This battle will end in two weeks. Best of luck to all four competitors.
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This battle will end in two weeks. Best of luck to all four competitors.
"Madison, when you're done dusting the upper shelves, I'm going to need you to alphabetize and put away the returns."
"Fine."
"Oh, and when you're done with that, I want you to put the overdue book notices in the post."
"Whatever."
"And then after that--"
"Look, I'm only one person! Why don't you get Nicholas off his lazy ass and make him do something for once?"
My thin, angry shout echoed through the nearly empty library. Mr. Wilkensen, the curator of the Radasanth Grand Library, poked his round face from the doorway to his office. His brows were knit and his cheeks red. He never liked it when I pointed out the blatantly obvious; that his son, a volunteer like me, didn't do a damn thing around the library but complain and waste oxygen.
"Because," the older man curtly replied, "I asked him to wipe down the tables and sweep the floor yesterday."
Whatever, I thought to myself as I glared at the blond teenager who was fast asleep at the front desk. A small trickle of drool poured out of his mouth, darkening a small spot on his red shirt. Anyone with a working pair of eyes could see that the floors and table were still in a less than desirable state; a thin layer of dust and grime covered nearly every polished wooden surface in the building. If you looked closely enough, you could follow the dried, flaky mud prints of dozens of people that visited the library over the past week.
I sighed heavily and set the feather duster on top of the bookshelf I was working on, then climbed down the ladder. "Where do you think you're going," Mr. Wilkensen demanded, his head tilted slightly.
The echoing clicks of my heels against the heavy oak floor almost drowned out my own response.
"I'm taking my lunch now, unless you want me to spend five minutes dusting and disinfecting my sandwich first." I reached behind the counter of the front desk, taking care to nudge Nicholas awake with my elbow as I grabbed my satchel. I ignored the curator's rude protests as I threw open the heavy glass doors and stepped out into the open streets of Radasanth.
As the sun bore down from above, the noontime sun washing everything in a wave of light, I noted that the usually bustling streets of the city's market district were unusually barren and silent. The reason, as I soon guessed, sat in front of me: A giant hawk, easily teen feet tall, stood in the middle of the road. Its head was tilted slightly as it surveyed me, watching to see with its beady black eyes if I would make a move.
I stood on the stoop of the library, frozen. I didn't know what to do--sensing my unease, the hawk hunched down to eye level. Its beak opened and an unearthly screech pierced the air. I panicked. Before I could turn around and get back into the library, the hawk took to the air, grasping my in its talons and taking to the skies, nearly smashing me against a few buildings in the process.
***
Mt. Erebus. The once dormant volcano nestled deep within the Jagged Mountains of Corone was beginning to show signs of activity once more. Erebus was by no means the tallest feature in the mountain range, but it was one of the most fearsome. Every now and then, a small cloud of steam and ash would escape through a fissure and slowly rise into the sky, scaring the living daylights out of any of the local hermits and scattered nomad villages. At the peak sat a crater that was roughly seven hundred meters wide that slanted down at a decent angle into a lake of boiling, writhing magma; a lake that was biding its time until the next big eruption.
Circling the rim of the crater were eight towering stone structures. Enormous ropes bound to the pillars held up eight wooden suspension bridges--four roughly thirty feet over another layer of four. Each of the bridges intersected over the middle of the crater; making them arranged in such a fashion that, when seen from one of the transport hawks from above, they looked like the spokes of one giant wheel.
How would I know? Well... I was one of the two people being unwittingly dragged here to beat the daylights out of two others. After I had calmed down from being hastily snatched up by the hawk, I remembered that today was the day that I was supposed to participate in some sort of tournament. My teammate was a very dangerous woman merely known as Witchblade. We were representing the organization known as Cipher Nex. Originally, I objected to being included in this little ego-stroking tournament, but Christopher Knighton was quick to recall a little favor I owed him. Dirty son of a bitch he was for reminding me of the spot of trouble he got me out of... I would've never imagined that I'd be taking orders from someone who was nothing more than a tavern chef that had some serious megalomania issues.
The giant hawk gave and ear-piercing screech as it flew through the sky, gripping my arms in its talons as we drew closer to the volcano that served as the arena. I could feel the bird of prey's talons pinch me as the wind whipped through my hair and against my face. I had to keep my eyes shut most of the time, lest I wanted tears to streak my eyeshadow before the match.
I could feel the hawk making a circling descent over the rim of the volcanic crater. After a few seconds, it slowed to a stop and released its iron grip on my arms before flying off. I quickly massaged my arms, trying to jump start the circulation again while willing away the sharp pains of the hawk's talons. Now that I was actually here, I took a better look. The bridges themselves were a good five or six feet wide, but some of the planks looked like they were rotted and would give way with the least amount of pressure.
Great, as if I didn't have enough to worry about.
Also, I noticed that stairways were carved into the side of the rock; spiraling staircases that led to the lower bridges. Extra sets of ropes traveled between the stone pillars and the lower layer of bridges, giving them the support they needed. I could feel the intense heat rising from the lava. The lower inside slopes glowed orange and red.
I drew a deep breath as I took a step onto the closest bridge. The plank creaked underneath my weight (hah!), and I immediately latched onto the shoulder-high ropes that served as makeshift railings. Swaying dangerously over the massive pool of death, I froze until the bridge stopped moving. I took another cautious step forward. Once I was one hundred percent positive I wasn't going to fall, I took one more. Then another. And another. I had made it a third of the way over the crater when I was confident enough to let go of the ropes.
It's best to get used to it now, I told myself as I slowly made my way to the other side of the bridge. I was going to avoid fighting on the bridges if at all possible. The heat emanating from the lava below formed a thin layer of sweat across my face--oh, how I wished that I would've worn my blouse and jeans instead of this cursed dress. But then again, my casual clothes didn't offer nearly as much protection as my vlince dress and hard leather corset.
Off in the distance, I could hear the echoing screeches of the other birds of prey as they brought the other three competitors to the arena.
Vigo sipped at the hot mug in hand, letting the warm acrid coffee sooth his throat. His face contorted at the taste, but it was a flavor he relished. The café was quiet, the streets nearly empty, leaving the dour faced halfling to his solitary business. Soft rays of sunlight lit the thin winding streets, glancing off his back, but warming him very little. Every exhale issued a small thin cloud, the warm breath and cool air clashing. The sorcerer shifted his metal chair further under the large umbrella providing shade, letting the iron legs rake loudly against the cobblestone.
Outside against the wall Vigo sat reading over a small piece of paper that had been slipped under his door, acknowledging him as a member of Vice. He shook his head at it, disgruntled. By itself it would have been splendid news for the dirge mage, being a macabre fellow with little more incentive to carry on than greed. Vice carried with it the names of Max Dirks and Zephyriah Ablione, too the strange little fellow Jacob who Vigo knew personally. However, the letter bore ill news, placing him into some asinine war against ‘clans’ of Althanas.
“Jacob,” he said as he turned around. But the boy was nowhere to be seen. He had been there but minutes before, dawdling around, talking to the serving woman off to the side. Without anyone else in the streets for a good minute, he would have been able to assuredly take her off to some corner and do… whatever sick thing it was he did. “Silly child, it’s like fucking babysitting…” he spat. “He’s part of this whole bullshit too though, so he better come back soon so I can tell him to expect it.”
The dirge mage took the last sip from his small mug, finishing it and taking in the blunt flavor of unrefined and unsweetened beans. He stood from his small chair, tossing on his coat but not closing it and picking up his cane. The damned child had been gone for too long and the sorcerer had news to deliver, people to see, and a plan to devise. Vigo took no more than five steps into the street, looking both ways for signs of his curious companion. Instead he saw the light traffic that had come and gone all morning, women with baskets, men carrying their wares to the Bazaar, but no hunched insane human.
Without notice the immense eagle had swooped into the streets, clenching at the shoulders of the sorcerer and veering sharply into the air. To the cries of fear and the calls for guards Vigo was forced to do little more than grip as tightly as he could to his cane and wonder as the madness of it all. He could only assume that the giant ugly bird was meant as a transport for the clan war and not simply taking him to its nest for food. The thought of being eaten - after a battle with the ungainly disproportionate hatchlings - had crossed his mind more than once throughout the trip. It was not until the peak of the volcanic hill took up the brunt of his vision that he realized he was not to be food.
~X~
“Fucking bothersome war…”
The words were spoken to no one in particular, and yet meant for anyone that could hear the young half-elf bitch. His jade eyes were squinted shut against the rush of wind, barely able to make out the swift movement and blur of the scenery as it passed by. From what he could tell he was being transported through the Corone country side towards the Comb Mountains, no sea or bed of water had been present besides the Niema River. But the flight was unnerving for the normally cocksure sorcerer. He was high above the land below at an incredible speed, the claws of the overly large eagle were clutching at either shoulder, digging uncomfortably. For those that saw him approaching he would look like a martyr, arms outstretched, silky black hair drifting with the wind.
The tip of the mountain was shorn, flattened from a level view. The closer and higher the dirge mage rose the easier it was to see within, catching sight of the soon to be place of battle. It was a wide opening, Althanas’ depths threatening to explode and flow over the edges. The magma was chaotic, bubbles popping incessantly, yet there were constants that did not change. Streaking brown bridges were strung across the opening, sixteen from the center, connected to eight massive boulders set along the lip of opening. Vigo assumed eight that connected to form a single platform at the center. Beneath those was another set of bridges, further into the cavernous volcanic head, as if the competitors would willingly fight closer to the unrestrained lava.
Crossing the bridges slowly was a person, holding to the rope with both hands, as if fearing every step. Vigo wanted to laugh, but the eagle screeched instead. His amusement flashed to anger, and when the damned bird let him go he was more than happy to be free. However, even with the volcanic motion beneath him, he wondered at the presence of the bird. Who had commanded it to retrieve himself, and hopefully Jacob? The dirge mage knew of Max Dirks, but he nor any other members of Vice had the power to command birds. Was it his opponents? And why not just have the eagle drop them into the lava instead of fighting? Would that not affectively end the war for their side? The questions seemed logical for the ill conceived and ambiguous, though dramatic, entrance to what appeared to be an uninspired, first time Citadel battle.
The sorcerer stood across from the girl, the two the only present. Between them was the string of bridges, and the initial assumption of the halfling had been correct. He let his jade eyes linger on the little human girl across the way just long enough to smirk, wicked thoughts of what Jacob would do with her passing through his mind. With the end of his cane he tapped at the closest plank. It made a clunk noise, the sound of dead and hollow wood. Again he lifted his head and looked at the girl, a slick smile on his sharp featured face.
“They send a woman to kill, and leave us in a volcanic hole. What bullshit is this?” he mused. He had seen many women kill in the past, some affectively and amazingly well, but this one was wearing a dress…
Her skin was soft, almost silky. It was tan in color and both smelt and tasted of rose perfume. A pleasant scent, not such a pleasant taste. Jacob's tongue ran slowly up her neck, easing it's way into her ear. Her whimpering was soft, but audible; a clear indication of both her inexperience and her unfamiliarity with the pleasurable sensations that teased every nerve ending in her body. Jacob may have lost his mind, but it seemed as though he hadn't yet lost his ' touch '.
The young girl was named Mary. Or maybe it was Maria? It wasn't important. Jacob needed her for one thing, and one thing only. He needed to write. In order to write, he needed parchment. And of course, to make parchment, he needed skin, and her's was flawless.
Jacob thought back to his traveling companion for a moment, he had forgotten to tell Vigo of his intentions and no doubt left the half-elf wondering. They had been traveling together after Jacob had a run-in with a shape shifter that cost him his home in Radasanth. But that story is best saved for another time. As for right now, Jacob decided that Vigo would be fine wondering, as this was important. After the recent destruction of his home, the Mad Poet was all out of parchment, as well as quills and ink. He hadn't written anything in what seemed like an eternity, and it was starting to get to him. Already he had been lowered to speaking out of rhyme to this young woman in order to coax her into the secluded alley in which they stood, tangled in eachother's embrace. The words he forced out were neither lyrical nor beautiful. They were cheap, hollow. The Writing Writer had been reduced to small talk. He almost spat at the thought.
It was for this reason he hated her. Though he had just met her moments ago at a typical cafe, already he wanted to kill her. Her sparkling amber eyes were blind in that they could not see the madness in Jacob's own. Her full, pert lips, when gliding with Jacob's own could not taste the poison within his soul, the corrupting bile that drowned his very being in taint. And for that reason, he hated her. She was blind and stupid; nothing more than a pretty face and a voluptuous body. Eye candy. Worthless.
Jacob was but moments away from taking her head in both his hands and snapping her neck in one, swift motion. She would be dead, and Jacob could hide her beneath the garbage that sat nearby, hidden in the shade of the paralleling buildings. When the sun had set and all was clear he would move her into the room Jacob and his companion had rented. And then the fun would begin. But, as fate would have it, Jacob would be the only one at the mercy of an outside force in this alley.
A loud screech pierced Jacob's ears and cut deep into his head, forcing his hands away from the young girl and around his skull. His eyes shot upwards towards the source of the sound, but the sun obscured his vision, and all that could be seen was a looming, winged shadow, swooping down at the Mad Poet. Jacob's first instinct was to run, but it was too late for that. His outstretched leg was siezed by the winged phantom and he was lifted promptly into the air. The pale young man flipped and flailed about, tossing his arms in all directions, trying to free himself, but it was no use. The massive creature's grip was as a vice. There seemed to be no hope for escape.
In the distance, Jacob could hear the frightened screams of the young waitress, no doubt horrified by the unusual spectical. In this, Jacob found humor, but the quickly passing wind and his inverted position made it difficult to laugh. Though it was difficult to laugh, the Writer still felt somewhat...funny. He assumed that the blood was pooling in his brain, and that he would surely pass out within seconds. But before that happened, he flexed his abdomen and arched his torso forward in an attempt to see his arial predator. It was a bird. I giant bird. No doubt he was to be it's next meal. Jacob squirmed in protest, but his body felt weak, and his vision began to fade. Soon enough, he was off to dreamland, likely to awaken as a large, unsightly white spot on the face of the continent.
~V~
A loud thud, followed by an overall pain in Jacob's back quickly snapped him out of his slumber. He was having a dream about fertilizing soil, and becoming a tree with pink leaves. It was a very dull dream and he was glad to be rid of it. What he was not glad about was his rude awakening. The Mad Poet's eyes shot open and he quickly sprung to his feat, scanning the sky. He saw his former predator fleeing the scene, flapping it's wings arrogantly. Stupid bird. Jacob shook his fist and shouted in protest, cursing his kidnapper. Now that that was done with, he needed to find out where he had been taken.
Jacob turned to take a step and was greeted with a rather unexpected sight; the edge of a tiny bridge, and below, a boiling pool of magma. Only now did the intense heat wave radiating from below register in his brain. The Writer jumped back, startled, and fell hard on his rump. A volcano? He was in a fucking volcano! Why? Why would that damned feathered fiend leave him in a place like this?
Jacob's miniature panic attack subsided quickly when his eyes met with a familiar form just yards away. It seemed that his companion Vigo had also been abducted and brought to this over-sized oven. Quite a suspicious coincidence.
Jacob rose to his feet and waltzed over to Vigo's side. He motioned to speak, but stopped himself when he saw yet another figure. This one was unfamiliar. She was a woman, thin, somewhat tall for her build. She wore a purple dress and had hair as black as Jacob's own. She seemed just as nervous as Jacob had been. Perhaps she had been kidnapped aswell? If that was the case, why then did Vigo face off against her, rather than question her as to why they had been brought here? Something wasn't right. Jacob was missing a very large piece of the puzzle. He turned to Vigo and spoke quietly.
" Vigo my friend, put my thoughts at ease.
Why do we dangle here in this fiery trapeze?
Who is this woman? And what of those birds?
Please practice wisdom in your replying words. "
Heat lashed against her skin. Slamming into her like a hard slap and then slithering its way up and along her flesh like the unwelcomed touch of a rapist. It caressed every part of her that she didn’t want it to and never bothered to heed her commands. It made her feel uncomfortable and hotter than any day in Fallien ever could. Lucky for her that she had not brought her cloak with her. The heavy vlince material would only serve to get in her way during a battle and in this kind of setting it would not prove any help to her, enchanted or not. And what good would a chameleon enchantment do for her here in this boiling cesspool of liquid rock? What good would anything do for her here?
Though the Halfling found no remorse in agreeing to this little battle, this game, this tournament, though she did find herself slightly uninterested and irritated with the whole affair. She had not joined Cipher Nex merely to be tossed around at the whims of some little human and whatever he thought best of her and his precious group of ragtag mercenaries and killers. She had joined it to get away from the Gol’bron and The Black Hand, or The Red Hand as they were once more beginning to call themselves.
Trying to get back to their roots, my ass.
The Red Hand could no longer give her what she wanted, what she desired. So she had merely moved on before her deeds and her actions were discovered within that Clan and they forcibly removed her. To be tried as a murderer was not placed very high on her list of things to accomplish during her life. Not that anyone within that worthless sack of a village could properly stand up to her and even bring her down to a level where they could put her on trial. Then again, knowing Sorahn, he might just try to cleave her head from her shoulders before any kind of trial could even commence. If he could suddenly grow himself a set of fucking balls. The men in that little group of his were all special and needed and wanted, human or otherwise and he seemed to take it rather personally when they were killed. She supposed ripping the throats out of four of them and breaking the neck of the fifth would not go over so well to him. That was what murderers did though; he should have known that when he agreed to allow her inside, to drop the guards and lower the weapons and permit her to freely come and go as she pleased.
Was Cipher Nex any better a choice though? Was it any better a notion to change one mercenary clan for another? Christoph did not pretend to accept her like those in The Red Hand, he knew who she was, what she was and what she was capable of and he trusted her all the same. He trusted her when his back was ripped, torn and bleeding and needing a guard to watch it and protect it. But she didn’t know how she really felt about that. She didn’t really know how she felt about him. The others she could care less about. Even her chosen partner today.
Disgusting.
Arguing with Christoph had not changed his mind on the placement of her position in this tournament. He wanted her paired and fighting alongside some human named Madison Freebird, or some fucking shit like that. Cunt. Who had a last name like Freebird anyway? Did she plan on sprouting wings and taking off at any minute? Did she feel as free as the birds or was it just some fucking made up bullshit she came up with on the fly when she was twelve and ran away from mommy?
As the large Hawk closed the last few feet upon their chosen battleground, Witchblade tore her mind away from her thoughts and took a better look at what was around her. Dirt and rock and liquid death some feet below that. Indeed, one wrong move off the edge of any of these eight rope bridges would quickly end one’s participation in this battle. The Halfling could only hope that her partner was not afraid of heights.
The ropes were designed in a rather interesting manner. They were eight in total, four on each level of this playing field and what she estimated to be roughly thirty feet between them. Not a very easy distance to jump. The four ropes met in the middle, creating a slightly bigger and larger area for them to play out this little game of theirs. From the air, it looked like the wheel of a wagon. Each bridge carefully measured and set at exactly the same distance to form the eight spokes that held the outer shell together. Only this wasn’t a wheel and they weren’t precariously balancing themselves upon sturdy wood and careful engineering. They were being held up by rotten planks, dried from years of heat and soaked from years of rain and thick, fraying rope that was not long for this world.
The whole thing seemed overly dramatic to her and quite boring.
A simple setting would have sufficed and made the battle for more interesting. Now each competitor had to take into account the sway of the bridges and the heat rising from below them, their minds far more focused on what lay beneath them rather than in front. Still, she had to make due with what she was given.
Once she was no more than a few feet over the bridge, Witchblade released her tight grip upon the bird’s talons. It would be a cold day in hell before she let one of those things grasp her around the arms and cart her around. She didn’t trust it not to drop her. Her feet landed upon one of the boards, causing it to groan and creak with age, threatening to give out under her meagre weight made all the more heavier by the amount of weapons she carried. Glancing towards her partner—god the woman was wearing a fucking dress of all things—Witch began to move towards the centre of the battleground. There was no apprehension in her steps. Unlike the footfalls of her comrade, she felt no worry over the collapse of the bridge she currently resided upon.
Beside the woman, their two opponents had also made it here making her the last one to arrive. It appeared they were fighting a half elf and a rather strange looking human. The only weapon she could easily perceive upon the elf’s person was a cane, most likely hiding a sword within. He probably performed some kind of magic; most elves did, though in this kind of setting she wondered how intelligent it would be to unleash a magic attack. The human appeared to carry nothing on his person but his own clothes. Odd, she wondered exactly how he expected to fight her.
Turning her eyes towards her comrade in this battle, the Halfling formed a telepathic link between the two of them so that only she could hear her words.
“Any preference to which one you want to fight? Or, perhaps you would like to paint this bridge red together?”
Clunk. Creak. Clunk. Creak.
Step by step, I had made it across the bridge with no problems. While the rickety structure swayed over the boiling, churning lake of lava, none of the rotting wooden planks gave way; a fact that gave me a small boost of confidence. At least it was safe to walk across--but I was doubtful that it would stay in one piece against the impact of a falling combatant. I heaved out a heavy sigh and wiped a layer of sweat off my pale forehead. My heart felt like it was trying to push itself up my throat. Calm down, Maddy. You'll need to focus soon.
But despite the immense wave of heat coming from the maw of the mountain, the steel wire hidden underneath my dress sent a cool shiver down my spine as I moved away from the edge of the bridge; the thin strand lightly tickling the skin on my back. As the telltale beating of wings grew in intensity, I took a brief second to take in the sights. The towering peaks of the Jagged Mountains rose from the earth as far as the eye could see. Clumps of late autumn snow adorned the caps of some of the higher mountains. A crisp breeze weaved to and fro through the range--occasionally I had to brush my wayward bangs out of my eyes.
A screech from one of the birds of prey ripped through the air, shattering the serene orchestra of the breeze like a thin plane of glass. I turned around to see the giant bird roughly dropping off one of my opponents onto the rocky outcropping near the edge of the crater. He was a lean man; tall and a little bit darker than myself. He wore a copper-colored cape that fluttered wildly at the mercy of the winds. The man's features were also sharp and well-defined, as if they were molded by an artisan rather than left up to genetics to toy around with. Underneath his flowing mane of long, dark hair, I could see the pointed tips of his ears. Not quite elven; perhaps he was a halfling.
A slightly slanted set of leering eyes, the forest green orbs focused on me, told me quite a bit about the man himself. I caught a whiff of arrogance from him; a taste of false superiority that made the bile rise in my throat. There was no doubt in my mind that I appeared to be weak to him. Good, I thought to myself as I locked eyes with the man. That'll make my victory and your blood taste all the sweeter. The wind rattled one of my daggers as it rested behind me in its leather sheathe. It was as if the thin damascus beauty was claiming the man's throat, marking him for slow, painful, blood-soaked death.
Another cry came from the heavens. I looked up in time to see the third bird drop another figure. The second man fell gracefully from the talons of the bird, his back hitting the jagged slope hard and sending a few pebbles and stones rolling down the face of the mountain. I couldn't help but to chuckle as he quickly shot to his feet, looking around with panic all but tattooed onto his milky white forehead. My second opponent wore nothing but four scars across his sunken in, sickly chest and a pair of tattered blue jeans. His unkempt hair swayed as he looked around.
What struck me as odd was that this second guy talked to the first in rhymes. Although I could barely hear him, the wacko's voice was tainted with unease. His posture, his looks, the tone of his voice... There was no doubt in my mind that he was nothing more than a raving lunatic.
I was too busy sizing up the two men that I didn't notice that Witchblade, my teammate, had arrived. Her harsh, venomous voice echoed through my mind. I quickly glanced over to see my teammate walking calmly across the old bridge, towards the three of us. The glowing lava below cast an amber light off her otherwise pale skin, giving her a hellish appearance. I couldn't tell you that I fully trusted her as the second half of the team. There was something about her that irked me. The woman played the parts of a cold-blooded killer and a heartless bitch through and through, but after the stories that Christopher told me in private, I'd be damned if I didn't respect her.
Which brought me to my current situation. The telepath brought up a good point--which one of my opponents did I want to tear apart?
As Witchblade drew closer to the three of us, I decided to leave it up to chance. I placed both of my thin hands behind me, each within millimeters of the hilts of my daggers. I waited patiently... The wind whistled past as I waited for either of my hands to twitch--left for the psycho, right for the prick. Making the first move was never my sort of thing, but it didn't appear that either of the men in front of me cared to throw the first punch either.
Twitch.
In a flash of purple, I immediately took off towards the smug halfling, drawing my left dagger out of its sheathe and keeping my right hand glued to the hilt of my other toy. I bounded from rock to rock, playing a dangerous game with the ragged face of the mountain as my heels threatened to catch and trip me with every step I took. As I drew closer to the half elf, I feinted towards his teammate, at the same time ripped my right dagger out of its leather sheathe and thrust it at the shirtless freak, hoping to add a fifth line to his scarred chest.
You can have the halfling, I thought to myself as my dagger cut through the air, figuring that the woman I was unwittingly teamed with could pick up my thoughts.
The unique rhythmic tone of the younger man struck the halflings peaked ears. His whispered worries brought a cautious smile to his face, a genuine smile so rare. Instead of responding immediately the half-elf sorcerer shrugged aside his half open coat, the volcanic depths were more than enough to keep him warm. The heat danced across his body like a wayward hand, clenching and releasing in waves, flowing to and fro with the delicate winds. The churning lava popped and bubbled endlessly, adding to the noisy atmosphere.
“We have been accepted into the ranks of Vice my friend and we’re supposed to fight these two for the first services required by Max Dirks,” he responded in the softest of tones, trying to put the chaotic mind of his companion at ease. “Though your questions I can’t help with. I’m not sure myself why we weren’t just thrown into the lava instead of allowed to fight with these women…” The second of the two women drifted in lazily as they all had, by the wings of the oversized eagle. She was a decadent beauty draped in the most sinister of attire, all black of course.
Vigo almost laughed at the pair. One was wearing a dress, her hands held behind her back fitfully. The other’s mouth was sewn shut, and her dark dress somewhat cliché. Granted, he knew, himself and his companion were hardly threatening warriors by any means. The sorcerer placed a soft, manicured hand on the bare shoulder of the boy as he stepped up next to him. “Don’t fret though, if this war is going to take place, we’ll definitely be making a mark either way,” he continued as he tapped the cap of his cane on the rocks underfoot. “On a side note, what the fuck is wrong with that woman? Her mouth’s fucking sewn shut!”
He did laugh with that though, muttering about what a crazy bitch they were fighting. However, the laughter was silenced rather quickly. The dress wearing bitch jolted forward, skimming over the uneven rocky surface. She made her way along the lip of the edge, a quick assault despite the overly precarious perch they were waiting on.
Her dagger stretched out effortlessly; at first the sorcerer thought he was the target. Vigo raised his cane in defense, holding onto the sword handle side and waiting for the distance to close. Anyone who carried a cane was undoubtedly suspected of concealing a sword within it, but if the assumption was even second guessed the mage would keep it that way. Instead of letting the daggers edges bite towards him, however, they shifted at the last second towards his shirtless companion.
A toothy grin rose on his face. Being so close in proximity allowed him to assist, defend and attack with Jacob as opposed to splitting the battle into two separate single fights. It was the way the two worked better anyway. They had been around each other a lot in the past year, getting to know each other, getting into more trouble than Vigo could account for. Instinctively he attacked the dress wearing woman.
Holding his cane like a long club, he swung heavily for the side of her head. If she had truly dedicated herself to attacking Jacob her guard would be let down far more than intelligent towards the half-elf’s attack.
((I apologize, this cold is getting worse and it's going to be reflected in my writing.))
The closer she got the more the smell of the two men permeated the air. It rose above the dirt and the heat and the smell of turning, molten rock. It invaded her senses the way it always did when smells tainted the air. And it sickened her. If the smell of human filth coming off the shirtless man wasn’t bad enough, she had to deal with the mixed scent from the half elf. Elves always smelled odd to her, perhaps it was their innate magical abilities that made it so, or something that she couldn’t perceive but their trace was almost as indistinguishable as the smell of a rotting corpse. His was different though. Being only half of what one of his parents was his odour tainted and dirty, which wasn’t any less offensive to her nose.
She took a step off the bridge and moved closer behind her ally, her comrade and her sister in arms just for this one fight. The hard soles of her leather boots crunched down on the rough, brown and grey rocks, grinding them against one another in a symphony of sound that was grating to her ears. The ground along the side of the volcano was no more stable than the bridges themselves. Though it seemed solid and quite capable of holding up the fighters, every step they took created a shower of loose rock that broke away and travelled down into the glowing pit of magma. While upon the bridges they had to worry about them snapping and breaking under their weight, here they needed to concentrate on not slipping. One false move would send any one of them tumbling over the edge and towards a certain death that would quite possibly be rather excruciating.
As the words of the half elf carried to her ears, Witch couldn’t help but narrow her eyes upon him. The strings that held her lips together was a testy subject for her and one she appreciated not being brought up, especially by strangers that smugly stood upon the threshold of their own demise. Screw giving Madison the courtesy of first choice, she wanted the elf now, she wanted to enjoy wiping that smug look off his face as she ripped through the flesh of his neck and spilled his blood upon this rock. Before she could say anything though, her partner reacted.
She was nimble and quite good on the surface they were fighting on. Her small frame raced towards the two men with only one purpose on her mind, and it made the Halfling smirk. She waited as she felt her own muscles tense and pulse in anticipation of the battle to come. Her heart rate increased slightly and the blood pumping through her veins filled with that wonderful and natural drug called adrenaline. With the wide assortment of weapons upon her person, Witchblade found her wondering what best to use against the elf and what best suited this terrain. The Rot Slayer was quickly disregarded, it was too cumbersome and bulky and though it would serve to intimidate the two men it would do nothing more for her. She was going to have to use her melee weapons.
Daggers or Sais?
Madison’s movements brought her towards the half elf, making Witchblade growl low in her throat. She didn’t want to fight the shirtless human, he had an air of insanity about him and she wasn’t even the slightest bit interested in him. But then she saw the tension along her ally’s body change even before the motion began. She faked and brought forth her other dagger moving towards the crazed and deathly, pale skinned human, trying to slice him wide open. She’d even caught the thoughts of the woman, clearer than any words spoken aloud.
Perfect.
But then the elf began to move. His body turned towards the unprotected side of Madison and just as he was beginning to raise the weapon to strike her, Witchblade was on the move. It was dangerous to use her full speed on such unstable ground, but her sure steps led her toward the man without incident. Just as the long, thin cane he wielded approached the woman, the Halfling was there and the sound of clashing metal rang out throughout the silence. To anyone incapable of following her movements, it would seem like a blur as her body had shot from its stationary position and moved towards him. At the same time her hand had wrapped around the hilt of one of her daggers and pulled it from the sheath upon the small of her back. Then she’d thrust it forward and collided the blade with the side of his cane.
As the vibration of her attack ran down through her fingers, her hand and into her arm, the Halfling smirked.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk... I believe it is considered rude to attack a lady, Vigo.”
Then she tensed her arm and used her strength to shove the cane away from her. Her other hand did not remain idle either, it latched onto the handle of this dagger’s twin and pulled it from its hiding place. Hoping to give him little time to react and even less time to think, the Halfling brought her other hand around in a sweeping motion aimed low at his stomach. She wanted to spill his guts upon this battlefield, she wanted to kill him but slowly and mercilessly and watch as the pain filled his eyes before the darkness came for him.
The well-chosen words of the Mad Poet's half-breed companion served well to calm the sporadic twinges of confusion that tormented the broken mind of the former. Though Jacob had no idea what Vice was, or who Max Dirks was, he knew that he could trust Vigo. The two had been through many trials together, building an almost brotherly bond. Vigo was the one man Jacob truly trusted in this world, and his word was as gold. If Vigo trusted this, Max Dirks, then Jacob trusted him aswell.
As the Mad Poet pondered the reason behind his recruitment into Vice, a third arrival entered the inconveniently placed battle field. Her dark clothes, the sewn lips, Jacob recognized her. She had been one of the combatants in his recent Citadel battle. What an all-star match it had been. Unfortunately, Jacob had not seen her fight, as he had been pre-occupied with other opponents in that particular skirmish. It was in fact likely that she had not seen Jacob at all, as all her focus seemed to be locked on a lightening wielding mage.
Jacob's recollections were cut short when Vigo's comment met with the Writer's ear drums. A sinister chuckle and a toothy grin were a clear indicator of Jacob's thoughts on the peculiar facial situation of the newest arrival. He had been thinking the same thing all along, Vigo was simply the first to anounciate how strange it was that her lips were sewn shut. But that was how things were. Vigo usually took care of the verbalizations, unless ofcourse the situation called for poetry.
The woman's arched brow and narrow eyes hinted that she may have taken offense to Vigo's comment. A valuable piece of information to have. An opponent with an easily tested temper could also be easily distracted, and in a situation such as this, with death lurching behind every false step, a clear head could be the difference between victory and a considerable sunburn.
Just as Jacob's laughter faded, the other young woman, clad in purple, was on the move. Her footsteps were perfectly timed, almost mechanical. It appeared sure footing wouldn't be much of a concern for her, unless ofcourse the Mad Poet saw fit to share his madness with her. As she grew nearer, Jacob focused in on her forehead, seeing deep beyond the oily skin and the leaky pores, past the pink flesh and the crimson blood, past the ivory of her skull and finally, deep into her grey matter. There, deep within the many corridors of her mind, Jacob layed a tiny shard of the broken mirror that was his mind. With any luck, she would not notice the attack on her perceptions, and would continue fighting gimped. But Jacob was new at this whole ' attacking with the mind ' thing. He wasn't even sure if he did it right, but at least he was getting practice in.
As the purple woman grew close, she drifted towards Jacob's half-elven pal. The Mad Poet stood ready to defend his comrade, but at the last moment her focus was shifted from Jacob's partner, to Jacob himself. She had gotten very close, and it was difficult to react properly. Instead, Jacob acted out of instinct, simply moving his left leg leftward and allowing his torso to follow in a quick jerk. The Mad Poet managed to evade the initial strike, but his attacker was still close with a blade in hand. As quickly as he had reacted to her strike, Jacob brought his right arm down, palm spread, attempting to grab her blade arm and pull it downward. As his arm moved, so did his right leg. It skimmed across the graveled ground so that his shin could strike against her's. If all worked out as intended, she would be brought to the ashen ground.
Out of Character:
Out of Character:
As my feet found their way across the rocks and towards our opponents, I couldn't help but to feel as if something was... off. The closer I drew to the scrawny, shirtless man and his halfling teammate, the blurrier my eyesight got. The sun's rays intensified as they bounced off the earthly colors of the mountain, slowly eroding away the outlines of the figures before me. My head spun slowly... I almost felt like passing out. As I juked away from the halfling towards my intended target, I almost stumbled, having caught one of my heels on the edge of a rock.
What's happening to me..? I know I'm not drunk... Mr. Wilkensen would never let me sneak vodka into the library...
As I thrust my death-dealing damascus dagger forward, the blinding white blur of the man quickly moved to my right, leaving me cutting through nothing but thin air. Before I could spin around and make another pass with my other blade, I could feel his cold, steely grip around my wrist. Almost as if it were instinct, I commanded a length of my wire to come out from underneath the right sleeve of my dress. I focused my energy through the thin steel chord, guiding it swiftly through the air and around his own hand and arm, binding him to me. I grinned, baring my whites at the lunatic. Let's see you prance around now, fucker.
And then, I felt something brush against my shin--something hard that ended up taking my leg out from underneath me. For a brief second that seemed like an eternity at the same time, I was airborne; almost weightless. I could hear the telltale clanking of my daggers as they bounced against the rocks and ash-covered ground.
Earth to Madison: Prepare for impact in three... two...
THUD! I came back to earth with a sickening crunch. My frail frame bounced against the rough face of the mountain, jabbing into my skin in a hundred different places and knocking the wind out of me. I could feel a stream of warm, thick liquid begin to flow from my forehead--I lifted my eyes up to see a couple drops of blood carpeting the sharp edge of one of the loose stones that littered the ground. It was that moment that a sharp wave of pain shot through my skull. I clenched my teeth and tried not to scream. It felt like I was stabbed sideways in the forehead with a shard of metal fresh from the forge.
The good thing was, though, that my vision was slowly starting to clear up. Behind the crazed man, I could make out Witchblade's lithe figure as she was doing her part in the battle, deflecting the halfling's cane with one of her own blades while going in with the other for a quick kill. I drew a sharp breath in, trying desperately to extinguish the fire that burned in my chest.
I had to act fast, unless I wanted a boot to my spine. Feeling my right arm dangling in the air, I quickly spun around on the rocks so I faced the black-haired man. I drew my left hand back, drawing on my inner energy and focusing it in my palm. His hand bound tight by the wire to my wrist, I quickly pulled my right arm towards me, hopefully catching him off balance. I thrust my left hand forward, firing off the tightly-packed ball of kinetic energy at his windpipe, hoping to either disable him now or buy myself enough time to do it manually.