose, and the sound of broken bone permeated the attic for a second. Lorc yelped in pain, taking a clumsy, stunned step backwards which resulted in him losing his balance and falling on his behind with a thud. Sol towered over him, seventeen full stone of fury above a bloodied Lorc, raising his fist one more. “Sol, for the love of Melora, what are you doing?”, came Lorc’s muffled exclamation as his hand tried to stop the flow of blood from his broken nose.
It seemed that his fellow apprentice’s shaken words put some sense into him. He lowered his fist, which now he felt it throbbing ever so slightly, as if the feeling came from a long time ago and just an echo remained to remind him it hurt. Lorc stumbled to his feet, looking warily at Sol and ready to defend himself this time. Instead, Sol, barely restraining himself, managed to put together a few words of pure rage: “You… out… my… sight… NOW!”. The ‘now’, already thunderously loud, was augmented by Sol’s foot stomping on the creaking floor’s attic. Lorc stood there speechless, clutching his bloodied face with both hands as ‘now’ reverberated across the attic and probably the rest of the two-storied building as well. Then he took a step backwards, and then another, until he reached the stairs.
As his hated rival retreated down the flight of stairs, Sol took a big gulp, feeling the coppery taste of blood on his own mouth and a sting on his tongue- probably at some point during his rage he bit it. Panting heavily as his rage subsided at a quick pace, he could feel both of his hands throbbing, and when he turned his eyes to them he saw two large, swollen pieces of flesh, reddish and torn at various places. But the now calmed Sol was not prepared for what he was about to face.
He turned his back and gave the half-open door a shove. He felt like a bull had been let loose in his little attic room, his sanctuary for the past 18 years. Pieces of his research and his works lay broken and shattered, parts and gears strewn across a floor where a million fragments of glass glittered in the afternoon sunlight that entered from his only window. Sol turned his gaze from one broken contraption to the next, until it finally rested in the utterly destroyed sextant that had been thrown at the wall.
The now exhausted apprentice felt his knees weak and his eyes watering. Giving in, he merely fell to the floor, getting his hands cut by the glass he clutched powerlessly, as he cried.
