Round one match between Aurelianus Drak'Shal & Philomel Serkena van der Aart.
Please see this thread for ROUND 1 setting information.
Match begins November 1st, 2014 at 12:01AM MST and closes November 22, 2014 at 11:59PM MST.
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Round one match between Aurelianus Drak'Shal & Philomel Serkena van der Aart.
Please see this thread for ROUND 1 setting information.
Match begins November 1st, 2014 at 12:01AM MST and closes November 22, 2014 at 11:59PM MST.
For once, Aurelianus Drak'shal was quiet. Pensive. The tiefling leaned casually against the hewn-log walls of the longhouse, a cigarette dangling limply between his scarred lips and a sheet of paper clutched in his white-knuckled fist. Sucking a lungful of bitter smoke, the half-demon read over Ulroké's missive once again despite the fact every word was committed to his impressive memory.
The scar tissue bisecting Aurelius' mouth twisted his lip into a sneer.
"Unnecessary bloodshed" is a pikin' understatement, he thought bitterly, taking the cigarette in his free hand and exhaling into the frigid mountain air. Salvar was cold at the best of times, but even more so out in the far reaches, where the Order of The Crimson Hand held their stronghold. The warlock's coat was buckled against the biting wind, his hat kept low on his horned brow. For the thousandth time since he'd set out for here, he wondered what Lye thought this would achieve. Did he really think that watching the high-ups in the faction beat the shit out of each other would somehow erase what he had done to them in Eiskalt? Training men to act autonomously was one thing (and it was something the Anarchist valued quite highly), but abandoning your men with no warning, no preparation for it... Aurelianus was no stranger to sacrificing lives - Hells, he'd probably done that more than the Master of The Order in his time.
But. Never. Without. Reason.
It offended his Anarchist credo. No-one loyal to your cause should be wasted on such a petty bloody affair. It was counter-intuitive. Death was a necessary thing more often than not, but not for one man's personal vendetta, and not if in the end, your goals weren't achieved. You could 'ave dealt with the Immortal yourself long before now, cutter. You didn't 'ave to drag us into a pikin' war if you knew we were there to be bloody wasted. Saved a lot of soddin' trouble for everyone. Better, you could 'ave lied to the berks and given 'em a better reason for the death and pain they went through. But instead, he had stood there and pointedly told them all that they hadn't been there to win. They had been a distraction. They had been there to bleed and burn and die.. all for the benefit of their erstwhile allies who had - surprise, surprise - turned on them as soon as the fallout started. Now, probably more than most, Aurelius could understand "losing" publicly to further some other goal - classic misdirection, after all, was one of his strong suits. But the plan had went to buggery, and Lye seemed to simply gloss over that fact. They were supposed to shift blame to Misery Business? Fine. But Zack Blaze had flipped that one around, and then pulled the age-old public repentance. Zacky-boy, the half-fiend thought with a half-grin, half-snarl, I'll be seein' you soon enough. Aurelianus had actually laughed long and hard when he heard about the cocky youth's "unveiling" of a Crimson Hand operative at the conference. Aurelius' covert agents weren't that sloppy, so either it was a cock-up on the part of one of the other Hands... or Misery Business had played everyone there in a great big bloody pantomime.
The Crimson Hand had supposedly poisoned the reputation of Jensen Ambrose; but in the resulting victory for Eiskalt and their Ixian backers, that fact was more or less lost in the cloud of sunshine and bloody rainbows that was the Ixian intervention in the conflict. Or in the case of the denizens of Eiskalt, lost in the vast damage done to their country.
He took another long draw on the cigarette, flicking the ash from the tip, and pushed himself off the longhouse.
He started pacing, muttering under his breath and streaming smoke from his nostrils. Every heavy boot-step crunched into the thick snow, and set the talismans, charms and buckles all over the plane-touched killer's frame rattling. Lye had stood there and told them their deaths meant nothing, their achievements meant nothing.. and the addle-coves were too piking stupid to realise it. They had actually cheered at his hollow praise.
The tiefling had left in disgust not long after.
Word had come to him - as it inevitably would, as Master of the spies and informants - of dissension in the ranks. He had talked with men under his own command who had voiced their dissatisfaction with the war. Aurelius hadn't silenced them; he was no tyrant. They were pissed off, and as far as the warlock was concerned, they had every right to be. And yet here he was. When he had received the missive, he had considered ignoring it. Lichensith could hardly order him to torture himself. Do that often enough as it is, he allowed himself a wry grin. But other events were transpiring, too good to miss. Despite his own misgivings about the reason behind this venture, the Cager was not going to miss the opportunity to tear his way through the rest of the hierarchy. It might even improve his demeanour somewhat.
"Master," a voice rang out over the courtyard, stirring Drak'shal from his reverie.
He looked up, eyes narrowing at the man standing nearby. He was one of the tiefling's own men. He wore leather armour obviously modelled loosely on the suit Aurelius wore, all straps and buckles, but without the razor-blade adornments. It was functional, however, and a pair of daggers hung at the man's hips. His face was hidden behind a fully enclosed leather mask, a simple slit for a mouth. It didn't even have eye-holes, but the human still managed to make his way around completely unhindered. Three more of the warlock's retinue stood behind the masked man, all similarly attired in revealing leather suits, despite the frigid temperatures.
"What is it, Gimmel?"
The lean human bowed his head, flicking a pink tongue out to lick around the mouth-slit briefly before answering. It was an odd habit, but even as Aurelius thought it, he realised his own forked tongue was sliding across his own fangs.
"It's time, Master."
He had tried to dissuade the assassins, whores and spies under his leadership from using such honorifics, but they continued anyway. Taking a final lungful of smoke before flicking the end away to land in the snow with a sharp hiss, he looked once more at the paper in his hands. Bluish smoke coiled from the corners of his mouth as he incinerated the message with a burst of Hellfire. Satisfied, he allowed his mind to turn to the long day ahead and marched inside the building, pushing through the crowds of assembled assassins. Most of them recognised him, and moved out of his way before his armour could "motivate" them to do so. The retinue fell in behind him, all of them silent, sensing Drak'shal's mood. They passed the bone throne, the tiefling glancing at it for a moment with an unreadable expression on his face, before the group finally emerged into the venue for the blood-sport to come. There were people there already, of course, but the Hands of The Word paid them no heed. Stopping in the doorway, the tiefling slowly unbuckled his coat. Removing it, ignoring the barbs and hooks on his armour tearing his battered duster, he threw it to Gimmel along with his capotain, displaying his quilled crest and the hydras inked across his alabaster scalp. The hewn-stone cavern was lit dimly by the baroque candle-holder hanging from the ceiling, every flicker of fire reflecting off of the sadistic razor-harness he wore. Final checks were done, tightening the occasional strap, checking and re-checking his arsenal, and finally.. finally, he was ready.
Turning to the other occupants of the room, tattooed arms spread wide in greeting, he gave them a mocking bow. Lips parted over the shark's teeth lining his maw. Aurelianus turned, scanning the room with the gaze of a hungry predator. He was eager to be about the killing now, his blood pumping through his veins like thunder. A low, wet growl rose in the back of the half-demon's throat, freeing itself from his mouth in a guttural snarl.
"Philomel ven der Aart! Front and centre, luv!"
Effortlessly, she yawned, stretching high into the air.
Yakob sat close by, quite still. His soft grey features were illuminated by the deep glow of the fire in a reverie of light. Hands folded on his lap he watched the faun-whore with dignified interest, blinking being his only movement.
Slowly, sleepily, she sat back down, right back into the wicker armchair. It creaked beneath her, groaning like an old cripple man who was being forced suddenly to walk. Opposite each other they occupied most of hearth of the small fire, warming their hands in that small room off the main hall. Being an old store room it was not much used these days; apart from keeping the more rusted of the Order's knives in. So quite happily the faun and the voidling had taken it over, warming their diminuitive friendship over a cup of hot mulled wine, right in the middle of bloody battles.
"Are you ready?" Philomel smiled, looking over the top of her ceramic mug. "Ready to take part in your first initial test of a true member of the Order?"
The small void elf furrowed his brow as he looked at her, but offered no answer beyond that. It caused the faun-whore, however, to still grin wider and leaning back.
"It is a good place to begin an ascent to power," she said, nestling her head back into the comfort of the wicker back. "Though it does mean I am constantly moving from place to place, I find myself quite at a comfort knowing there are rungs of the ladder ready to be ascended."
A light quick sneeze caught her attention again. Glancing back over to Yakob Philomel paused for a moment, then continued her musings.
"Do you think that power can be taken, or must it be granted? Can it be gained? And what, in the end, is power? Is it just another way to make us corrupted?"
Her musings cast her into a moment's silence. As her mind swam with a thousand thoughts of the future, of conditions, of alterations and change, the voidling made his move. He bent forwards to rest his forearms on his knees and he caught Philomel in a fixed stare. Carefully his mouth opened, showing the sharp spiky teeth within and the ruby red tongue before murmuring a few dark words.
"It-"
"Lady Nightingale?"
Attention caught, both half-goat and midget looked over, straight at the man before them. He seemed nervous, stood before a lady who spilt blood and captured hearts wherever she went - and before the silent dark-skinned killer she had introduced to the Order. Hands before him, he fiddled with his fingers and his voice jittered a little.
"Um ... I uh, your partner awaits?"
For a moment all she could do was stare at him, ultimately confused. Tilting her head to the side she thought for a moment before she completely figured out what he meant. Then it struck her that her 'partner' was in fact her 'sparring partner,' or in this place the very Master of her Order sector who was in all likelihood going to beat her within an inch of her life.
"Of course. My beautiful death."
She stood, then cricked her neck. Leaning down to pick up her sword from where it leant against the hearth, she stretched once more, and then struck a pose before Yakob.
"So do I look good enough to entertain?" she asked, showing off the new breastplate.
Though it added little protection apart from that over her heart, it did extentuate her female form. Dragonscale was also said to be the strongest, and it even withstood fire and some magical attacks (so the myth went), so at least part of her would survive in this blast. Yakob, however, seemed highly unimpressed and just folded his arms over his chest.
Good enough for me, came a reply.
Darling! Philomel rejoiced, twisting away for the final time from the voidling.
She let her hooves clatter loudly over the stonework as she made her way directly past the Order servant - that poor soul who had been sent to get her. Moving into the main hall she connected with Veridian's eyes and ears and was shown a rough layout of the room he stood in; the room they would chance to fight, but where they would likely lose.
A large round room was prepared for them. Two large cages were to the right hand side of where the fox stood in the doorway, and to the left were tables complete with food. An array of training dummies and archer's targets were stuffed towards the back, and not surprisingly there was enough cheap weapons to arm a small platoon. Standing directly opposite, glaring at the Earth Spirit was the fairly tall form of the half-demon, trying to seem all frightening with his mohawk tickling the sky.
He looks like a cockerel attempting to defend his harem, Philomel scoffed, grinning a little.
She threw her sword over her back, securing the leather straps as tight as they could go. Once done she checked all other equipment, including her shoulder guard and her steel gauntlets before taking the first step down the tunnel, towards the Inner Sanctum.
Maybe he is a chicken, Veridian suggested, flicking his tail back and forth to greet her entrance, though he kept his beady eyes on the tiefling, Maybe he is no more than a bird about to flee.
"Oh I shouldn't think so, dearest," she said out loud, finally coming to stand in front of Aurelianus Drak'Shal. "I shouldn't think so."
A loud clatter told her that the door was being shut, then firmly locked, behind them. But neither fox nor faun deemed it right to look around. Philomel only stood there, facing the man she part time worked for, and smiled gently, showing him her empty palms.
"Why don't we settle this like adults?" she asked, "And just fuck?"
There was no immediate answer to his shout. Aurelius marked the sod slipping out the door, obviously one of the menials gone to fetch his opponent. Sighing inwardly at the delay, the tiefling took to pacing the floor, his hobnailed boots thumping rhythmically on the stone underfoot, worn smooth by countless feet passing over it. With every step, the cleaver strapped to his right calf chimed against the profusion of barbs and blades adorning his armour. Likewise, the charms and talismans bound round his wrists rang like so many little bells. It was a wonder he ever managed to do anything stealthily.
He craned his neck from side to side, loosening up for the fight and made his way over to the food-laden tables. Picking up an apple, the half-breed turned and made his way back to the centre of the room. Masking his irritation at the time he could be cutting the faun up in being wasted, he tore into the apple, letting his razor-teeth slice through the soft flesh. A dribble of juice slithered down his chin just as his eyes alighted on the fox lurking near the entrance to the grand chamber. It took a few seconds for Aurelius to realise it was the same mangy little bastard that always seemed to be following the tree-hugging half-goat.
A wicked grin slid over his features as he tossed the rest of the apple aside and drew the many-pointed throwing knife from one of the loops at his belt. Running his tongue over his fangs again, Aurelianus gave the enchanted weapon a few experimental tosses into the air, letting the leather-wrapped handle slap back down into his palm. Perfect balance. He was just getting ready to draw back his arm and skewer the overgrown little rat when Philomel finally sauntered into the chamber, receiving her own round of applause from the sods viewing above.
She strolled right up to him, no hesitation, and at her attempt at a greeting, the tiefling couldn't help but laugh.
I like 'er, he thought as his laughter finally subsided. She's got girl balls.
It was an interesting proposition, he had to admit, and he let his consideration show clearly on his face. Despite her outlandish heritage.. no, because of it, the prospect of piking the faun was tantalising. Aurelius smirked, letting his eyes wander over Philomel. Her fur-coated legs put her above him in height, and her horns were much more prominent than the four crowning his own brow, but the rest of her form was unmistakably female. His eyes hovered for a split-second more on the armour covering her breasts before continuing to dance over the chit's body. But, as well as eye-banging his opponent, Aurelius was still cataloguing every other detail of note; weapons, armour, and anything else that might prove useful.
"Can't say I've ever shagged one of your kind before, luv," he admitted, his interest clear in his tone.
The warlock shrugged and casually tossed the throwing knife in his hand aside, letting it skitter across the stone floor to land off to the faun's left. He was unarmed now, and started pacing around to Philomel's right, not attempting to disguise the licentious gaze. She turned to follow him with her eyes, smart enough to know it was never a bright idea to let Aurelius out of your line of sight. Canny little cutter, he mused.
He finally came to a halt at her side, still keeping his distance somewhat, the soft candelight glimmering on every piercing, stud, buckle and blade. For the past month, in the lead-up to the tournament, Aurelius and Madison had been going through the ranks, trying to figure out who might prove useful in what was to follow within the Order. From what he knew of the self-titled Nightingale, however, her loyalty to Ulroké ran deep. Or at least, deeper than whatever loyalty she felt to the commander of her own sub-sect within the Order. It made her a relative unknown in the equation. Drak'shal had had few dealings with the infamously lascivious vixen, but he knew she was a good little soldier - every report on her actions in Eiskalt told him as much. Happy to use her body as a weapon as much as her blade, if not more so. She was resourceful, and from what the chant told, she had even managed to worm her way into the knickers of the Astarelle Set'roh. The tiefling idly filed that fact away to ask about later. He would enjoy the juicy details, no doubt.
"Alright, luv," he smiled, a wicked light gleaming in his serpentine eyes, "why not?"
He raised a hand, gesturing for her to come to him. Or at least, that was how it appeared to everyone present. But this was not the first woman to try and manipulate the half-breed with her body. And she was far from the most beautiful to have ever done so.
Behind Philomel now, the steel blade he had cast aside shot from the ground towards Aurelianus' out-stretched hand with the barest scratch of metal on stone..
Directly at the faun's back.
Can't 'ave a proper shag without a bit of foreplay first.
He stalked her with the steadiness of a patient hunting dog and the pride of a lion. Rounding her was similar to circling, and so the imagery of the stalking preadtor was all the more compelling. Few times had she actually watched the entirety of an animal hunt, but from what she knew it was much like that of a man slavering after a girl. Many times had she seen the change from rational being to beast in his hunt for power and dominace, from first sight to final conquest of her body. The shining look in the eyes, the expression of desire, the pounding heart of unquenchable need ... they followed her every day in the brothels, and it was what her dreams had been filled with since she was six years of age. Only lustful men she had seen there, and she had learnt to use her wiles to drag them deeper as they hunted, using that hunger for her own benefits. A hunger for fake love, and a hunger for meat - it was in essence the same thing. And therefore the Nightingale felt she had a secure basis of knowledge of what Aurelianus Drak'Shal was doing in his imitation of an intimidating predator.
Watching was the key. Keeping steady eye contact was perhaps the most important. Looking away could mean a sign of weakness, any glance away of the smallest degree would allow for a split second in which the enemy could strike. Defence was in making the hunter think that he could not move without you noticing, and to keep him wary, if not anxious even as he walked around the room.
As the half-demon took a step to the right, Philomel found herself doing the same. Her hooves clattered, clop, clop on the cobblestones, feeling nothing for now but the hardness of rock. The few metres she could detect without letting her concentration waver showed her bare floor for much of the space, with a loose stone perhaps two inches to the side of the doorway and the wall extending high above their heads. As Aurelianus began to garble a reply to her actually half-meant status, she contacted Veridian to where he lay still in wait in the depths of the shadow of the doorway.
Keep watch for him, love, she said, Where he might only have one pair of eyes, we have two. This man is not to be trusted under any circumstances.
Veridian flicked his tail, licking his black lips with a ruby red tongue, I was not planning on trusting him, Philomel.
Her lips flickered up into a smile at his comment, a smile which happened to co-incide with one of the tiefling's comments. His mouth closed, his eyes seemed to shine with an intrigued light. Philomel let him believe her grin was in response. Frantically for half a second her mind worked as she tried to remember what he had been saying. I offered him sex, and he was muttering about my speices. He said something about 'type' and then - ah yes -
"Why not?" the beast said, raising a hand slowly.
The faun-whore tilted her head to the side, blinking as she caught up to speed with reality. She longed to watch his hand, intrigued in the gesture it would make, but her sensabilities told her to keep the stare extending for as long as possible. Elegantly his long fingers curled in, as if gesturing ...
Movement. There was a loud sudden clatter and a woosh of air behind her. A womp as a light form landed on the ground along with a metallic object. A shine to her right came next, a glint of material as it whizzed past her, just milimetres from her shoulder, zooming right back into the hand of its owner.
Bam. Back to earth. The magic of the flirting moment ruined she drew her sword as rapidly as an artful archer pulls an arrow from his quiver. The white mythril worth hung in the air between faun and half demon, separating earth from fire. Every part of her was suddenly on guard, and she allowed only a small part of herself, not all, to contact Veridian.
What happened?
Knife behind you. He dropped it earlier. I saw, hit it out of the air.
Like death-strokes her eyes narrowed as she took a step back, preferring the company of the wall to this backstabbing bastard.
Keep your eyes on him and those blades, she said, Games are over, my love, this is now war.
Fury now raging in her and with the small ally of hers keeping watch over her perfect body, her eyes glimmered a savage silver. Ire laced her tongue as she spat at the tiefling, for some reason beyond her so mad and hateful that she had thrown away her chance of making this just a dance of spiteful sexual exploits. It could have been a fest, a mad raucous orgy, to teach those lords watching above what they should expect when asking people to willingly pit themselves into a death match. That was what she had wanted, that was what she had hoped for. And with the lord of pimps, or so he claimed to be with that diamond-tipped cane he carried - this half-demon was a terrible disappointment indeed.
"You bastard of low means," she roared, raising a single hoof, "You backstabber." The hoof hovered, energy rushing to it, collecting, pouring in like a waterful that could never end, "Literally!"
And she threw her body forwards, right onto that hoof. Flying through the air she pushed herself away from the wall and further to the centre of the room, and nearer him but all for sake. Landing heavily her hoof down she urged that energy away from her in a single magical blast, and the grace of Drys escaped her. In a roar of anger it ripped through the earth and the cobbles, ignited by her fury and passion, in a jagged but straight-hearted line towards the tiefling.
The knife returned to his palm disappointingly free of blood.
Aurelius grinned despite the failed attempt to end the fight quickly and cleanly. It wasn't often he extended a body that courtesy, and as he ran his tongue eagerly over his fangs he knew he wasn't going to offer it to the faun again.
She wants to play rough? Fine by me.
His serpentine eyes darted for a fraction of a second to the fox coiled behind the mongrel goat-spawn. If not for the vulpine interloper, the she-goat would have been bleeding out a kidney already. He was going to enjoy skinning the little bastard, he decided, before his attention was fully back on the fuming chit. She snarled and spat and cursed his foiled trickery, a curved sword dancing into her fist. Is she really that pikin' surprised? he mused, his own hand curling around the leather-bound handle of his blade. His other hand remained free, fingers curling like talons as he waited for the faun to make her move. The crowd on the almost transparent platform above rained down jeers and profanity, or cheered for their preferred champion. They heaved and brayed like animals, hungry for blood.
With his reputation, it was a foregone conclusion that Aurelianus hadn't made many friends outside the Hands of The Word. For their part, the leather-clad deviants under his banner showed their support by letting their lascivious natures take hold, razor caresses sliding over one another. As they had for every previous bout and as they would for every fight to follow, they vicariously lapped up the violence, storing it for to fuel their unnatural lusts later. The plane-touched killer could smell the sweat and adrenaline of the raucous crowd, as well as the faint coppery hint of blood spilled by the previous combatants. The atmosphere was electrifying. A shiver went up his spine.
The warlock almost let his attention waver from Philomel, and as soon as she started moving he chided himself mentally for his slip in concentration. If everything this day was going to go according to plan, it wouldn't do to let some little strumpet cut him to ribbons. She sailed towards him, like Nature's Wrath incarnate, hammering one cloven hoof against the worn stone floor. The rock split asunder at the impact, a jagged crack making a bee-line for the half-demon. His reflexes were nothing short of preternatural, but his momentary distraction had cost him - he took two loping strides towards Philomel, his left arm drawn back to hack at her with the curving blade, but he had started moving too late. Even as he kicked off from the ground to throw himself at his opponent, the ground rocked underfoot. He missed the crack by the merest whisper, sending his lithe form airborne.
But the violent quaking had put him off kilter, and Aurelius missed her by more than an arms breadth. More concerning was the angle his body had been tossed into, his boots almost level with his head.
With the speed he was moving at, he was past her before he could even think to try and attack. Aurelianus hit the ground harder than he would have liked, and had to roll with the impact to avoid a potential broken wrist. It was hardly what a body could consider graceful; he went down like a sack of potatoes, the jag-sharp barbs and blades screeching against the stone with kaleidoscopic sparks. The tiefling sprang to his feet like a whip-crack a heartbeat later, but three narrow gashes marred his pristine cheek where the blades on his own vambrace had nicked him. His throwing knife had been knocked from his hand, too. A dribble of inky blood slithered down to the half-breed's chin like a snake, spattering against the high collar of his armour. Black on black.
The ground was still trembling underfoot, but not as badly where he was now standing and the warlock was able to keep his hobnailed boots firmly planted. Evidently the Nightingale had learned a few new tricks since the last time he had encountered her.
"First blood to you, luv," he smirked, with an amicable nod.
But as the crowd above looked on, the half-breed decided he wasn't going to be outclassed by some jumped up, vain little addle-cove. He may not have had a weapon in his hand, but he was far from unarmed.
With a feral grin and a vicious gleam in his eye, Drak'shal threw both of his arms up, palms facing the faun and her pet. The tendons stood taut against his milk-white skin as he channeled his titanic willpower down the extended limbs. With a snarl that was drowned out by the unholy roar of Hellfire that followed, Aurelianus unleashed Shahab's Lash in twin gouts blacker than the soul he no longer had.
Directly at Philomel.
It was his fault after all.
A wicked grin appeared on the half-demon's face as she threw up the earthquake. The spirited man tried to dodge the splintered earth, or else attempted some pirhouette coupled with a sidestep in order to throw himself out of its course - but the quake was all too much for him. As he crumpled to the ground Philomel could not help but quirk up the side of her mouth in a mocking snigger, allowing those precious few moments of feeling victorious to overwhelm her.
Yet - the beast was mighty. Even though she stood three inches proudly taller than him his mohawk still tried hard to beat that. She stood her ground, hooves firmly planted, one still in front of the other in remnant of her party piece. As the earth ceased to tremble and he gained his balance, muttering some words in that guttral speech of his, she rocked back with energy. Using the elation at sight of his blood and the supreme force of willpower that dominated her systems, Philomel readied herself for any new onslaught, knowing now she had begun the dance of death and decay to send her to faunish hell.
Hell indeed. Aurelianus, that black-hearted devil, faced her with palms erect and suddenly summoned up such a wave of fire it would have consumed her in a matter of seconds. Yet - fire is always foreshadowed by heat, and as the hairs on her legs felt the rise, her reactions took over. Sychronised mentally as she was with the Earth Spirit Veridian knew exactly what she was doing before she did so. He bounded, right up and away from any of the flames' authority, as she sucked in her breath. The ground opened up like a well beneath her, sucking her right in. As she moved she grabbed the most eager dagger to hand, which happened to be the Lover.
Almost instantaneously, as the wicked Lash of Shahab flickered up to catch at her form, the faun-whore disappeared away down the rabbit hole. She came up, as instinctively planned, right up behind the tiefling. With keris dagger already in hand she flicked the trigger in the crossbar, her grin growing all the wider as she avoided burning to death. In half a second, as her own dear Master of the Word failed to see where she had gone in his whirling vortex furnance, her own flames danced. The Lover's waving, serpentine and elegant form flared up with a bright fire. Fire met fire as she swiftly aimed at the deliberate place where she had appeared facing - Aurelianus' back.
Stabbing down with the flaming, plynt knife.
There was no denying the smug satisfaction on Philomel's face. Aurelius could see it there, dripping from her crooked little smirk and twinkling in her eyes.
He let her bask in it. The cockier she got, the more careless she would be. And the more careless the faun was, the more likely Aurelius would have her bleeding out on the end of his blades before the hour was out. As Shahab's Lash erupted from his hands, the tiefling let his eyes narrow, sharpening his focus until his witch-sight sparked to life. The room paled, everything taking on washed-out hues. Except the living denizens of the chamber. Every body in the room shone like a beacon, surrounded by swirling colours of indescribable vibrancy.
The warlock adored watching souls shrivel under the white-hot caress of his Hellfire, almost as much as he loved watching the skin blacken and split, spilling hissing blood over charred flesh. His mouth watered as he looked to the faun chit..
But in a heartbeat, her flickering soul-light blinked out of existence.
Aurelianus' mouth curled into a sneer. Something was wrong. She wasn't in the dead-book yet, that much he knew. His invocations were powerful, but they could not simply wipe someone out of existence. The Hellfire was still roaring out of him, leaving the tiefling's gloves smouldering around the palms. The half-demon flicked his gaze around the chamber, looking for the fox. But even as his horned head turned, he caught a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision. A flash of light.
If he had stopped to think, he might have wound up in the dead-book himself - but a lifetime of dwelling in murderous back-alleys had honed the plane-touched killer's instincts to a razor-edge. He dropped his centre of gravity, ducking as he spun on one booted heel to meet the threat. Philomel was there, inexplicably, a flaming blade in her fist already descending on the irate tiefling. Any mere human might have been buggered right then and there, but the blood of Baator flowed through Drak'shal's veins. His mind and his body reacted so fast compared to normal men, that they moved like molasses in comparison. A fraction of a second was all it took for the wicked idea to curl its black talons around Aurelius' brain-box. She wanted to berate him for trying to knife her in the back? Fine. But to then try the same on him a few minutes later? Tsk tk luv, for shame.
Instead of moving to intercept the descending knife, he moved into the attack; swaying slightly aside at the hips, the warlock brought up his unarmoured right arm, presenting it to the attack. A magnanimous grin split his alabaster features as he willed his Pain Mirror into being.
The blade struck his arm, flaming metal passing through his flesh like it was butter. But the vindictive magicks of his invocation meant no wound appeared on him. His snow-white skin was left unmarred by burn or laceration. Instead, the Pain Mirror wormed into the faun, reflecting her attack's effects upon her own body.
"Pikin' hypocrite," he chuckled.
Out of the frying pan, into the red-hot, ten-times-heated, dragon-like fire.
The strike of her flaming dagger struck against the tiefling's arm as he turned in a spin of realisation. That hell-fire, the thing he called Shahab's Lash, died as he twisted around to meet his fate - and then he failed. The Lover went not to his back, nor to his solar-plexus, but straight to his bicep, where it buried deep, crusting the skin and burning deep until the pain was suddenly reversed.
Back-stabber indeed. As agony ripped up her own upper arm she found her teeth grinding together until their surfaces felt like cement. Instinctively she took a hoof step back, the dagger shying away from his ghostly snow skin, leaving no mark in its place, despite the deepness of the wound. Instead the injury was inflicted back at her, and she found herself straining to not scream, to not curse, and not to throw herself once more into the fray.
As she kept her jaws closed tight shut, and her dignity intact she staggered back a little, gaining enough will to flick the trigger once more on the keris dagger. The flames died, but her pain did not. Her arm flared up in a minor burn, red and raw as the muscles strained to deal with this cut of sorts. Opposite her the seeming victor just grinned with his shark-like teeth and let out a jeering laugh.
Something ... "hypocrite," he called her.
Her arm shook somewhat, but she still fought against the strain of yelling in pain by tightening the fist-hold on her dagger. Knuckles turned ice-white in a matter of seconds as she fought for the chance to retort. Hissing through her teeth for a moment, she seethed, before sucking in her breath and spitting back a garbled reply.
"Would you worry if I wasn't one?"
Her breath was short but mellow, and quickly, she swallowed, before pausing, then looking at him straight in the eyes, staring with intensity. Still he was amused, looking at her as if he could finish her off in seconds. Which, considering this moment in time, was not far from the truth.
Her heart hammered, but she managed to gather herself together enough to speak more naturally and mock his grin with one of her own.
"So, what do you say to that fucking?" the Nightingale breathlessly said.
Raising her white-fingered fist into the air, she gestured with the tip of the Lover to the ceiling and those above them, watching them like fat gods high on ambrosia and drunk on wine. With it, she hoped this half-demon would catch her drift and understand that she did not find this entire set up, and the idea of the death matches delightful in the slightest. In her mind, if they wanted entertainment, she was willing to give to them in full naked joy.
Her other, uninjured, hand, pulled at the knot holding her fabric belt together. The material folds, with no weapons now in them, fell down, letting her naked bottom, minus the natural fur, proclaim itself free.
Her voice simmered down to a whisper, eager for only him to hear, "I got first blood, you got first burn. Now they have had their violence, why not give these fucking bastards a theatrical excitement to really get their desires hot for."
For a while the tiefling just stared at her, making no move to attack of defend himself. He just looked vaguely entertained at the way she undressed her underside, at the way she held her burnt arm, at the way she tried to disuade him from just beating her down into a pulp.
"We have fought, after all," she said, still quiet so only they would know this erotic plan, "We have given them what they want ... Why not show them how to dance? Matriarch whore and ego-tistical pimp ... what better combination?"
At those words Aurelianus let out a chuckle. His armour chinked slightly, those layers and layers of blades on his armour clashing against each other like the sounds of doormice with steel paws, scuttling through the walls. A slight eyebrow raised, but mostly the maniac anarchist looked throughly amused at her offer.
And then he spoke.
"Why not?" he said.
And a new battle began.
(( All bunnying approved. ))
Thread Title: Thread Title
Judgment Type: Condensed Rubric
Participants: Aurelianus Drak'shal vs Philomel
Plot: 19 --- 17
Aure: Story - 6; Setting - 5; Pacnig - 8
Philomel: Story -5; Setting - 5; Pacing - 7
Both writers crafted a quick tale that showed two marginally allied fighters battling it out. It wasn't a deep story, but held enough intrigue and possibilities that it kept the reader interested, which is sufficient for a battle.
There was good effort to describe setting, but after the opening posts, it was basically forgotten, so it didn't hold the weight to draw the reader into the environment.
Aure wins out here due to really connecting the fight with past threads and events, whereas Philomel let it be more of a random snippet. Also, notes mentioned below had a negative effect on Philomel's pacing, which played another part in Aure's win.
Character: 23 --- 21
Aure: Communication - 8; Action - 7; Persona - 8
Philomel: Communication - 7; Action -7; Persona - 7
Both writers did a great job in portraying their characters' personas. Action was well used, and little details really added to the depth of everything they did.
While communication was well-written by both participants, Aure wins out here due to his use of introspection to really bring the tiefling to life through the narrative.
Emotions were well-played out, but Philomel tended to tell the reader, rather than show them, which was something Aure did very well.
Prose: 23 --- 19
Aure: Mechanics - 8; Clarity - 7; Technique - 8
Philomel: Mechanics - 5; Clarity - 6; Technique - 8
Aure's writing was devoid of any obvious spelling and grammatical errors, was very clear and made use of subtle imagery to really add colour to his writing.
Philomel, while possessing a definite comfort and flair within her own style lost out due to several grammatical errors, such as missing commas, a lack of clarity and the fact that some of the imagery used felt a little heavy-handed and therefore forced upon the reader. As mentioned above, parts of this also affected the pacing of her writing.
Wildcard: 8 --- 8
This was a thoroughly enjoyable thread that was a pleasure to read. I really enjoyed the interaction between Aure and Philomel. One of my favourite lines in the whole thread was Philomel describing Aure's mohawk as 'tickling the air' - I thought it was great. Well done, the pair of you!
Final Score: 73---65
Aurelianus Drak'shal Wins!:
- 2100 EXP!
- 59 GP!
Congratulations!
Philomel Receives:
- 525 EXP!
- 30 GP!
Out of Character: