Presence of Mind (Mathias vs. Ataraxis)

Leader smiled, and shook her head. "Thanks, Mathias," she said. Her voice came from a face that was obscured by shadows, although her cheshire grin was plainly apparent, with sharp, white teeth glinting in the soft candelight that swelled up from a single point on her desk. She sat, drawn into a lounging position with her hooded head resting on her up-drawn palm. The tone of her voice was sly and calculating - smooth, like it was trying to convince Mathias of something other than her intent. But, the vandal knew that it was merely the default of her existence to be that way. She was, in truth, caring and compassionate, hidden underneath the very secretive and well-guarded exterior. That was what she had to be - cold and calculating. How else could anyone be the Leader of the Scara Scourge?

However, his knowledge of her good intentions did nothing to sooth his anger. "Now, let me tell you a gods damned something," Mathias shouted in protest. "I didn't sign up for this shit! Once my debts are paid - I'm done, do you got that? Done! Once Cruz is dead... once we've found him and once I've killed him... I am done with this."

His deep blue eyes were ablaze with a ferocity unprecedented in him. But, it couldn't be helped, Leader assured herself. He was under a lot of pressure, and the situation wasn't helping things. Mathias had become a Chapter - a lieutenant in the Scara Scourge, and he'd only taken up the mantle due to the circumstances. The former Chapter, Cruz, had betrayed the entire Scara Scourge, as well as the alliance they'd formed with several other crime organizations in the city. They had gathered in an effort to deal a crippling blow to the Blackhood Syndicate - newly arrived foreigner upstarts who indulged in things so horrifically unethical that even the elder and wizened criminal groups of Scara Brae would never think of having a hand in. But that was what had made them so dangerous, and so powerful. They gained a great deal of influence much faster than any group like them before - and they were much more methodical.

But Cruz, whom Mathias had looked up to like an older brother and a hero, had led them all into a trap. He had switched to what he perceived as the winning side, and he left his former comrades to die. The planeswalker had been kidnapped and forced into the slavery of a rather twisted and sadistic wizard, known as Morian. A lich, as a matter of fact, hailing from the lost continent of Antioch. And the youth had been used as gladiator and assassin, until he was rescued by his comrades in the Scourge.

And yet, even before that, Mathias had known a life as a fighter for hire and as a mere source of violent entertainment. In fact, that was how he had come into contact with the Scourge, having been a cage fighter in the Zirnden, earning money to eat and sleep and pay off his medical bills at the hospital, where he'd shown up, almost crippled and amnesic.

But now, this was where he came into use for the Scourge. He wasn't so much a source of fear in the Dajas Pagoda, as he was a source of outrage. He had been placed there as a hierarch, without any prior fighting experience there. Solely on the influence of Leader was he allowed to enter and do battle - but infamy was what they were hoping for. If Mathias could garner enough attention... then it was quite possible that his movements would start being noticed by the Blackhood Syndicate, and they would attack him. And that would draw out Cruz, and that would allow for the thing that the planeswalker desired most: vengeance.

~

Mathias opened the sliding door, a very thick white reed paper framed by mahogany wood that had been specially imported from Akashima, and stepped into his room, his feet finding comfort on the bamboo matting after he kicked off his boots and moved them to the side. He took in a deep breath - the smell of sweat and blood had soaked into it long before he'd ever gotten the chance to use it. However, arenas were able to be molded to the specific desire of its occupant, and Mathias had yet to reveal the true nature of his battlefield. It was an extension of his own abilities, with the whole place able to transcend the Firmament and become a part of another plane altogether. But that was, in and of itself, a situation that would only be activated by the desperation brought by combat. The other hierarchs, from what he had surmised, had much more practical arenas that had much more obvious applications. But, even then, he'd barely stopped to study any of them.

As a matter of fact, he'd yet to grow accustomed to the nature of the building and the people within it. He'd only spoken to a few of the monks, and he couldn't recall a single encounter with any of the other hierarchs. Despite the ranking and the rigidity of the Pagoda, he felt there wasn't much cohesion, or any sense of relation between anybody. It was more like a place of combative business than the Zirnden or the Citadel - much more formal, stuffed, and senseless. He felt no glory in his position as a Warrior - especially since it had been handed to him by the Scourge's influence. He wasn't here on his own particular will, or because of any real desire to fight. But it was his duty - and he knew he needed the training and the experience if he was going to fight Cruz... his vengeance was truly the sole driving goal of his existence. He felt it was his obligation as Chapter to vindicate his friends... the members of his cell in the Scara Scourge... especially Cleric. Her elder sister had trusted Cruz... had even loved him. And that had gotten her killed only months ago.

He took off his jacket and threw it towards a corner, and began stretching himself. He hoped that it would ease his tension and give him something else to think about, other than the millions of thoughts of revenge rushing through his head. It would be wise, he told himself, to think of the challenge you have today... rather than the challenge with Cruz... that hasn't been made yet.

With that on his mind, he silently resolved himself to maintaining his position as a Warrior in the Pagoda. To that end, he started thinking about what opponent he would have today, and what they would be like. Honestly, he'd been surprised by the variety and scope that those who would seek glory encompassed. It was highly unfathomable to even place some of the people he'd met into the title of "gladiator," and yet... there were those who were the most unlikely to fit that description that happened to fit it the best. He probably was one of them, as loathe as he was to admit it.

“Why?” Lillian repeated, eyes asquint and a hook in her brow; the registrar’s unwarranted question had taken her aback. Was it not enough to fill in a host of documents with information she would have rather brought along to the grave? And when did a customer’s motivation ever become a factor in such decisions? After all, those who oversaw the Dajas Pagoda were only glorified merchants of cheap death. Motives hardly mattered to such unethical businesses.

The sun flashed bright as it sank, and so she shielded her eyes before asking again. “Why do you ask why?”

“It’s a legitimate question,” the round woman replied as if offended, moss-green eyes peering from under thick-rimmed spectacles. Straightening the papers in her hands, she read from the top. “Lillian Marici Sesthal, age sixteen. Last occupation: librarian. Country of origin: Fallien? Gods have me, did a bleacher have his way with you?” She looked the girl from head to toe, finding none of the expected tan and all of the unexpected white, which only furthered her belief that this was a prank. “Ah, and here: you’ve challenged Mathias.”

The registrar smirked in triumph, as if the mere name was the be-all end-all of their little spat. Then again, its mention had summoned a wave of wonder from the whispering passersby, which gave clout to the woman’s argument, much to Lillian’s dismay. Blasted bystanders. Naturally, the reception desk had to be set outside the Pagoda, inviting onlookers to take interest in the challengers and start a citywide infection of hearsay. It was smart publicity, but Lillian could not condone being made the afternoon spotlight against her will. The girl was in fact so edgy she had come inches from ripping out the forms and walking away, dusting her hands.

But today, there would be no folding back in fear or shame. Lillian could not afford that anymore.

“Yes, Mathias. What of it? The warrior roster lists him as a seventeen-year-old. Seems to be a fair match.” Though an upstart in the establishment, this Mathias was a promising Warrior, or so the rumors said. If the gossips held true, then there was no doubt in her mind that he could help her with her problems. Not knowingly of course, but in Lillian’s eyes, that was the Pagoda’s only saving grace: the anonymity of motive. And motives, I have in spades.

“Ah yes, yes: a fine pairing. A match made in – oh, where was that again, I wonder?” She laughed, the skin beneath her chin as cheery as that of a walrus. “Oh, dearest, I can’t let you pay a hundred coins to meet a boy, even if he's as handsome as the posters make him out to be.” The registrar leaned close to Lillian’s ear, large breasts hanging over the desk as they fought against gravity and black taffeta, knocking over thin piles of empty forms here and there. When she spoke, her whispers were conniving. “Why don’t you come back on the seventh bell, tonight? I can sneak you into his lodgings for a mere fifth of the price.”

At that, Lillian smiled. Not her usual dollish grin, nor that constant beam of embarrassment she was known for. It was dark, it was grim, it was the harbinger smile. The evil eye of smiles. A swift flash of blue, like twirling glass; as a reflex, the heavyset woman sprang back onto her chair, the wood creaking painfully as she landed. The girl's dirk whisked down to stab the table and the reams of paper upon it with a wooden thud. Sudden winds rose as if summoned from the blade's edges, brisk and cutting. When they died away, the empty forms had been neatly slashed in half.

The librarian etched a corner smile, sly and cocksure until her eyes widened in shock, dulled by the shadow of guilt. The cloth on the registrar’s plump chest had been similarly sliced, purely by accident, revealing a rather… plunging cleavage. The girl looked away, clearing her throat with palpable unease. After removing the embedded weapon, she fished a Coronian Coin from her money pouch and gingerly set it on the reception desk. “So, which way?” The poor registrar squeaked and pointed to the doors while scrambling for shelter beneath the table, mortified by the uncomfortable chuckles of the passing crowd. “Well yes, I figured as much, but... alright, thank you. I’ll uh… be off, now.”

Tiptoeing away, Lillian headed for the entrance when she felt a sudden chill of danger, like a glacial arrow shot down her spine. Spinning on her heels, she scanned the surroundings, the red-bricked walls and dark alleys, the beech trees along the sidewalks and the shadows that they cast. The claw of fear around her heart loosened. Nothing. There was nothing else behind her, save for empty benches and a steady stream of faceless people. Faceless, one and all.

“Not yet, then,” she exhaled, eyes shut in relief as the pounding in her heart abated. It was fortunate; fear, after all, ever wore the face of familiarity.

~

It had been requested that she wait an hour, a small courtesy that would allow the Warrior to make his preparations. Rather than leaving the building for a pointless stroll down the streets, she bade her time with an idle study of the building’s interior. Whereas the Citadel was rough and antiquated with adobe walls, the Pagoda breathed a certain architectural freshness. Overhead floated a lofty marble ceiling, ribbed like a grand cathedral. Stylish friezes and architraves ran along these heights, carved with pageants of soldiers riding to war, fighting their epic battles, dying the warrior’s death.

All of that was supported by columns of white alabaster, shipped from the lands to the far east, in the belly of Kebiras. On the left walls were hints of the ergonomic yet culture-heavy designs of Corone, while on the right could be found the exotic slants, bulges and intricate arabesques so often seen on Fallien buildings. It was all a conceited effort to accommodate foreigners by bringing clashing cultures into a semblance of harmony, of unity and internationalism. But why even bother? The very purpose of the Pagoda was to invite open conflict, and so become the bloody theater of a thousand clashes and of a thousand deaths.

The long, brassy peal of a bell summoned her from her musings. Rays of pale tangerine now seeped in from the skylights, drawing upon the stone floors a crimson pathway for the girl to follow.

The image of foreboding was not lost upon the librarian.

One of the monks led her to a chipped door in the far back, its lintel stone etched with strange glyphs that even a scholar of her caliber could not recognize. When he was about to give her the spiel on the Pagoda's new and improved connotation of ‘death’ – likely the very same given in the Citadel - she stopped him with a courteous bow and simple words of gratitude. Saying no more, the man merely watched her with sedate interest as she vanished beyond the threshold.

The door closed behind with a slide, trapping Lillian in a room that, were she still acutely claustrophobic, would have spelled her doom. Mahogany besieged her like a slowly advancing army, yet she could fight the closing of the walls by seeing them for what they were, mere panels and wainscots. The small enclosure about the girl only induced mild discomfort now, though a whimper had caught in her throat when she noticed an utter lack of windows.

The ceiling here was plain and a few feet loftier than that of her old house, a mere hovel of sandstone now abandoned at the desert’s edge. The matting was simple and rough, yet it invested the floor with a rather homey quality. In short, this was a room of peace and quiet, of stoic pleasures and detachment. The room, perhaps, of a man who wished for simplicity in a world of complexities. Much like I do,she thought sadly, eyes turning to meet the arena's only other occupant.

Mathias had fine features, managing a balance of evident masculinity with an inherent, albeit subtle delicacy. The man had hair like windless wheat fields in a sunny afternoon, yet his eyes always kept her guessing with each step taken closer. Hazelnut, viridian, periwinkle blue; then of three, a blend of most handsome hue. Lillian was beginning to regret her choice, having fully expected an overzealous youth, arrogant and rude… not this young man who breathed of self-torture, a man who could have been her long-lost brother, had she not been born an only child.

Yet, as she watched him, a dire word rang across her mind, like warning echoes in the dead night. Anathema. An admonition from beyond, or worse, from within; though wary, she tried her best to pay it no mind. Seeing that the man was barefoot, she hurried to unlace her boots and set them close to the entrance. She made her way back with haste, tiptoeing on dainty little feet with a natural elegance to which she was oblivious.

“Good afternoon, Mathias,” she began, helplessly polite. She presumed herself thoughtful for reminding him of the time, as there was no point of reference in this world of isolation. “Since I already know your name, it’s only fair that you know mine.” Feeling skittish, she gave him a friendly wink, though the execution had been dreadfully awkward. She nervously rubbed toe to ankle, inadvertently bringing to light a set of small, faded scars upon her feet. “Um, sorry for, well, that. In any case, I’m Lillian Sesthal.”

The Cillu dirk slid from rope belt to left palm, the motion as fluid as water. From a pocket, her right hand produced a blade of pale blue metal, shaped like a serrated throwing dagger. “I have but one request,” she said, her voice suddenly grave. There was no conceit, no extravagance to her words, only an honesty so pleading it was disarming. “I beg of you, don’t pull any punches.”

Because, Lillian glumly added to herself, fingers bloodless as they tightened on the hilts, when they come, they surely won’t.

Mathias looked up from the floor as the door to his arena slid open, and in stepped a lass who couldn't have been much younger than himself. A desire to both frown and grin at the same time stopped his face from expressing anything at all. At first, he was disappointed in having to fight a girl - though he knew that he would do well to never underestimate any of his opponents. However, he still felt, with one look at her, that he would break her soft, porcelain features. Visions of his fists crushing her cheeks, of his knee smashing into her ribs... they flooded through him with such vigorous zest that he couldn't help but feel ashamed of himself for the spring-loaded trigger of his vile, sadistic imagination.

But the desire to smile came from the musing that... he had only fought women recently. Although he wasn't particularly sexist, there was a masculine sense of pride to him that could only make him feel like he was only "worthy," of feminine opponents. "I'm sorry," he said, putting up a boyish grin and taking a deep bow. "If I seemed surprised. I hope I avoid sounding narcissistic or egotistical, but I can't help but wonder why it seems that there are only women challenging me, lately," he said. "And especially such a lovely one, at that. But at any rate, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

With that he took a single step forward and drew his legs apart in a stance, with his left side showing more than his right. He put up his fists, and eyed the raven-tressed girl as she withdrew a dirk and throwing knives from her person. He mused to himself that she seemed swallowed by the vast emptiness of his arena - she was a small, mouse-like thing in a space filled by nothing but memories of combat and stale air. But as petite and youthful and naive as she may have seemed, he felt a rather heavy sense of self-assurance exuding from her.

He wondered how experienced she was in fighting, but he felt somewhat relaxed as he took her request under careful consideration and analysis. "Miss Sesthal, I hope I don't seem ignorant in asking this... but do you mean that quite literally? Because I'm afraid I've got no martial weapons, other than my body," he said, matter-of-factly. It was quite possible that he seemed humorless, or perhaps even a bit empty-headed, and that sort of false display would be something he unconsciously wove as a subtle advantage to himself.

At that moment, the planeswalker had established, firmly, two distinct hypotheses about the girl before him, who fully intended to be his opponent. Either she was a very brash and naive lass, who hadn't quite grasped what she was getting into... Or all the cute girls I meet seem to be violent and quite possibly psychotic in some aspect or another.

Regardless, he was going to play this safe and defensively. He had no wish to get in over his head quickly, and he wanted to gauge and feel the fight out. If it were to truly get underway, she'd have to attack first. He felt it was somewhat her responsibility and obligation, anyway, considering she was the challenger.

She could have just been witness to a scandal, what with the slack-jawed gape she gave him. When Mathias so innocently inquired about her request, the girl of sixteen had understood something else entirely, something lewd. That sly allusion to his body being a weapon, coupled with her initial demand, nay, plea of showing no restraint… the fires of shame smoldered beneath her cheeks, and there was no taming that fierce blush born of misunderstanding.

Lillian pulled the reins on her wild imagination, and not a moment too soon. The joke, she realized, was harmless in everything but its delivery; yet, by some twist in her soul or a bloom of teenage self-conceit, the librarian had labeled it as pornographic flirtation. After a vicious chiding to herself for even entertaining a thought so obscene, the girl felt no greater compulsion than to crawl into a hole and choke on a dry bite of dirt and pebbles.

He's not so self-tortured after all, she thought with a pout, gruffly eyeing the boy. The mask of red was draining from her face, a trade in for the softer dabs of rouge now on either side of her button-nose. When finally calmed, Lillian even managed to chuckle, a quaint half-smile dawning on her rosy lips. The embarrassment aside, she was glad that Mathias had a sense of humor, however faint or mocking: better a rude jester than a silent sulker, at the very least. Misery, she knew, could be so infectious, and how it loved its company.

“Well I certainly hope so!” Lillian answered at last, hiding her bashfulness behind a feint of mischief. “Else you’ll put yourself at even greater disadvantage. See, I'd rather you keep up.” Just a dash of lighthearted jest, but to ensure no unduly injury to his organ of pride, she gave the older boy another of her teasing winks. Much to her glee, this one she had nailed dead on the head.

That being said… Despite all of her bluster and bravado, Lillian knew full well she was the most heavily handicapped of the two. No doubt was Mathias wondering just how combat-worthy this lass of sixteen could possibly be, but given his earlier comments on women, Lillian had a fair hunch he was long past the point of underestimating members of the fairer sex – a pity, as there was not catching off guard a man with suspicions. Better yet, she had seen the hints of his musculature, the spring in his steps; everything about the man was proof to his claim. His body was a weapon, and it was by far sprier, stronger, and swifter than hers could ever wish to be.

In short, her worst nightmare… and Lillian was delighted, in that dark and brooding sort of way.

The librarian knew her future was one of strife, an era of conflict she could never hope to avoid. There was no embracing this vile notion, just as there was no refusing it. Like sheet lightning within the rumbling belly of a thundercloud, she had caught glimpses of the clashes that lay in the dark days ahead. Not in dreams or visions, nor in the stars and the cast of bones. No, she had seen it in the eyes of her hunters, of those who had sworn to steal her life, that gray night in the cold apathy of Salvar. They were nothing like prophets, but what they had shown her then was thicker than any wretched prophecy to have ever reached her ears.

In that meeting of gazes, that conjoining of souls, she had seen the promise of death.

Though their names and reasons were unknown to her, she knew these hunters would return to keep their vow, and when that time came the odds would be stacked against her very much like they were today. Hence, her dark delight. There was no longer any regret in her heart for choosing the Pagoda, any doubt in her mind for choosing Mathias, her unwitting savior. If she ever hoped to survive her own day of reckoning, then her first step would be to defeat the young warrior before her. Were she to succeed, then she would fight a Master, and should she somehow emerge victorious from that, she would challenge the strongest man this place had to offer - Teric Bloodrose, the Pagoda's Grandmaster. Only then... Only then would she know if she stood a fighting chance against her would-be murderers.

Alas, for now, all she could do was to live each day in constant fear of death... and to live each second in defiance of that fate.

Lillian, however, had no illusion that this ambitious ascent to the summit would be easy, nor did she have any certainty that she would even win her first battle. After all, Mathias seemed to be an adversary both mighty and valorous, and for that she was deeply grateful: win or lose, she held the certitude that fighting him could only make her stronger. And so, were she not so self-conscious, so modest and timid to a fault, were she not caged in old-fashioned values and a heaping swarm of inhibitions – were she drunk, she would kiss him.

But now, she would fight him. The blue-metal dagger slipped from her hand, clattering on the bamboo matting; yet, as she strode toward the warrior, it dragged behind. Its leash was a string, like a trail of ink from a sharpened quill. A flick of the wrist and the blade swung up, scything through the air in wide circles, spinning, ever spinning. Nine, eight… She was seven feet away when the instep of her foot caught the whooshing rope in its descent. Yield… and return. She kicked it, sent it flying. Like the soar of a blue sparrow, the dagger flew in a beeline for his heart.

Should he die on the first strike, should he dare die without putting up a fight, then she would never forgive him. Lillian was adamant on that. After all, Mathias had to save her first, and to save her, he would have to try and kill her.

To save her, he would have to fail.

Honestly, you can't fake or fabricate naivety of that scale. A briefly apparent and stupefied blush crossed Mathias' face as the crude nature of his inquiry became readily obvious to him, his shame and embarrassment not quite matching Lillian's, but still present all the same. He shrugged it off with a mischievous grin, scoffing at the girl's retort. In truth, however, it made him somewhat more relaxed and relieved that he had not offended her. He returned, in equal enthusiasm and cheerfulness, the gesture of the wink, and readied his fighting stance once more. He had felt eyes on him, sizing him up, and he knew that she was registering the curvature of his body, the density of his muscles, and the application of himself to his posture and handling.

He was calm, collected, and somewhat confident in himself - but he maintained a personal check to show no arrogance. Haughtiness and hubris were unbecoming of him, and he knew it would get him nowhere. As a gladiator, he was a very poor man of show. As a combatant, however, those who understood the concepts of honor and chivalry would certainly appreciate his courtesy and formality.

However, he wished he could call Lysander to his hands... summoning forth his magic alter-ego of a sword would do well in positioning himself on much more even ground with this girl, and many of his other opponents who wielded actual weapons. He couldn't expect everyone... or even anyone, really, to fight him in hand to hand combat. But that's what he'd promised, and that was something that Leader had found particularly interesting about him. She had surmised that, perhaps that's what it might take to draw the Syndicate's assassins out from the shadows.

For a brief moment, but only before she started to swing her webbed string-dagger around, Lillian reminded him of Cleric. Immediately, he stopped the tension of his footing and looked at her with, noticing a very peculiar similarity ; the withdrawn way of moving about... the awkwardness of her manner, and the overall mouse-like and bookworm quality to her. Mannerisms aside, the comparisons stopped there, but it was something that put Mathias off guard. As Lillian closed the distance between them, the vandal cursed himself for faltering, and put his arm up in reaction. The string attached to the dagger wrapped around his wrist, once, and the blade cut clean and, slicing a valley through the skin of his right pectoral, half an inch deep. Catching that string on his wrist was what had, in a stroke of luck, saved him from deeper wounding, and for that, Mathias thanked himself.

And so it begins, he thought. He took in a deep breath, and closed his eyes, moving forward, toward his opponent to meet her head on. But as he did so, he suddenly dissolved into nothingness.

The planeswalker pushed his body and soul to another plane, removing himself from the Firmament where his Pagoda arena was located. For a brief second, he remained there, free from the pull of her dagger-tail on his arm. At the resolution of his planesflash, he suddenly was whisked back into substance and shape, standing three feet from Lillian's position. Mathias dashed forward, swinging his right fist towards her head. I apologize, he said to her, silently in his mind. For breaking my promise, and underestimating you so soon into the fight.

Out of Character:

Just a question about the bamboo matting: does it look like this, this or this?

And a cut is all it takes.

Lillian drew no pleasure in dealing that horrible wound, in seeing the spray of blood mist from his torso. Once, the feel of cutting flesh would have repulsed her and she would have run away thinking of cranberry juice as a coping mechanism. Today, blood was blood, and to draw it was sometimes necessary for survival.

Unlike so many before her, however, she had not fallen into the trap of necessity. The first wounding could be frightening, and the first kill even more so. Yet with the second came familiarity, and with the third, habit. Bliss was often the final stage, and those who killed in bliss were wont to savor the moment, even prolong it. Lillian did no such thing.

Lillian stayed efficient. A cut was all it took. Perhaps not to kill, but to ensure its inevitability. The dagger at the end of her rope dart, the Dvaita, was a wonder of blue steel, of prevalida: serrated to draw more blood, whetted to a perfectly keen edge, this tool was forged with the goal of dispatching quickly with fewer strokes in mind. That it was further invested with arcane powers only made its efficiency explode; as of this very moment, surges of chaos were flowing through Mathias’ veins, spreading in poisonous bursts to enfeeble the warrior. There would soon be light-headedness, then a dulling of senses. Had he any preternatural abilities of his own, their flow might even be disrupted.

She had tested it on herself, once. The subsequent backfiring of her magic had been catastrophic. And then it made her purge her stomach.

Just as she was about to strike him from afar with the glass dirk in her off-hand, the boy’s body began to falter, like a silhouette in the dying flicker of a candle. For a moment the wrap of rope around his ghost forearm seemed to hover, then the next it dropped down to the wood matting in a clunk, limp as a worm. Mathias… had vanished.

For a fraction of a second, her thoughts were as a storm inside a letter box, unable to fixate on any single streamline. That, for one, surely had to count as a preternatural ability – and a fairly operative one at that, which meant her dagger had not cut deep or long enough. And this was no invisibility, but some sort of dabbling with interlacing or superimposed dimensions, or else the rope would not have slumped. But oh, the astonishment! If she were right, Mathias would be the second adept of plane-shifting she had ever met. If she could just ask...

No, no, no! Focus. The arena returned to her mind, redwood walls plunging back into view. The floor felt rough and crisp under her bare feet, and the ferrous stench of his blood was vivid in her nose. A backward lash of the arm and the dagger flew to her, yet she did not catch it. Three hasty steps back and she pivoted round, letting the Dvaita twirl wide about her body as a slicing shield. She would not let him close: her whole strategy depended on keeping the warrior at a distance, on dealing as much damage as she could without being hit. Damn you, Mathias. Reappear! “Before the string becomes too…”

“… short.” Alas, too late. The shadowy rope was mostly a taut coil around her back and left forearm, now. Mathias was a sudden apparition, like a specter finding its flesh at long last, standing a mere foot out of reach from the dagger's shortening arc. His readied fist sailed through the air, seemingly with enough force to crack her skull open. Dismay in her eyes, Lillian felt like giving up.

And it seemed like she did. With a forward lean of the left shoulder, she put her face in the path of the knuckled cannonball. The strike made her shudder, but by either a strike of luck or a calculated risk, the punch had connected at an angle between cheek and chin. Most of the force had glanced off, though her neck almost snapped as it jerked to the side. Despite the jaw-wrecking pain, however, Lillian smirked.

She had given up, but not on the battle. No, she had given up on leaving it unscathed.

The coil of string around her body vanished into black smokes; they were but conjurings of web, made solid by her sorcery. Just then, the Dvaita came into view from behind her lurched shoulder. No longer tied back, freed from its revolution, it shot forth to meet his face, throat or outstretched shoulder. The aim had been off and she was unsure which, but she felt that the blade might just strike all the same.

Like a scorpion’s tail, eager to dispense its venom one more time.

Out of Character:

It looks like #3

Mathias was no stranger to agony, and he had certainly developed something of a resistance to the actualities of pain. He could ignore and push his limits to the very brink of physical capacity, but it was too often that he did so, and in turn, slowly destroyed himself. He had a disregard for his physical well-being when he had a goal in sight, and when he was so close to grasping his fingers around it, he could think of nothing else. It was this sort of drive that led him to do, not his best, but his most absolute in everything he ever did. But at the same time, it was also a flaw that caused him to be blind and oblivious to anything outside of the narrow scope of his vision.

The planeswalker had thought nothing of the dagger that had struck him - he had not noticed anything about the poison that was seeping into him. And likewise, Lillian knew nothing of what Mathias truly was; the fact that her poisons were a disruption of magic were beyond effective against him. He was magic incarnate. Reality personified. He was a piece of the Eternal Tap, bound into a human vessel, and given the breath of life.

So to describe it as agony would be only a very mildly accurate way to word it. What Mathias felt was worse than the torture he'd endured as a slave to the twisted lich, Morian, and it was worse than the pain he felt when he pushed his planeswalking abilities past their boundaries. What he suffered from was a pain that was like lumps of needles surging through his body. And to make matters worse, instinct kicked in as his ocean blue eyes widened in surprise. From over her shoulder, another dagger flew towards him. The world around him slowed down, and he found pushing himself, upwards through the barriers of reality and breaking into the layer of another plane.

But a static shock coursed over him, and he fell back to the ground of the Firmament, and the dagger pierced his left shoulder. Mathias knelt to the ground, collapsing on himself. He was able to barely support his own weight with his two hands, shaking and quivering. A wave of nausea washed over him, and he began to vomit blood through his mouth and nose; it spilled out onto the floor, and through the choking spray, he cried out. "What... what the fuck did you do to me?" he said, his voice breaking. It was clenched with fear - completely uncharacteristic of him. It was the first instance in a very, very long time that he had truly broken down and felt complete dread grip him.

His entire manner had unraveled - the cool confidence that had been carefully woven through his aura had been shattered and left into tiny shards. He was utterly, and totally helpless to himself. Will I really... really die here? he thought to himself. Just like this?

No. No way, he said. In that moment, the room shifted and changed. The blood on the matting disappeared, and was overtaken by a nothingness. The ground, the walls, the ceiling all gave way and was consumed by the true form of his arena. The entire place shifted onto another level of reality, entirely, and became part of the Vivid Plane.

Chaotic swirls of technicolor mist caressed both of the combatants, playing and dancing around them gleefully. They were caught in their own celluloid universe, completely oblivious to the dire straits in which the two contestants appeared. And his sense of belonging to the plane flooded through him, and he felt at home, at ease, and at peace, despite the poison racing through his system. It tore at him, ripping him apart from the inside out. Already, his mind was starting to become numb, and he no longer felt pain, so much as a complete emptiness of any feeling what-so-ever. And through that void, he reached and pulled the dagger from out of his shoulder, staggering to his feet and charging haphazardly towards Lillian, intent on slashing her in the same way that she had delivered the poison to him.

Though the punch had knocked her to the mats, though pain tore through her jaw and blood threaded from her bruised lips, Lillian was still able to witness the phantom flicker, the same smear of shadow that lingered behind when Mathias last stepped beyond a threshold none could see. Her shoulder struck hard, skin chafing red against the coarse floor. Her ears caught a crunch of either bone or bamboo. Her eyes, however, saw the warrior botch his shift, saw his shapes and colors bleed back into existence from whatever dimensional wound he had failed to cross.

Saw the alarm warping his face, the utter bewilderment. Then, the pain.

The dagger bit deep into his shoulder, serrated fangs lodging the blade in place. Each of Mathias’ heartbeats pumped out gushes of blood, pumped in storms of venom; his whole body was flooded with tides and eddies of undiluted chaos. Lukewarm mists sprayed upon the girl’s feet, tickling as they dripped down the ankles. It felt like a stroll through a garden kissed by rain, gathering dewdrops with every stride. Unfortunately, no matter how harmless and charming the image, she could not be fooled. Warm, summer dew… or hot droplets of cranberry juice.

The fear in his throat when he let loose that godless scream, it was choking her too. The librarian was made mute by the howls of suffering, the retching of bile and blood, the sheer agony that those two wounds were still inflicting. "I never meant for this… i-it's not how…" Terror and guilt merged with confusion into a single stream of thought, eroding the edges of her mind, carrying away the crumbling pieces of her former confidence, leaving her a shell-shocked statue with a thousand yard stare. This is not the trap I sprung. This is not the fight I wanted.

This… is torture.

“Mathias!” she slurred out, viscous warmth pooling under her tongue. Scrambling on all fours, she looked like a puppet, dangling brokenly from the few strings that had not yet been snipped. Even deflected, his knuckles still delivered a world of pain; the girl swore she would be hearing bells till the end of her days. Teetering to a stand, she cried out his name again. But in doing so, what do you hope to achieve? Do you really believe his name will save him, now? Lily, are you truly that naïve? Alas, reason was lost upon the poor girl. After all, it was reason that told her this was all impossible. The Dvaita could never so harm a human being, could never be so… cruel.

Reality was swept from under her feet. Lillian felt herself tumbling, tumbling, tumbling down a well. All around her, a lightless tunnel of frost through which her body was funneled and squeezed. At its end, an endless realm of folly. Somehow, Mathias had brought her here, to this womb from which rainbows are born and to which all shall return as ashes to the earth. Here, in this chaotic soup of colors and dementia, this mindscape of a madman.

Winds blow here, yet by them nothing is blown, as if there was no substance to these strange currents. Perhaps this was the true face of oblivion, or perhaps it was the point toward which all worlds bled, where fragmented realities melted into one another. Either way, it was all so strange, so alien to the librarian. But then, why does it feel like home?

Sparks of blue, green and purple gathered before her eyes, born from nothingness. They hovered, swirled in a corona of opalescent lights, siphoning her attention, and she watched them go with bated breath. Without warning, it burst into blinding ember like a myriad suns from the void of the universe. Lillian reeled to the side, fingers fighting the urge to scratch the maddening sting from her eyes. Before the flash dissipated, she barely made out a waver of her own shadow, briefly drawn on a shapeless floor she could only feel. Shadows… in his world?

As the blurs of her vision found sharpness again, she noticed the charge of a silhouette. It was a moment too late when she realized she was dead in its path. Hard-pressed to aim with a set of blind eyes, Lillian made a desperate slash with her dirk, summoning from the arc a speeding gust of sharpened wind.

If it collided with what she could only guess was an enraged Mathias, she did not know. Nor did she care for much, as fires tore past her shoulder, the fangs of the Dvaita shredding skin and flesh. Blood bubbled from the horrible gash, poison seeped into her veins. Lillian only had enough time to avoid being run through by her own weapon, but there was none for rejoicing; Mathias had capitalized on her confusion, attacking while she was still disoriented from the plane-shift, from the unpredictable burst of light. If she did nothing, then the next strike would no doubt be fatal, defenseless as she was.

But you’re not new to feeling vulnerable, are you Lily?

“Hey!” she hollered meekly, her breaths quick and rasping. One hand was clasped over the rip in her shoulder, trembling as it tried to stalk the bleeding in vain. The other was held out before her in a plea for Mathias to stop, yet the dirk still hung between thumb and index, held at the ready in case he still attempted a pursuit.

Anathema, she remembered with a scoff. The warning from before, that one word was a lonesome echo in her mind, and now that she was trapped in this crossroad between dimensions, its meaning had become all too clear. “This feeling I had, from the moment I first saw you… it was driving me mad, not knowing what it was – like having a word a the tip of my tongue. But it was so obvious. You…”

“You’re not human either, are you?”

The dagger slid through flesh, although Mathias had lazily struck out through his daze, and fell to the floor on his knees, dropping the blade. He began retching, and let out a strained, nasal wheeze as he coughed up more blood. He looked up at her, gritting his teeth to clench some pressure on his head and dull the pain that thundered against his skull. The poison had immediately taken over his whole body; it didn't need to hit anything specific, for his entire anatomy was composed from the threads of magic, which the Dvaita's venom was made to disrupt. Of all his agony, her words pierced him more than he could've imagined, and he immediately retracted from her. All too quickly did the memories of Morian come flooding through him, reminding him of the torture he'd endured at the hands of his twisted servants, and the all-knowing gaze that had been leveled at him from out the shadows of his dark hood. The lich had known everything about Mathias - more than he had known about himself. It was that necromantic abomination that had first told him of what he was... of what he could become. And since then, the planeswalker had been passively rolling about in his mind the ideas that had been planted in him.

Was he truly a person? Or a thing? He was a shard of the Tap, and yet, he was alive. He was breathing, thinking, living. So he could feel... pain. He could feel. Hate, anger, joy, love, sorrow, loneliness, comfort. He could experience things that something inert, something inanimate, and something inhuman could not. He could form relationships, become involved in other people's lives, and fill his own solipsistic reality with the perceptions of others, the web of ties, friendships, rivalries, and all the other complications that came with interacting with other beings, whose existences were as real and valid as his own.

So then, what was it that makes one Human? he had to ask himself. Mathias slowly rose to his feet, maintaining his balance carefully as he tried to draw himself to his full height and gaze, as though into an abyss, at Lillian. "Either?" he inquired, frowning slightly. "Probably not like you think... Flesh is made of dust and ash, given life by blood. Myself, however... my body's spun out of the Tap, taken shape and held afloat by manna. So no... I'm probably not Human." Finishing his sentence, he coughed a bit, loosening a clot of blood in his throat and swallowing it. Although it made little difference with the Dvaita's poison, one can swallow a pint of life before they start to get sick.

Math knew that he wasn't going to last much longer in these conditions - he'd been dealt a blow that was completely unforeseen by any and all circumstances. He had already lost, he knew that much. So, before he was consumed by the arcane concoction coursing through him, he could have a short, simple conversation. Not the way most battles for glory turn out, but then, neither of the two combatants in this case were anywhere near conventional or traditional. "So what are you then, and why does this all matter?" he asked, probably in a tone harsher than he meant to convey, although he couldn't be bothered with civility as he grit his teeth, biting a bullet to put pressure on his head and block out the agony which was starting to numb him, ebbing his life away much more passively than mere physical pain.

“You were spun… from the Tap?”

Lillian was shaken beyond words, feeling as though stumbling out of a crazed carousel. It could have been her disbelief at his revelation, or it could have been the venomous spurts of chaos traveling throughout her body, infecting her mind; yet, she believed him. He was dying, agonizing, and she had no one to blame for this but herself. Her only purpose in coming here was to see whether or not she could give her all and survive, yet she had done nothing but cause an innocent man to suffer the full brunt of her selfishness. I only meant for you to save me… but now I’ve sacrificed you to save myself. Because of that, she had to believe him. It was the very least she could do.

The pain in her shoulder was getting worse, spreading as if the raw flesh were drenched in acid. The wracking guilt that clasped her heart, however, was far more potent than any injury she had ever undergone. Every one of his harsh words, every inflection of his pain and anger was a dagger in her heart – and every blade, she felt she deserved. Still, that could not stop her from losing the mask of strength and confidence she had tried so hard to piece, these last few months. The endearing arrogance, the playful smiles, that air of independence… they were but layers of lies to hide the girl who could not help herself. To hide the girl who could not help but cry.

“I am…” she began, but she felt something lodge inside her throat, felt the tears rush down her cheeks. She hid them as best she could, suppressing the sobs, the shame. Why was she crying? Why was she in pain, when she was the one who tortured the man she should have thanked? I’m… such a hypocrite. I’m sorry. “Mathias, I’m… so sorry.” Lillian fell to her knees, seeing a canvas of colors twist and warp as it ran beneath them, an endless river without direction. If only I could reverse its stream. If only I could wash it all away. But no, she was no fool: she knew her hands would never be clean again.

Mathias lay writhing inches from her, his locks of blond hair clustered with sweat onto his forehead. He was breathing harshly, hacking and bleeding from wounds that only seemed to worsen. Lillian could not stand to look at him, to look at her grim work, yet she could not turn away. She could not let him die, not like that. And so, she did the unthinkable: to the man she had fought, to the man she had made suffer, to the man she had killed, she said: “Let me help you.”

Sweeping away the tears, she leaned forward, pulling the bloodied warrior up with what little strength remained in her feeble body. Firmly yet gently, she drew him into her arms, panting as she felt the poison throb and wear her down, whittling at the edges of her consciousness. As he was, Mathias seemed like he could no longer move, yet she held the notion that he might have strangled her there and then, had he the chance. In all honesty, she would have let him – she would have asked him, if only to relieve his suffering by an iota. Her tears would not stop, trickling down her paling cheeks to fall upon the man, rousing him drop by drop from the daze that gave no reprieve.

“You asked me what I was…” she said at last, forcing out a smile that crumpled as quickly as it came. Lillian shut her eyes, focusing on the shadows that came and went as the spheres of light from this strange realm flashed in and out of existence. “I am flesh and blood, yet I... I am not human,” she said at last, gasping from the hurt they brought, these words she had never dared to speak. As she wept, a mass of shadows congregated about their broken bodies, waning and waxing as she fought against the poison to keep control. They crept about the shapeless floor in a whirling corona of darkness, then began their silent ascent upon the young man’s body.

“I am a weaver of shadows,” she sighed painfully, opening her eyes to seek a light, any light that floated aloft, that could grant her solace. The shades split in twine, twisting as they coiled around Mathias, fading ever so slightly as they became one with his skin. “I am a spinner of threads…” The tendrils were now a pulsing web, a network as dark as dead veins. The warrior grew paler underneath, colder in her arms. The glow of life ebbed away from the cool blue of his eyes, ebbed away until they went quietly still.

“… And I will numb your pain away.” The final exhale, and she felt his body gently slacken. Her heart rose then, threatening to tear itself apart from the fear, from the horror of what she had done; yet, his face seemed so serene now, painted as it was with death. The girl gingerly let Mathias slip down from her grasp, setting him down on that quiet rush of madness. The world around her seemed oddly still, now that its maker had drifted further away.

But the way she was now, Lillian no longer cared. The venom seemed a distant memory, too weak compared to the storm that was ravaging her mind. Guilt for her sins and sorrow for her losses, pain for her heart and fear for her soul - and this numbness. This overwhelming numbness, and it gave her a desperate need to feel. She desperately needed to feel something, to feel anything else... or to feel nothing at all.

And so, Lillian grabbed the dagger that had been his undoing, the dagger that had fallen from his grasp. She picked it, and turned its blade on herself. The point hovered inches above her heart, shaking as she struggled, her fingers bloodless as they trembled, curled about the hilt. She could stop her screams of dismay, but she could not stop the tears from flowing.

Steel clattered at her knees, and she fell forward without a sound. Her head rested on the boy’s frigid chest, and the patchwork realm where she had been trapped began to blur and falter. The madness was siphoned away, returning the two to that bare room of mahogany and naked walls. Then, even that illusion vanished into nothingness, replaced by the dank darkness of a bare and stony cell.


The door clicked tersely, slowly creaking open. Men in murky robes padded into the cell, their eyes cold to the sight before them. Without a word, they merely stood and watched for a dozen heartbeats. One of the monks finally moved to separate the two combatants, sighing as his calloused hands wrapped around the girl’s slim waist.

Blue lightning flashed in the gloom. The monk felt an icy pressure upon his throat, soon followed by a faint rush of warmth. Lillian held the blade of the dagger underneath his chin, enough to draw blood. The tears had dried away, yet her eyes remained red and swollen.

“I couldn't... I couldn't do it,” she gasped as the knife cut deeper. “I couldn't take my life.” The monk’s mask of impassivity was fissured, unable as he was to repress that cowardly whimper, to keep it from escaping. “I was wrong, so wrong... nothing, nothing...”

“Nothing!” Her hand whipped violently to the side, the dark cell echoing with her enraged cry. The monk screeched as his body thumped to the floor. Weakly, Lillian tottered to a stand and silently gathered her weapons while heading for the exit, panting from that wicked rage as the sobs inevitably returned. The remaining two monks stepped aside, eying the girl with disbelief before sparing a look to their convulsing comrade, fallen into a heap not far off. His hands were trembling, groping his throat in search for for a deadly gash, terror and confusion reigning in eyes that had been dead for far too long. Finding none, he released his breath at last, each hacking gasp a firestorm of life and relief.

One final stare at the dungeon, at the monks and the peaceful visage of Mathias, and Lillian turned away, lightly closing the cell-door behind her. From the slats in wood, they could heard her speak, could hear her crumble into pieces.

“Nothing cheapens death...”