Within the Academy of Arms, inside the confines of the large building used to house the many students, was a long room with many beds lining the walls. It was a bare, dull, and dimly-lit place, the few candles lit not quite providing a sufficient glow. For this reason, the students had learned not to leave their stuff laying around. All too often, one would trip over a carelessly placed sword or pack. About a month ago, one poor fellow had actually twisted his ankle when he fell over a pile of clothing. The instructors had not been pleased, and they now made routine checks of the different rooms to ensure that their occupants kept the place clean.

Upon one of the beds lay a blond-haired man, his legs hanging off the end and his arms behind his head. He was dressed casually; he wore only breeches and a white undershirt. Sighing deeply, he sat up and gazed around the room. He saw that the room was mostly empty. That came as no surprise: it was quite late in the morning. A few were reading, others were sharpening weapons or polishing boots and armor. One of them saw him and grinned, but quickly went back to his work.

"Bah...isn't there anything to do?" the man muttered as he sprung off his bed, the thud of his boots echoing around the room as they struck the ground. He walked over to a corner of his bed, where his clothes hung. He grabbed one of his shirts and pulled it on, then did the same with his cloak. His scabbard, which leaned against the bedpost, found it's way onto his hip. After running a hand through his hair and jerking out some of the tangles, he strode purposefully over to the door, his cloak sweeping out behind him as he did so.

Outside of the room and in the hall that lead to all the other dormitories, Kent Amaren sighed and leaned up against a hard wall, his arms crossed. A few passerby glanced at him, but he was otherwise ignored. He shook his head irritably. A burning desire to do something had overtaken him, and it was driving him crazy. Frustrated, his head wandered upwards, his eyes gazing at the ceiling.

Anyone...anything...geez, he would take whatever he could get. Having something to do, no matter whom it was with, would be better than this endless boredom.

Eliel grinned as he walked through the dormitories of the Academy. He was a regular here, coming mostly to spar and train. He was a fair fighter, better than many of those who come here. He was not enrolled himself, but the circles were always open, and he loved to spar.

Eliel crossed into a hallway, drawing strange looks from several youths. That was to be expected, however, as he was a drow. Black skin, White hair, and an extravagant blade at his hip drew many looks, from even some of the most experienced travelers.

In previous days, he would have challenged any who looked at him wrong to a duel, either until you can no longer fight or to the death. Usually he won, but not always. But recently he’d taken up a vow to never harm for mere game or for little reason. He would strive to protect. But he had no problems with killing. That was what set him apart from so many knights and paladins who would have him. They believed in second chances for the wicked. Given, Eliel would allow the occasional enemy to live. But not often.

Eliel spotted one who caught his eye, leaning up against the wall, nearly aflame with boredom. Surely he was full of energy, speed, and will to fight. Eliel stopped in front of him, a smile on his face.

“Would you like to spar?” He asked the man simply. Eliel chuckled and spoke again. “Where are my manners? My name is Eraspeola Usreanac, but I go by Eliel. Whom might you be?” He asked curiously, a hand held out to shake.