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Welcome to the Semi-Finals! This match is The Whole Glory vs. Tier Valkia Suela.
Your Arena;
Deep inside a forest that has been set on fire. Trees are falling in every direction, it's hard to breathe, hard to see and very little of the forest has been left unscathed.
Match begins at 12 AM 5/29/2009!
Arena courtesy of Lightfoot.
Out of Character:
DarkStrke strained his eyes in the darkness as wind buffeted him from many directions, seeming as though it were unsure in which particular way it wished to move. Though the lightning and thunder about him gave Ryondel Shi'Nito – as was his proper name - the appearance of an ancient deity, the roar emanating from the sea was greater; the turmoil he had caused by using Spectura to create an electrical singularity had been more effective than he might have previously guessed. Under normal circumstances, he might have supposed such a reaction to his handiwork, but being powered down due to long distances from Morgoth and some sort of restraining magic made it difficult to gauge how much of his strength he needed for any particular feat.
Subconsciously Ryondel felt his wings adjust to a vicious crosswind that threatened to take the lift out of them. Lazily drifting in the cold, dark air he found himself wondering when he would be able to smell the air – a natural in-grained trait in the Artarian race, that he and his brothers had originated from – again; not the filthy scent of a couple of overtly arrogant Nordic warriors. A flash of irritation made his blood boil, as he decided to make the stupid warrior below pay for it. Reaching for his command of water magic, he let his mental cognizance search for the water, stretching beyond the physical boundaries of his mind. Finding it, he latched onto it with his awareness and ordered it to boil everything alive. Nothing happened.
His rage at being thwarted yet again ripped through the sky, sounding above both thunder and sea. Slowly around his body, a luminescent glow began to surround him, wavering in color like Aurora Borealis, the Northern Lights. The colorful fire gave off light that seemed to be both bright and transparent, but maintained a bizarre opaque quality that suggested a contradictory nature. This was Spectura, in its most primal and simple form; the source from which all light and dark energies flowed.
Through a haze of red, the slow beating of his heart caused his vision to pulsate and narrow in field. He glanced down and much to his tainted joy he saw the gigantic avatar of Thor erupt from the turbulent waters below. This time he would just kill him outright. This time there would be no small talk. He swore that he would drink the blood of this enemy, who, if he had been at full power, would not be worth his time. The pagan god’s avatar was wreathed in a crackling fire of energy and flew towards him as though all the evils of Nordic mythology pursued him. His murderous intent obvious, DarkStrike could not have ever been more pleased to meet a challenge on the field of combat.
A trumpet sounded clear and brilliant within his head. Its proud sound reverberated through his entire body, clearing his tunneled vision somewhat. His rage cooled, becoming more dangerous, as reason, thought, and intelligence returned. His anger now burned like a smoldering fire, and placed his mind into a bizarre clarity. He folded his wings and fell to meet the inbred avatar. A body of crackling fire rose and the blaze of light from the northern skies fell. As they came within striking distance of each other, the giant appeared unarmed, as did he, but he knew he had won already; he had calculated this all out in his head.
Letting confidence surge through his veins, Ryondel let his wings flare outwards as he came level with the massive human. The air caught him just as his enemy made a movement towards him and thrust him in a sudden forward and upwards direction. He was now traveling at a forty-five degree angle towards his opponent’s head. Rather than aim for that as the giant brought his hands to guard, DarkStrike threw himself backwards performing a back flip in midair. As he inverted himself, his wings lost the current and he began to drop, sending a sharp thrill of exhilaration through his body. As he completed the flip, his wings filled with air again, and suddenly he was soaring straight towards the aggressive creature incredibly fast.
He had him! The giant was too slow to react, evidently confused and bewildered by the move. DarkStrike reached his right hand over his shoulder to grab Bane; he would use it to cut this monstrosity in twain. Then something he didn’t expect to happen, happened: he found he could not draw Bane. Not that it didn’t move when he grabbed it, it wasn’t stuck, but he could not bring himself to draw it. Suddenly all the rage drained from him as confusion set in; he could only wonder what the hell was going on. The mighty giant finally reacted and,with a speed that he would have considered impossible, he found his flight halted as he was, for a third time, literally throttled by a Norse myth. His nose was flooded again with the pungent smell of sweat, blood, and general filth, causing his eyes to water. But then he felt a sharp stabbing pain in his gut, and felt his conscious detach itself from his body. DarkStrike could feel himself thrashing in the arms of the giant, but it no longer mattered to him. He knew the glowing light which had encircled him, had faded, and he could only wonder as he felt the giant begin to move, carrying his body with him, at how pissed Morgoth would be.
With a beating of his broad wings and a slight glimmer of amusement, Honuse Relaiyent flew through the air, bearing a burden of flesh upon his arms. The demon, which had been responsible for the devastating attack that had nearly overwhelmed the Lawmaker, was trapped securely in the giant's broad hands; one sat upon the creature's neck, the other held a fist above the black sword buried several inches into the enemy's stomach. The blade, which protruded from the top of the Lawmaker's arm parallel to the bone, was twin to an identical weapon on the other wrist, which now sat inches away from the demon's throat.
The man, abomination to his kin and Elect of the Gods, flew closer towards the shore, ignoring the steady pounding of rain upon his leather-enshrouded body. Strong crosswinds tugged at his wings, forcing temporary exertions to maintain the course; the wings were constructed of muscle drained from his legs, which now hung uselessly below as empty puppets. A flash of lightning illuminated the sky, though to Honuse Relaiyent's vision, it only offered a glimpse of clarity; his sight, having lost his eyes long ago, was the fallow vision of wraiths, in which his world was visible as if through a thick smoke. His recognition of biological materials painted a second vision in hues of verdant green, and it was through this that he viewed the eyes of the interloper.
The utter darkness of the night did not hamper the Lawmaker's vision – he saw every twitch upon the demon's face as he twisted his right armblade, before finally releasing the defiler upon the sand. The creature collapsed, as it's body contracted slightly around the midsection. It was at that point that Honuse Relaiyent noticed the tattoo upon the dark arm, the unmistakable symbol of Thor, Honuse Relaiyent's own lord and master. Shaking his head in disgust, the abomination allowed himself a moment's blasphemy to question his lord's choice in companions. For this foul beast could be none other than a replacement for the Lawmaker's slain brother in arms, the dvergr who had died the previous night.
Pressing his lips together to ward off the rain as it slid down his executioner's mask, the giant returned the muscles to his legs, then knelt upon the wet sand, forcibly moving the demon's arms away from its abdomen. Without caring to be gentle, Honuse Relaiyent focused his mind upon the beast's stomach, recognizing the vital organs as a twisted reflection of his own; though their species were far removed, many basic aspects existed between them, allowing the Lawmaker a tenuous grasp on how to repair the damage he had inflicted. Minutes passed by, invisible to the abomination save for an innate cognizance of the steady flow of lightning strikes in the background, and how the stiff winds rocked his body. Finally, as a light sweat broke from his skin, the giant was finished.
Taking another moment to spike the adrenaline production in the demon, the Elect stepped back, his feet sliding minutely in the wet sand. With a casual motion he drew the broadsword from his back, taking its ornately crafted hilt easily in his hand, hefting the weight of the seven-foot blade without trouble. The Lawmaker was easily twice the size of a normal human, two heads taller, and muscled as a giant from the south. Six hundred years of warfare and combat in the service of the Gods had left him toned and capable, a worthy fighter of great renown. With an impatient grunt, he kicked the demon, prompting a startled gasp.
The defiler sat up, his eyes cast warily upon the still form of the Lawmaker, noting the blade sitting casually in hand. Despite the giant's distaste for communicating with lesser beings, he made the first approach. “You bear the mark of Thor. Have you not come to aid in the pursuit of the Whole Glory?”
The pursuit, as tasked by Thor, was an attempt to harvest worthy souls before the day of Ragnarok; it was presumed that a tournament, flaunted about the universes by a boisterous clan of men, would attract notable warriors to slay, who would in turn serve Odin in the final day.
Cautiously, the demon responded. “Yes. You Norse bastards didn't give me much of a choice, so here I am.” His eyes darkened. “Though if you want to keep it that way, lay off the throttling. My neck can't take much more.”
Striding up to the demon, Honuse Relaiyent took the tattooed arm, examining the rune it bore. A trace of his pheromones, which the giant routinely altered to bear a paralytic upon activation, rendered the arm temporarily immobile. With a dexterity belying the size of the utensil, the Lawmaker used the sharpened tip of a side-guard upon his blade to trace a second rune atop Thor's; it was the rune of lagabœtir, the Lawmaker's own. Stepping back, he watched the dark blood run down the arm amidst a wash of rain, before returning his smoky gaze to the demon's face. “My rune is borne of Alsvid, the blade you see before you. It is cleansed in the blood of one of your own, and will bind you to my will. You will accompany me, and do as I say, lest this sword add your face to its depths. Now tell me your name.”
With a hint of uncertainty that seemed somehow alien to the already strange face, the demon responded, saying, “Call me DarkStrike. You might hear my real name later...if you're good enough.”
With a look of scathing contempt, the Lawmaker ignored the provocation, turning instead towards the sky. “Come, DarkStrike. I will show you what became of the last to stand at my side, and what fate awaits you should you fail to please my expectations.” Draining the muscles from his legs once more, Honuse Relaiyent extended his leathery wings through the flap in his armor, taking to the sky without so much as a glance behind him. He knew the demon would follow; it would have no choice but to obey his will. The storm continued to rage around them, though it failed to disturb the giant; while his element was truly the ground, six hundred years of flight had robbed him of any sense of excitement, whether for good or bad, at the hazards of sailing through the air.
The midnight moon had risen just before the pair left the beach, the previous opponents forgotten; whatever their fate, neither had shown a worthiness to serve Odin, and were thus extraneous to the plan. They did not even enter the abomination's mind in the hour of flight separating them from the Elect's intended destination; the last time he had come this way, it was bearing the dwarf Hvastillitr, his former partner, as a burden. He made exceptionally better time, and noted DarkStrike's ability to maintain the rigorous speed throughout. The night was still deeply entrenched, with the storm raging in a seemingly eternal fit, as they approached the now-decimated jungle where Honuse Relaiyent had done battle on the previous eve.
The once-thick foliage was still burning, evidently a result of the terrible destruction wrought by the fury of the Lawmaker; it was into this tumultuous peril of fire and smoke that the giant flew, ignoring the desire to cough, knowing that the smoke inhalation was insufficient to kill him. He also noted, with a perverse amusement, that he had no such guarantee for the demonic servant at his back. It did not take long to find the site of the battle; the prevailing winds and the storm had preserved the site partially, though thick flames still ate steadily away at the dying trees. The body of the dwarf, decimated as it was through Honuse Relaiyent's own doing, still lay in a heap amidst the undergrowth, looking as wretched as had the dvergr in life.
“Look now upon the remains of your predecessor, demon. Such will be your fate in the days to come, lest you adhere to my command and prove yourself capable of this challenge.”
Out of Character:
Xaul Knofker sat at a table in a pub in the Garden of Secrets. The dusky skinned man was nursing a glass of fruit juice and tracing patterns in the condensation on the table. “Semi-finals, shiny. Almost done, and we’ll be free.”
He looked up at the man sitting across from him. Epsilon, esper of Gemynd. Xaul’s partner, and possibly his only friend here. The man had retracted a plate in the gleaming silver mask he wore and was quietly sipping at a glass of water. Every time it got too warm, the uniformed man would invest a tiny amount of power into a cryokinetic field. The esper made a soft sound of agreement in the back of his throat and set the glass down. The mask resealed with a quiet shink, reflecting Xaul's face back at him. "Indeed. Your salvation is almost at hand."
Xaul studied his partner, his friend. The man still wore his military uniform, the one he wore when he escaped from the lab. The small insignia on his shoulder stood out slightly, the constant reminder of the terrible experiments an echo of the mental scars the man still carried. His face was kind, Xaul liked to think; no one could see it. The shining steel mask hid everything about the esper, and the symbol engraved in it told the universe all it needed to know: his name. Epsilon.
Xaul laughed and laughed, the sounds issuing from his throat severely discomforting everyone in the pub. Finally he wound to a halt, tracing a finger over his scarred face. “Did I ever tell you how I got these scars?” Xaul’s voice filled with malicious glee. “The best part is, I don’t remember! You’ve met Resheph, felt the god that I keep chained and who keeps me chained?”
Epsilon’s body language said that he wanted to interrupt, but he merely nodded. Xaul smiled sardonically and went on, his words becoming clipped as he swam through a flood of memories. “It was a long time ago, that I made the deal. Bandit attack on my farm, no survivors. No family left. No friends left. Only revenge, and I was dying. No chance.”
The water in the esper’s hand froze instantly, the glass cracking from the sudden drop in temperature. He had heard this thought pattern from himself many times before, and didn’t want Xaul to go there. "I know that,” Epsilon hissed. “I have faced the same, Xaul! Ripped away from my family, my past erased, my very existence one of pain! And then everything I knew, obliterated in a nuclear fireball. I KNOW, Xaul!"
Xaul waited until his partner was done, and then let out a low chuckle. “You think you know? You don’t. I lay dying, and then another dying being helped me up. Resheph. He had no followers, no one to believe in him, and a god dies without belief. He said he’d help me. Said he’d give me what I needed. Far as I was concerned, there wasn’t a choice.”
Epsilon leaned forward until he was face to… mask with Xaul. He kept his voice lower, this time; the bartender was starting to give them meaningful looks. "You didn't get a choice at the beginning. This fight is offering you a choice now. I'm offering you a choice.”
Xaul laughed slightly, unconfidently, moved to shake it off, to ignore his friend’s words. “No, Xaul.” An iron grip clamped him to his chair: Epsilon’s telekinesis. “Listen. He's been in your head too long, Xaul. He's changed you, and we both know it. You may not value your own life anymore, but by the Allsoul's light, Xaul, I do! I entered this tournament to help you, now give me a chance to try!"
Xaul looked at Epsilon sadly, staying in the chair. He didn’t want to fight his friend. “I’ll give you a chance, but I don’t have one. He’s changed me, you’re right. He’s always whispering to me, even now. He has changed me. I enjoy it now. The slaughter, the blood, the death… Beauty. Glory, as he would say. You know the thrill, I’ll bet. Feeling a life drain through your hands, because of your hands…”
Xaul held a hand up and flexed it thoughtfully, observing the interplay of the muscles under the skin. “My skin used to be normal, you know. I don’t remember when it changed. Don’t remember what I looked like. Too long ago.” Xaul flicked his gaze to the esper, standing and planting his fists on the table as the telekinetic bonds were released.
“You say Resheph’s been in my head for far too long. How long, though? Have you ever lent a thought to how long it would take?” Xaul’s voice became a dangerous whisper as he bent over Epsilon. “Ask me.”
The esper sat back in his chair, his anger fading as he thought about the question. Finally, he looked up, his emotions hidden behind the immutable symbol on his mask. “Xaul…” He stopped, wanting to be delicate. “Xaul, how old are you?”
Xaul spun backwards, whooping as his heavy tattered coat billowed out from his body like the wings of an ancient crow. “And he has hit the nail on the head! The perfect question!”
Xaul stopped, shutting down his insanity for a little while longer. “Fifty years ago, in my world, I found my way to the Banir monks, who laid the Kounnar into my skin and returned my humanity to me,” rasped Xaul, referring to the spells that kept Resheph under control. “I asked them about bandits, wanting to know if any had survived the attack on my farm. I didn’t remember anything from when Resheph was in control. The kind Banir looked at me strangely, explaining that bandits hadn’t been a problem since over two hundred years ago, when every single camp they had simply… died.”
Xaul gripped himself tightly, trying to keep the tatters of his sanity from floating away. “The attacks on the bandits radiated outwards from my farm. Soldiers came through later and found the bodies of every bandit piled high on my land, as a death-offering. Two hundred years of killing passed after that. Two hundred years, and I don’t remember any of it. Don’t remember any of the victims.”
Xaul slumped over the table, his shaking arms barely propping himself up. “Two hundred years, not even counting the bandits. He’s kept me alive, milked me for sacrifices.” The dark man pushed himself to his feet, his scarred face a mask that showed as little emotion as Epsilon’s. “Come on. Round’s supposed to start soon. Let’s move.”
Epsilon followed Xaul to the door, still digesting this new information. “Two hundred,” he whispered. He touched his friend on the shoulder. “You will be alright?”
Xaul shook him off. “I don’t know, shiny. I’ll get through this, but afterwards, I’m done. Win or no, the Tournament of Champions is my last fight.”
Resheph uncoiled in Xaul’s mind as they headed to the staging area for the Semi-Finals, his voice like that of a proud serial rapist. We both know it won’t be, Xaul. I won’t allow it. Besides, you’re addicted to the death. You won’t be able to force yourself away.
* * *
Xaul left the gleaming disc of the teleportation spell retching, as always. He stumbled over to a tree and reached out to lean against it, yanking his hand away as it began to get singed on the burning tree. The pain was enough to bring Xaul out of the stupor the teleportation left him in.
Everywhere Xaul looked was burning. Trees, bushes, grass, all existed merely as fuel for the inferno that consumed the forest. He could feel the heat beating at his face; his sweat boiling off the second it left his pores. The smoke filled his lungs, and Xaul coughed as he bent below the haze. Resheph laughed in glee as several small animals rushed past Xaul’s feet. Fire. Such a lovely toy. All consuming, all cleansing. Everything runs before it, shocked back to their instincts, as they should be. All that exists after it is pure, the best and strongest that welcomed their instincts, their base desires. Such a lovely prospect.
“Shut it, Resheph,” Xaul muttered, tearing a wide strip of cloth off one of his tattered shirts and tying it around his face. It helped guard against the tendrils of smoke that threatened to force themselves inside his lungs, threatened to shred his breath and leave him for the fire. He turned and nodded to Epsilon before picking a direction to walk in. He started to stumble off, but Resheph stopped him.
Xaul… The god’s voice was uneasy, even scared. There are forces out there, Xaul, forces I could only match when I was free. There are ancient gods out there, ones that will not be as near as forgiving as Jericho’s One. Be careful, my avatar, my only son.
Xaul shook his head, his eyes reddening from the soot and ash all around him. “I’ll be fine, Resheph. If anything, these gods might be able to release me.” He stumbled towards the clearing, crashing through several plants.
Out of Character:
As Epsilon materialized, he was thankful he found the experience so refreshing. The world he opened his eyes to gave him every hint that it would be his last pleasant experience for the duration of the round. The first thing he was aware of was the heat; sweat began to soak into his uniform instantly, beads rolling down his face behind his mask. He took a breath, and his lungs filled with scorching air that reeked of smoke and forced him to suppress the urge to cough. Instead, he focused his attention inward and drew upon his cyrokinetic abilities. Epsilon closed his eyes and a faint blue field shimmered around his body, barely invisible against the hellish glow from the fire all around him. Instantly, the waves of heat went from overpowering to merely uncomfortable. Epsilon smirked. For someone who had endured fifteen years of torture and experimentation, a bit of extra heat was nothing. Even the drain on his power was negligible. He was only thankful that his mask acted in the same manner as the cloth Xaul had tied over his own face, preventing the smoke from smothering him.
An arena of fire, he thought, How fitting. Fire purifies, renews, and reshapes. It is a perfect symbol, as through this combat Xaul can be saved. And at that moment, Xaul looked back toward him. Their eyes met, as well as they could with Epsilon's lack of obvious eyes. It was obvious by the grimace on the dusky-skinned face that Resheph was whispering in his ear, and the sheets of flame billowing up from the forest floor behind Xaul lent him a demonic look. As he turned away, a branch fell with a shattering crack between them, sending up a spray of sparks. Epsilon moved quickly to catch up before they were separated. To be lost in this inferno would be lethal, without question.
Epsilon moved with quick steps, swiftly crossing the burning ground to his dark companion. As he advanced, his released his mind and his consciousness expanded outwards over the infernal forest. He tuned himself for lifesigns, which would be few and far between in such a death-filled place. Xaul and himself blazed brightly to his mind, with nothing else nearby. The Esper extended his range...and was almost floored. Another presence, flying rapidly towards them and so strong it was as it there were two beings pressed together. He abruptly realized that it was two beings. Both opponents, one carrying the other into the blaze, and each one was literally bursting with power. They blazed in his life-sight like Jericho had when he channeled the power of his god, the One. Epsilon realized that he was once again facing gods.
Gods. Epsilon knew he should warn Xaul, should try and aid his partner, but yet again he found himself walking the earth with beings far beyond his state. It struck the esper as almost cruel of the Cabal to force someone as close to a normal human as could be found in the Tournament against gods not once, but twice! Even his partner was aided by a being that rightfully claimed divine power. He realized that such ‘It’s not fair!’ thoughts were juvenile, but he couldn’t help feeling resentful of the situation. In the last fight when godly powers faced Epsilon and his ally, the esper had ended the fight impaled and on the brink of death. Only the intervention of the (again god-like) Cabal had saved him from the void.
Damn them. In the last battle, Kryos alone was too much for me. I wasn’t even the one fighting Jericho, and I was nearly killed. If Resheph hadn’t been in control of Xaul, the Cabal would have had two souls to recover instead of just mine. And the Cabal! The Cabal, who can pull a man back from the edge of the abyss at a whim and promise the fulfillment of a dream to the victors of the Tournament! Epsilon growled in the back of his throat, his frustration finally strong enough to break his ironclad self-discipline. What is a man like me supposed to do in the face of such enemies? I can tell just by their auras that our opponents aren’t going to be as merciful as Jericho and his One. Xaul will survive, that’s what he’s best at, and Resheph isn’t about to give up his host at this point. Damn it! For all that I am, for all the gifts I possess, I have nothing that can stand against such beings!
A sudden cracking sound startled him out of his thoughts. A great pine, entirely engulfed in a pillar of flame, had burned through its own trunk and was beginning to fall. An instant's calculation told him Xaul was safe, but if he didn't move instantly he would die beneath its blistering boughs. He threw himself forward, adding telekinetic force to his leap. The esper somersaulted in midair to land in a plume of ash and cinders astride Xaul. Safely out of the way, he barely noticed as the tree crashed to the smoldering ground. But I'll be damned if I lay down and die for them! I've held back before now, but that ends with this fight! I have paid for my power with my past, my family, and my very name. We both have. At this he cast a sidelong glance at his partner, who was stumbling out of a bush and patting thoughtlessly at the scorch marks on his clothes. We don't fight for power or glory, we fight to save a man's soul from evil. We'll see how these 'gods' stand against that.
His consciousness assuaged, Epsilon followed Xaul toward an open clearing, reduced to a circle of ash by the heat. As the pair approached the edge of the treeline, the esper caught his murmured words. Abruptly his determination disappeared, and his frustration returned.
"By the Allsoul, Xaul, are you that determined to die? Have my words meant nothing to you? I. Value. Your. Life." He forced the words out one at a time, trying to batter them into his friend's mind. He stretched out a hand to Xaul, "I refuse to stand and watch while you throw that life away! You're giving up, Xaul. Committing suicide is admitting that you can't contain him anymore. But that's a lie, Xaul. I know you, I know how strong you are."
Epsilon paused, his hand still extended. He spoke his next words softly, gently and barely audible over the roaring flames behind them. "Do you remember Eaute, Xaul? Whenever you speak of her, you always tell me of her laughter, of her delight at everything in the world. Of your time sharing that delight. Would you throw away the life that she loved?"
And abruptly, the bond between their minds surged, and Epsilon found himself inside his partner's head.
The name reverberated through Xaul, images from his past coming unbidden. Epsilon could feel himself being drawn into the mental vortex, memories echoing across centuries. Nearby a tree cracked, the sounds warping into hoofbeats and cruel laughter. Embers stung Xaul’s cheek, their sharp caress becoming the bite of a sword. The smoke filled his nose, and Xaul spun around and around, his hands clasped around an invisible hoe.
“Eaute! Anceria! RUN!” Xaul’s voice was raw and anguished and he stumbled towards an unseen goal. A branch caught at his coat and he tore free, swiping at it with the imagined tool in his hands. “Let me go, dammit! I have to save them. Eaute!”
A downed tree crossed the path of the man who was once a farmer. Xaul tripped, falling forward with his hands in a mound of coals. His palms began to blister, and he rolled away, sobbing. “You kill them, and now you brand me? Give me a weapon and face me. FACE ME!”
The god-touched man crawled forward, collapsing in the hot dirt. Pained gasps dripped from his lips, his body stilling. “Find you… Kill you all… All… for…” A dark head sagged to the ground, embers biting the ash-covered cheeks without a reaction.
Epsilon dashed forward toward his fallen partner, leaped over the log that had tripped Xaul and landed somewhere...different. A grim, shadowy landscape of shattered stone peaks and boulders that resembled the bones of some unimaginably vast beast. Dominating the view was a great steel cage, the metal blackened and glowing with the bloody light of thousands of engraved runes. It contained a void, a horrid pit of absolute nothingness that seemed to suck at Epsilon's soul. From its center emanated a sick red glow and a power so overwhelmingly vile that Epsilon wanted to vomit. Resheph, caged by the Kounnar spell. He slammed his shields down, the sterling barriers as strong as he could make them in a desperate attempt to protect his sanity. He recognized this place from his previous visit during first meeting in the Garden of Secrets, an encounter that seemed like a lifetime ago.
It was Xaul's mind.
The last time he had been there, Resheph had been in near-total control and Epsilon had helped Xaul fight down a demonic version of himself. In doing so, the two had forged a mental bond that sustained itself now, allowing this kind of communication to happen again. Now, Resheph was still caged. Instead, a far more deadly enemy was set before his friend. Xaul fought his past, and he was losing. The black-cloaked man stood a the peak of the highest stone spur, surrounded by a whirlwind of images. Conjured from deep in his memories by the name of his daughter, the scenes of death and desecration hissed and screamed like evil spirits as one by one they swooped down and plunged into Xaul's mind-self. Epsilon, floating disembodied above, flinched as Xaul screamed louder each time.
"Free me, esper." A voice clawed its way out the void and into Epsilon's ears. It was a voice that contained the bloodlust of a raging barbarian and the malicious glee of a maddened murderer in an abhorrent mix that hurt to listen to. Such was the voice of Resheph, that Xaul had heard every day for more than two centuries. "Free me, esper, and I can save him. He will die without aid, and I can give it to him. Free me."
Epsilon looked at the void, and his shielded eyes were full of loathing. He stared at a being who envisioned a primal force of human nature and would, if free from Xaul's control, hesitate for not an instant before consuming every sentient mind in the world. Resheph, a god who held more power than Epsilon could ever hope to attain. Epsilon stared at him and said in his coldest voice, "Shut up, Resheph."
He drew up his power, gathering it in his hands. A nimbus of silver-blue energy swirled between his palms, growing in brightness as the esper focused his psionics. The spark flashed and Epsilon held a greatsword formed entirely of silver power. He let out a battle cry, a wordless shriek of defiance, and swept the blade downwards toward the malicious vortex. A blast of blue light surged downward, the energy scattering the visions that trapped Xaul like so many leaves. Epsilon flew down to his friend, dispelling the weapon as he landed. The esper caught Xaul's limp form as he slumped to the stone below.
"Don't give up now, my friend. We still have two fights left." As the dream-world faded, its influence broken, Epsilon found himself crouched in the ash and helping Xaul to his feet. Both of them were singed from the heat of the ground and Epsilon's pants were scorched away from the knees down where he had been kneeling in coals. As the pair stood, the esper realized just how close their opponents had gotten. A massive winged form, hard to distinguish through the haze of smoke, was rapidly approaching over the treetops.
"And it looks like this one's about to start." He gestured, and with a brief effort of will the handgrip of Sentinel smacked into his gloved hand.
A soulless death's-head grin stretched Xaul's grey-black lips behind the dirty cloth, and his fingers stroked the hilt of Haingre, his right hand katar. "About to end, you mean," the man whispered, Resheph's ancient voice bleeding into his words.
Out of Character:
Ryondel looked upon the body of Honuse’s fallen comrade and felt a slight pang in his gut - not from any sense of loss, but from his body’s unhappy protest to being stabbed by a twelve-inch blade. He winced, as though the wound was still there and not completely healed; it would take more than that to kill him, as was his gift, though he had come to loathe it over the long millennia he had spent in an abstract existence. The roar of the forest fire left a dull ache in his ears, while the crackling... red-hot ash that left red welts where they connected with skin.
Luckily there was no wind; the only movement that was not fire came from the thick, putrid smog that rose into the air. Ryondel turned away from the fallen warrior, Till, and glanced at Honuse before raising his voice. "Give me one of your smaller blades for a second." The giant stood silent, his manner suggesting a brooding hostility; several long moments passed before Honuse withdrew a dagger from the sheath on his side, handing it over blade-first to the demon. Ryondel ignored the tension and pulled the bottom of his shirt in a downward motion, exposing more of the fabric from beneath the gleaming cuirass. Moving quickly, he cut a large piece off the bottom of his garment, before tying the long strip of cloth around his face, covering his nose and mouth. Handing the weapon back to Honuse, the Lawmaker took it with an even greater sense of hostility; as though the knife were no longer clean for use, the giant hurled it into the tops of a nearby tree. Instantly his mouth was filled with the scent of blood and sweat, but it sure beat the rank smell of smoke.
With the question of breath no longer relevant, Ryondel's attention focused upon the strangely clammy heat clinging to his skin. The heavy rain evaporated before ever reaching the ground, turning the jungle into a boiling pot; it was unlikely that even one such as himself could survive long in such a place. Then he saw Honuse shift and felt him stiffen; the colossal mountain of man – whom he could smell even through his own sweat, smoke, and blood – had turned to look at something off to his left. As Ryondel was on his right, he had to sidle forward slightly to peer at what Honuse had seen.
DarkStrike drew his blade, letting it hang cautiously at his side while the interlopers approached. While both appeared to be human, the fact that they strode through the conflagration proved a certain strength about their characters. He was about to say something when a tremendous roar filled the forest, accompanied by a painfully bright light. A bolt of lightning, attracted by the dagger now lodged into a thick bole to Ryondel's right, split the tree down the middle; one half fell to the side, while the other came to a halt between DarkStrike and the newcomers. The flames, fueled to even greater heights by the electricity, leapt hungrily into the air. Struggling to ignore the heat, Ryondel turned his gaze back to the strangers, hoping that the Norse barbarian at his side wasn't growing tired.
The pungent smell of burning vegetation filled Honuse Relaiyent's nose, blocking the faint odor of the approaching warriors; the shrieking of trapped animals and burning trees invaded his ears, blocking the sound of their footsteps. The smoke-filled expanse of his vision was blocked by the fiery boughs eclipsing his view, while the dying agony of the forest interfered with his recognition of their organic components. It was thus why they had reached such a close distance before the Lawmaker came to notice their presence, though that changed nothing save which tactic of many he would use.
With the majority of his senses fouled by the tumultuous clamor about him, there existed another aspect embraced almost singularly by the two pairs of combatants: metal. Though scattered bits of weaponry from a previous battle littered the forest, the largest concentrations were focused upon two independent points, to which the electricity in the giant's body ached and yearned. It longed to release itself, and the abomination was not keen upon hindering that moment. The clammy moisture about his skin evaporated, slain by the raw power of Thor's fury erupting from his pores; the charge found its way through the various holes gathered about the Lawmaker's armor, engulfing the soldier in a sheet of pure energy.
The humid air crackled around him, joining in the general frenzy of sound that bombarded the night air. Pulling the pair of longswords from his hips, Honuse Relaiyent spread his stance, leaving both arms to the side for stabilization. Taking a bare moment to release a flood of adrenaline into his system, the Elect forced a wisp of his electricity to detach itself, before reversing the polarity of its magnetic field. The sudden burst of propulsion sent the giant into the air; he rotated slightly forward, leading with his head while minor magnetic adjustments to his swords allowed basic steering towards the target. Smoke moved wildly about him as the reflections of fire caught the electricity encasing his body, increasing the visual intensity tenfold.
With silent focus he struck, rotating in midair to face the sky, bringing his swords together before his body even as he reversed the polarity of the electricity surrounding one. As the metal touched, a tremendous flash lit the night with a piercing whiteness above the glory of the sun. The weapons flew apart in opposite directions, trailing a line of furious sparks between them, centered upon Honuse Relaiyent's body as it sped past the two interlopers. With a tensing of stomach muscles the Lawmaker brought his feet up over his head, rotating again to plant his boots solidly in the burning underbrush. His soles had scarcely touched the earth before he was off again, springing forward with another boost of magnetic acceleration, closing the dozen feet between himself and his enemies as he flexed his fists, leading the charge with both armblades poised and ready.