Samutth a Ranajira - Nyadir vs. Acyutani

[Iriah Caitrak]

Home. Ranajira felt, looked and even smelled of home. She could feel the tingle; that longing for the land this represented thrumming through her bloodstream like the steady beats of the drums they used. The intoxication, the heady sensation of it ran rampant inside of her mind and body, bringing out a longing in her she had forgotten about with him. The waves and waves of sand rose and fell into the horizon, an hundred of them, a million of them, like the frozen tides of a squalling sea. Their colour broke into a shimmering pile of orange and red and gold as the sun broke over the horizon and began bathing the land in light. It slowly crept along the sand, heating it beyond that of toleration to the human skin. And it left shadows behind, shadows that monsters hid in and waited patiently for the unsuspecting to cross through. When it touched her caramel skin, she felt that all too familiar shiver of heat race along it, absorbing the light and the warmth it had longed for in all that time in Corone.

But this was not home, could never be home. She knew that, but she could still dream it.

Acyutani sat and waited. In the centre of her new arena she waited, upon a claw of obsidian knocked over with time and broken from its foundation, she waited. The smooth surface beneath her slowly began heating with the coming day and managed to warm her skin even through the layers of her clothes. Her calloused fingers gently caressed it, feeling the wind polished rock as it absorbed the light that hit it, turning it into darkness.

Would it be more fitting for you if it were cold?

A silent question she never dared to speak aloud. Would it matter if it were cold? Would it matter if ice rain down the sky and coated this land, freezing all that she saw before her? What if the wind held a chill in it that made the thickest of blood congeal within the vein, would it matter then? No, none of that would ever matter. Acyutani could recreate the frozen plateau of the Comb Mountains that they had trained on for all those weeks, that she had lost herself on and that he had nearly died upon and it would never matter.

He will come.

He had to come. Or all of this would be in vain. All of this would mean nothing, to her, to him. It already meant nothing to the rest of Althanas. It moved on as if nothing had ever happened, as if he had never happened. But he would find this place, this place built for him to weed out the others and find the one warrior that truly mattered. The only thing that mattered to her.

Slowly, Acyutani shifted her position along the rock. Her leg drew itself up to her body, bent and forcing her knee to point towards the jewel like sky. She rested her arm upon it, the sheer and blood red wrap covering her upper body falling away to reveal the unmarred skin beneath and the glinting light of a single crystal embedded in the leather armguard. The red material wrapped around her chest and shoulders, even her face. Her short purple hair lay hidden beneath the veil, as did her mouth and her nose. The only thing visible through the material was her eyes, no longer silver. She controlled them and they shone as black as the obsidian beneath her.

His eyes had been so much like hers.

Thoughts of him were dangerous, even in this place. Forcing her mind away, she turned her gaze towards the pillars that clawed their way from the sands. Like hands with disfigured fingers they raised high above her head into sharp points. Like a monster attempting to free itself from the sands, they rose. Only one name lay upon their surface right now. Only one; Gareth Vandeburg. The man she had fought and won against to get the position of Pagoda Warrior. He had been skilled but not enough for her blades, not after all of her training. The battle had neither been enjoyable nor a true waste of her time. The opponent had been worthy but unskilled. He had been a youth with much to learn and she had no time to teach time. When her new opponent arrived another name would be etched into the surface of the stone. Once his presence was felt upon this land, he would leave a mark upon it, a small and permanent mark. Nyadir D’Var, whoever he was. His mark would be felt. And in turn, this land would leave a mark upon him and she would leave the deepest of all.

[Ebivoulya]

Snoring sailors slid to and fro under the starlit dome above, perched atop a toy boat lost in a tumultous blanket of ebony waves. Those lifeless shells rolled to the beat of the slumbering ocean, its sighs permeating the air with moisture and the smell of salt, while beasts far greater than any man could kill swam idly below. They were but great shadows in a monochrome world of pressure and cold, dark and silence. Their distant brother floated uneasily overhead aboard a comparitively large construction of wood and iron, which was but a man-made beast crafted in mocking similarity to the titans of the deep. Those restless giants called longingly to their sibling, singing a sombre fugue, for all too cruely was he too born of pressure and stillness, blackness and cold, and fire; searing flame to temper the most brittle of weapons with infinite time, infinite weight. He had become pyrogenic, a creation of the fire, for cold begets numbness, darkness begets patience, but flame brings pain; unceasing waves which become so deeply-rooted they are longed for, sought after; used.

Tiny rivers of grey lilted up from a corncob pipe, and were dragged out into the night by the tide of each exhale, each exhausted sigh lost to the winds and the waves. Strong yet agile fingers clothed in layers of leather and mail gracefully held the instrument, while a moderately scarred and muscled arm rested on salty oaken railing. The other was folded over it, obsidian strands hanging below a slightly weatherworn face with a fortnight's stubble, which was framed by barely pointed ears. Two full weeks on this ship had left everyone exhausted and irritable, and even more suspicious of the character whom silently spent day, and night, staring into the ocean. It didn't help that one of the men assessed that he was half-elven, or that he was headed for the Dajas Pagoda, and especially not that it was known he purchased his ticket with gold earned through a small bit of mercenary work.

Hired killers were the epitome of the strong surviving, for their bodies might die of hunger if they fail to kill their target, and they were typically feared for that very predatory nature. Not many honest employers would take on a known blade for hire, and not many of them would even take such a job in the first place. Luckily, venues like the Pagoda existed, where a man could enjoy both title and prestige simply for defeating challengers in battle. For hired blades, it wasn't just the thrill of freelance work, nor the twisted allure of murdering for food like a predator; it was the experience. Hardened merceneries are experts at both killing, and staying alive. Both are neccessary to survive in such a world of war and greed, for only through action can such a place truly be changed.

A few loud taps preceded cinders and ashes which descended down into the breathing mist before extinguishing quickly, and the flapping of a thick charcoal cloak muffled the distinct thuds of steel-plated boots across wide oak boards. The only concious passenger lazily sauntered to the bow of the ship, a man of above average height and build who made everyone uneasy by refusing to remove the large, two-handed sword strapped to his back. He pulled the serrated dagger from his thick leather belt of earthen brown, a close match to his darker pants, and lighter leather vest. Gripping it nimbly in one gloved hand, the other held up the pipe as the blade scraped out the remains of the previous bowl. It was then raised and wiped upon his cotton trousers before being resheathed as the warrior sat against the outer railing and peered up at the stars with onyx eyes. Without breaking his gaze he prepared the pipe once more, raising it to cracked lips as the flare of a match briefly lit the grimy walls and floor of the ship. The whales in the deep began their song again, and time stretched in a haze of sleep deprivation and smoke until rest finally came, if with a price.

Again the wails of countless assaulted his ears, overlapping into a constant static of unbearable volume. A whiff of sulfer and ash came strongly to him, forcing his eyes open in surprise. They, forgetful of the waking world, beheld again the pit of hate he was thrown into by those who literally took him to hell to retrieve and enslave a soul of the damned. Forever would the name it spoke upon their meeting be etched into his mind, and his into its. As one they had become, fused to keep the infernal soul's power in check, but still they maintained their individuality and fought for control. It often left one paralyzed unexpectedly whilst the other struggled to maintain superiority. Every time he slipped into unconciousness the demon took its chance to torment its bodily companion, mentally wearing him down until it could gain complete, and permenant dominance. Every time he slipped into unconciousness he wondered if he would make it back into the world of the waking.

The same horrors wrought from perceived eternities in madness rolled before him as a sea, countless scenes writhing up to tear at his will, and bite at his hope. Memories of a slain family and begrudgingly slaying that of others persisted despite his inaudible screams, jamming shards of regret and uncertainty into his very skull. Flashes of his brother's face stained with an ominous rouge, the laughing face of his mentor and tormentor, his keeper and his killer, all of these sights were engineered to break him. A vision of two mangled bodies laying at his feet, the mark of his captor and corruptor emblazoned on the inside of their blackened cloaks came to him, coupled with the quiet laughter of the dark within; the mere sound of its grating voice sent the man into such a rage that time and pain mattered no more; he sought only death, only the end of his suffering, or the suffering of someone else.

Blind white met his blinking eyes as breaths drew deep and quick, a gloved hand slapping the oaken floor below in a motion which reaffirmed his position in the world. A moment's recuperation was needed to bring his mind back from the inescapable dementia of his subconcious, but he was relieved to once again find himself amongst the living. He slowly raised up onto his wearied legs, which began regaining their strength, and turned to see a shoreline in the white and blue distance. The sight brought joy and uncertainty, for there was housed the infamous Dajas Pagoda, in which one could win gold for victory in battle, and attain ranks and benefeits that they must defend. Whether the gold or the glory, something called to him, offered him promises of the answers which he sought somewhere in the hallowed stone walls which were forever stained with blood. The rumors about it spoke of an ageless struggle between Althanian inhabitants for recognition and position, a place of greed and avarice in the world for him to exploit and draw knowledge.

As the ship neared shore the half-elf could make out several large docks and wharfs, though the paved veins criss-crossing the homes and businesses in the district were so constricted it left the buildings choked and the pedestrians crowded. Despite all that, business was good, and few could find it in themselves to complain. Another ship pulled into the wharf, and men scurried about securing ropes and helping people off onto solid ground. The last man on board did not accept the aid, instead dropping off onto the slippery planks himself, and stepping forward onto the grimy cobblestone streets. He immediately pulled the ebony hood over his jet-black hair after securing his shoulder-length mane behind him with a small leather thong from one of the many pockets on his vest. The swordsman disappeared into his cloak, and then the city streets, his natural aversion to crowds and bright light leaving him uncomfortable on the daylit roads as he swam inbetween the populous of Scara Brae.

A pair of lithe, yet similarly cloaked figures converged on a cedar vegetable stand on the main road towards the Dajas Pagoda, the premeir battling venue of the entire island. The portly owner quietly moved towards the shadows in the back of his stand, hoping the unsavory pair were not debt collectors come finally to break his legs. They talked amoungst eachother in whispers for several moments, leaving the poor shopkeep terrified, until a large, hooded head preceding the handle of a two-handed blade wove up the street. It moved inbetween people with an exact grace built from obsessive timing and calculation. Finally, the two quieted down, checking the dual short swords at their waists. A small symbol was emblazoned on the inside of each thin, black cloak; it was a solid red triangle featuring a gold-sewn cat's eye, at the center of which was the embroidered outline of a diamond. They deftly moved into the crowd as the blade-bearing mark walked past the stand. The pudgy produce vendor eased back into the light, and immediately began checking for any missing stock.

Turning on one steel-plated heel, the prey slowed its pace to a stop a few feet into a shadowed alleyway lined with boxes to hide the broken windows, and grunge to hide the bricks. On top of the large crate to the right of the lone figure rested a smaller crate marked 'MUGS.' As the sound of footsteps ceased a few feet behind him, the half-elf slowly turned around, removing his hood, and just as the corner of his eye caught the first glimpse of the pair, he swiftly raised his leg above the waist-high crate and kicked the lighter one into the shoulder of the pursuer on his left. The blow knocked the smaller man back a few feet while the second drew a pair of short blades from his belt. Immediately the scene from the night before played in the swordsman's head, and he drew the large weapon from his back and dashed towards the remaining assassin. The man crossed the dual blades in front of him, and attempted a feint before swiping sideways with both.

The much larger blade of the half-elf was brought up quickly to meet the steel twins, shrieking in appreciation as it skittered off the edges and threw the smaller man off-balance. Another swipe in the opposite direction left the blade slinger wide open as his sword sailed inches away from prone skin, and he was forced to rotate with his momentum to keep his own balance. By now the other persuer had risen, and was stalking forward with swords drawn while another blow was parried by the larger target of these two. The half-elf batted away an expected swipe with the steel plate adorning the back of each tightly balled fist, and even the serrated dagger at his waist was drawn. As he raised his arm above his head to plunge the dagger into the chest of one exposed assassin, the other caught him in a swipe that left a gash underneath his right arm, which soon began squirting crimson onto the already stained streets. An agitated roar preceded a one-armed parry with his two-handed blade, and his knife was brought down and buried into the neck of the first attacker. The dagger was pulled out and re-sheathed so quickly a trail of blood followed its path through the air, and crimson drops fell like rain onto his earthen trousers.

The quick death of his partner left the other man unsure but unwilling to retreat, even though the city guard had already been called, and the gash underneath one arm of his target gave the assassin a false confidence which led him to attack again quickly in the hopes of finishing it soon and escaping the guard. A pair of downward strikes were blocked in succession, and a retaliatory swipe missed wide to the left and came back again to meet steel once more, but when the assassin swung with his opposite arm as their weapons struggled and scraped against eachother, the swordsman was left with no choice but to risk losing his hand and block the swipe with his gauntlet. As quickly as the momentum of the strike slowed, and the surprising strength of the half-elf was shown, he threw his fist into the smaller man's face after pushing the other blade aside, and knocked him down onto the ground next to his partner.

The barbarian-by-blood roared as he plunged his Greatsword into the chest of the remaining man, and glanced down long enough to assess that their positioning mimicked the scene from the night before, and to verify that the symbols on their cloaks were indeed the signs of the man whom forced him into slaughtering innocents across the mountains seperating Alerar and Salvar, a barbarian by the unusual name of Brothlien. There was no time for pondering this turn, as already the hurried footsteps of overweight guards were thundering closer. The nimble but bleeding half-elf quickly replaced his hood, pulled his cloak tighter, and disappeared into the crowd once more. After an hour of warily avoiding every posted sentry, they seemed to lose interest and forget about the two found dead only earlier that morning. He took this advantage to make it through the city and finally to register at the Dajas Pagoda, an impressive building which rose out of the grime gleaming in blood yet to be spilled. The fee required to enter was luckily only as much as he had left after buying some food, and a few bandages to treat his wounded chest and pride.

It seemed that the woman accepting his form did not expect to find the name Acyutani listed as the one whom he was challenging, and awkwardly wrote her name and his down on paper which was handed to a uniformed message boy standing nearby. It was one of the names which had been tossed back and forth for weeks on that ship as talk occasionally turned to the Pagoda, and from the description of her skills and prowess it seemed to be the proper choice. The explaination of how losing competitors were kept from dying did not interest the swordsman, and he secretly wished that they would just let him be. Still, the thought of his surviving brother, and of taking revenge on the man who drove him from his burning home to kill with the rest of the barbarian's enslaved hoarde forced him to rethink his morbidity.

Unspoken thoughts came ceaselessly to the swordsman's mind as he slowly followed a short Pagoda worker towards the portal which was to lead him to his battle, to his glory. It was the same portal which would carry him back to the city after his victory, or his defeat, but mercenary work was surprisingly hard to find in such cities, and for the half-elf to truly make a living off of his skills with a blade, and improve his killing prowess, this was a battle which he must win. He was obligated to succeed, if not for his own well being, or even that of his brother, then just for the simple fact that no one would ever expect an unknown warrior to take down a member of the Pagoda and rise immemorial from the ashes of obscurity into the light cast by the piercing, inquisitive gazes of all of Althanas herself. Not a single person would expect, nor believe it, but that was precisely why his victory was so important, and precisely why the half-elf worried as he stepped into the portal, wondreing if he would be capable of maintaining himself throughout.

The piercing sun reflected off bright sand and blinded the blade slinger upon his sudden entry into the arena. For a moment he could neither tell where he was, nor if anyone else was present, and already the extreme lighting conditions were bothering him. He shielded his face from the rising sun with one gloved hand, and action which answered the second of his questions. Hiis newfound visual clarify confirmed the presence of another within the blind yellow expanse, along with a few useable obstacles. Several paces in front of him started two rows of slate pillars, blackened fingers extending back several more paces to a fallen stone upon which was perched what must've been his opponent, judging both from his memory of her description, and the fact that they were the only two people around.

His heavy leather boots sank into the sand as he stepped forward, pulled down by metal plating, and the rising temperature prompted him to remove his hood and unclasp his cloak, which fell in a heap behind him. The cut underneath his right arm had been bandaged, and the dried blood still visible underneath it in patches matched the cloth covering the comparitively flawless skin of what must've been Acyutani's entire upper body. Her blackened eyes, which peered out from behind a veil, never left the scarred swordsman as he stepped even closer to the fallen pillar atop which she sat, and drew his still bloodied Greatsword from the sheath at his back. The strap of the sheath crossed underneath his leather vest, and with a nimble swing he brought the blade tip-earthward into the sand, both resting his gloved hand upon the handle, and pulling a single strand of black hair which had escaped his ponytail back behind his slightly pointed ears.

"Acyutani, I assume. We can chat first if you wish, but I'd rather not wait long. Neither my blade nor I have tasted blood in hours."

[Iriah Caitrak]

Her eyes never left him. They watched each move as each step fell into the sand and the liquid like substance tried to coat and slither across his boots. She watched him as he dropped heavy and hot weight from his body and let it lay on the desert floor as if garbage, as if he could dirty this magnificent place. She watched and she said nothing. When he spoke, her lips remained closed and well hidden behind the thin material of her shawl. Hidden from the sun and hidden from him. Seconds passed by and she continued to observe him and then she moved. As swiftly and as lithely as a cat she shifted and slipped down the side of the rock. Her boots landed on the sand with a soft thud as the small particles flew into the air and then fell once again to join their brothers. Unlike his much heavier boots, the flat side of hers did not sink into the ground and the ground did not try to swallow them. They merely rested upon the top, floating there as if on water and leaving a bare imprint of where they had been.

Behind her, she could hear the sound of scraping rock. In the silence that fell between the two of them, it sounded louder than any explosions that had rocked her ears or any fire from any gun. At most, it could be interpreted as a mere annoyance that grated inside of her skull. Turning her head slightly, Acyutani glanced behind her; a bold and dangerous move. It took her eyes from her opponent, mere paces from her person, and laid them upon one clawed stone in particular. It was the furthest one in and the first one to ever be marked by a name. As the scratching continued to echo into the desert, another began to appear upon the smooth surface. The small shards of black stone fell away to reveal something as if it had always been there, waiting for the right time to show itself. Within moments, Nyadir D’var lay clearly visible and the mark was felt upon the land of Ranajira. She could feel the sweet shiver course through the air and the ground, the slight vibration of a new name and a new battle to be fought. Yet even with that and the small thrill of a fight to come beginning to trickle through her veins, she felt a small bit of disappointment.

“You are not him.” She said; her voice flat and accented with the land she came from.

Even then, Acyutani could tell that this one was different. Overall, he looked average to her. The only odd thing about him was the bloodied bandages that already covered his arm and the drying blood upon his blade. Apparently, he had not the patience to wait for his battle with her. No, it was not that. Something lay within him, something not entirely human or elven and of no beast she had ever felt before. It was a soul, but of what she could never know; not with her limited skills. And yet she could feel it, a fact she would keep to herself. In battle, information about ones opponent was crucial and such a thing that he carried within him could become of use to her. Whether or not he willingly or knowingly had that soul inside him was an entirely different conversation, one she cared not to have. Nyadir was just another warrior in a sea of faces. He was just another blood hungry man needing to slake his thirst and lust for death in a place that had no consequences.

Acyutani couldn’t help but feel a smirk pull at her lips as she realized the irony of that. For who had she met within a wall of stone that transported warriors to beautiful and magnificent places? A place where death was never permanent. She had met him there and their story had unfolded the moment she took her first step within the walls of The Citadel, a place she had yet to return to.

Customs in her own home land would dictate that he make the first move. He had challenged her in her own arena; it was his choice to follow through with it. Though this place may look like Fallien, Acyutani knew it otherwise. All this sand and heat were mere illusion that she had crafted perfectly to fit the image in her mind. This first move thus belonged to her.

Sweeping her obsidian eyes over the greatsword lodged within the sand, Acyutani began to move. The deep reds and purples of the sheer material around her shifted as if billowing by an unseen wind. It slithered across her body and revealed the natural caramel colour of her skin and the toned muscle that lay beneath it. Each careful and assured step brought her that much closer to him. Five feet from him she stopped. With her arms casually at her side, the Akhetamikan warrior bowed to her opponent and then quickly straightened.

“Formalities seem unnecessary beyond this point, Nyadir. May you enjoy the coming battle.”

With a simple thought, weapons appeared in her empty hands, as if they had always been there. She called them Half Swallows; weapons of her own invention. The metal shaft of the weapon was roughly twelve inches long with another four inches for the hand. The blade roughly ten inches, the first six of which were straight like a sword, only it grew to be slightly thicker before suddenly coming into a crescent and then stopping at a dangerously sharp point. The reach of them would allow her to move closer to Nyadir, while his greatsword, the weight of which must require two hands, would only hinder him in a battle such as this.

Seconds passed and with the mere barest of hints being a sudden and slight tension in her legs, Acyutani exploded towards her opponent. A shower of sand followed behind her as her feet glided across the surface, barely hindered by the swallowing nature of the desert. She shifted her feet and her stance, preparing to come in with a horizontal strike across his chest. Her blade held at the ready and reflecting the rising sun. At the last moment her feet quickly shifted. Her stance changed and her body moved away and towards the left. Her right arm fell to protect her midsection and her left arm rose, aiming the sharpened curve of Uriahd at Nyadir’s right shoulder.

[Ebivoulya]

The beat of ceaseless drums grew louder in his ears as silent seconds passed by in the world outside his head, and the overwhelming light finally subsided into a tolerable glare from the East. Not one word echoed in the sandy winds between the half-elven swordsman and the woman he traveled here to fight, both with eyes locked on eachother. His muscles tensed occasionally as the sound of his thundering heart grew stronger, and he almost pounced upun his prey when she slid down from the fallen pillar upon which she sat. Her motions were graceful, exact, and she seemed to waste no energy in unneccessary movement. The wait for her strike, the anticipation of the hit was driving him mad, if it is indeed possible to push an already mad man even further. No words could come from his mouth even if he wished to speak them; he was unquestioningly focused on his opponent, and couldn't help but pay extreme attention to her every move. The heartbeat grew louder still, it had become almost deafening, and he nearly lept out of his skin as she confidently turned her gaze to the pillars behind her and exposed her backside. However, his rational mind and natural curiosity drew his gaze beyond her sultry form to a black spire rising crookedly in the distance with a single name etched upon it.

His elven mother, blessed with the heightened senses of her kin, came to his mortal mind as he peered into the distance. Floating in a sea of thoughts, he could see her slender features, smile softer than her fair skin, and the aquamarine earrings she had given to each of her sons; he almost felt as if he might be able to force a smile as he lightly touched the gem hanging beneath his vest. Forever would he remember her exceptional sight, and how she taught him to use his own as effectively as possible. It required a relaxation of every muscle in his eyes, allowing his subconcious to focus upon those things which mattered, and a concentrated mind could pick up minute details at a glance. It had become a habit of his now, even when he didn't need it, and so he clearly noticed as cracks formed in the tendril of slate which defied the horizon. It didn't take long for the mortal to recognize his own name, included now just below the first, and he quietly berrated himself for not attempting to register for the Pagoda under some monicker. It seemed that even with such a name his presence would always be known to those loyal to his old master, but he could've at least left no physical records of his travels.

She turned and spoke, her words barely audible over the beating of his own heart. His vision seemed to grow momentarily clearer with each loudening thrum, and he tensed in caution as she slowly walked towards him, her steps hardly leaving a smudge on the bright yellow sand beneath. If her speed matched her beauty, he would not be able to keep the protection and added force provided by his much heavier boots. He would have to use his dagger to slice the laces of leather which tightened his boots to his feet, and perhaps even make a good distraction out of them when the time came. She bowed low, to which he smirked and made a mocking half-bow, disregarding her words for the truth they held. Without a warning or sign of exertion, two weapons simply appeared in her lithe hands, wrought from the smoldering air itself. Each of them was roughly two feet in length, half handle, half blade, and both weapons widened and curved near their lethal tips. The summoning of these surprised the half-elf, though he subconciously grinned as they appeared. Finally all his anticipation and nervous energy would be put to good use, and he would be provided yet another chance to test himself.

Still she waited, prolonging already endless moments in which the half-elf's mind raced unceasingly, constantly calculating the specific advantages and disadvantages inherent to her weapon types and assumed physical prowess. His eyes did not blink, soon drying almost painfully as he kept his attention on the woman mere paces from him. A twinge in the slender muscles of her legs immediately drew his attention downward, and as her feet sank backward in the sand his right hand moved to grip the blade which still stood between them like another great pillar in the sand. By the time he had grasped the handle she had crossed half the distance between them, exhibiting exceptional speed which he could only hope to match with his reserves of energy. In that instant it became all too clear to the swordsman he would not be able to save them for the healing of wounds mid-battle. He would need to use that power to increase his quickness and strength both to match hers, and to keep himself from falling within the first few strikes. Unfortunately, though, he would need a greater distance to accomplish that, for within at best ten paces she would be able to cross and attack before he was done fortifying his body for battle.

As the tip of his blade leapt from the sand to intersect her expected attack path, the much quicker woman spun elegantly to his right, preparing a left-handed strike to take off his arm and render him both useless in battle, and dead within minutes. However, her actual attack mimicked the feint, simply coming across horizontally from the other side, and although her speed obviously surpassed his, it was no great challenge to block such a simple strike by pulling the hilt of his large steel weapon above her swing. He had no time to turn the blade around for a more effective block, but he still silently wondered if she was merely testing him, or warming up. The force of the blow almost drove his own blade into his leg, and with a grunt of exertion he momentarily stopped the strike's momentum. It seemed that not only did she possess greater speed than him, her strength even rivaled that of the larger barbarian-by-blood, a fact which did not bode well for the coming fight.

With one elbow above his head, and his blade holding one of her weapons at bay, his left foot rose from the sands as quickly as he could muster it, leaving trails of grains which fell like golden snow in the searing heat. The steel-plated heel flew directly towards the flat of the blade which covered her midsection, a powerful kick that sunk his other foot deeper into the sand. His torso leaned back to maintain his center of gravity, and at the expected point of contact he let loose a roar as he strained to fling her blade up and away from him. Combined with a successful kick, she would be thrown back enough for him to lunge and thrust towards the first opening he saw in her defense, but his right leg maintained a nervous tension which was waiting, expecting the signs of an effective counter attack. In such a case he would be forced to throw his large body into a roll over the sand to his left, a move which would lower his torso below her effective strike zone, but leave his legs wide open in the air as his back hit the sand and he tried to flip back onto his feet.

[Iriah Caitrak]

The sound of ringing and clashing metal filled her ears for but a brief and wonderful moment. Then it too disappeared into the wind as if it had never happened, leaving this grand arena in silence once more. She could still feel the slight vibrations as they shook down her arm, tingling nerve endings and muscles alike in the wake of his block. The attack had been simple, but swift and he had still managed the time to heft his rather massive sword and block the move. If he hadn’t, the Akhetamikan would have been rather disappointed in her new opponent and found little to not use for him. She needed warriors that could challenge her to be better, warriors that would, not only keep her on her toes but off them as well. Though this one seemed less skilled than she, he might just manage well enough to bring a smile to her face.

Their blades held together—tense—the strength of her metal ground into his. It threatened to rend his sword in two and leave him defenceless. Her other hand shifted, her fingers flexing minutely as she prepared to bring forth her other Half Swallow in a finish blow. Then his body shifted. Subtly, she could see the way he moved his weight from one foot to the other, causing the much heavier man to sink deeper into the sands around them. A move like that could be considered dangerous. Should the sands slow him down, she would gladly rip apart his flesh with her steel and watch the blood coat this arena.

Before Him the thought of doing that would have disgusted her. To imagine, an Akhetamikan warrior, using their skills to kill another person and set their soul free upon this world. It was an unheard of atrocity. But now, after all the weeks of training and spending all that time with him, some of his philosophy had simply rubbed off on her. The strong survived and the weak died. He had believed that and he possibly still did. She had tried to show him that the weak were worth protecting, that not everyone unable to wield a weapon deserves to fall to one. She had tried, but she knew not if she succeeded. And now, she had begun to adopt the same ideals. At least, that was what she believed in such a place such as this, a place where the arena was not real and made of pure illusion and where the dead were not truly dead. Why should she have morals about killing in this place? At the end, when the blood finished coating the land and the fight ended, the dead were revived by the hands of those far more powerful than she.

Acyutani only had control over the soul, but by then the body had long since begun to rot or existed no more. Imagine though, power over life and death itself, power beyond that of the blade. That was something she could never accomplish and in a way, felt relief over it.

The warrior’s foot sunk into the sand. The small grains scrambled over each other as they desperately fell in a small tide to cover the black boot and hide it from the scorching sun. His leg rose. The heavy boot and the foot inside rose quickly to meet her blade and her stomach. She shifted. With a burst of strength, she pushed back against his blade, forcing it away from her as she pulled Uriahd closer to her body. Her body twisted to the side. Her feet danced and glided through the sand, and his foot missed the packed muscle of her stomach by a mere inch, leaving his leg completely open.

Corded muscle bunched and tensed. Acyutani twirled around the nameless blade in her right hand. Even as his body moved, she lashed out. The sharpened edged armed for his inner thigh, attempting to cut through material and soft skin alike and find the vein that ran underneath. She knew it was there. The move had been performed on her before, had nearly killed her before. And now she attempted to kill another with it.

Then as swiftly as her blade moved, he fell away from her. His body roughly hit the sand and with a finesse that belied his size, Nyadir rolled through the soft ground and came to a crouched position, putting what he assumed to be a safe distance between them. Sand fell from his clothes as he shifted and tried to quickly come to his feet, while others stuck to his skin, creating a rough pattern along the much smoother surface. Whether her attack had gone through and her blade had tasted flesh, she did not know. At this point, she had no time to find out.

She dropped the nameless blade in her right hand. It hit the sand and stayed there, embedded within the grains. Her fingers did not stay empty for long. Within them, a throwing dagger appeared. The length of it no more than five inches and the blade glowed a blue deeper than that of the sky. She pulled her hand back and threw the knife towards Nyadir, aiming directly for his heart.

[Ebivoulya]

Once more the mortal was rendered deaf by the beating of his own heart, and with each pump a growing excitment and anticipation shot up his spine. Already was the wanderer locked in battle with yet another foe, and this time it might've been the one to finally grant him peace were it not for those waiting to revive the loser. He admittedly felt cheated out of a glorious death, and with the realization of his pointless situation the blade slinger almost lost interest. He momentarily entertained the thought of simply allowing Acyutanti her victory and taking his chances with the assassins most likely waiting on his exit from the Pagoda. Though their skill couldn't hold a candle to hers, their actions carried the irrevocable weight of death which, quite frankly, was the driving force beneath the blood lust in his heart. It ultimately mattered not who died, be it himself or his enemies, but only that death did enter unwelcome into the world of the living once more, and steal away the warmth from another wayward body. Even though he sought the respite of the end, it would only come through one who could both defeat him, and the wicked anomaly within, which thrived on pain and wished to gorge itself on the lives of others.

The first sign of danger to greet excited and over-calculating half-elven senses was a great strength erupting from the deceptively thin woman, throwing back his larger blade before his true strike even met success. This change brought alarm and uncertainty, and whispered to him silently of an attack found out, and a weakness of which his foe would surely take advantage. Had she the sense of someone of her skill, she would go for the exposed artery on the inside of his leg. It was an easy and lethal target given his position, and given her speed he would not be able to wait around for her to begin her counter-attack to be certain. He regretted his descision to attempt an assault which left him so open, realizing now just what it would really take to defeat this woman, but at the very least he could give his malicious subconcious an enticing show. As his blade flew up and away from battle, and his foe, the swordsman reversed his grip on it, swinging it down behind him even as he abandoned his kick mid-air. This change in momentum came in time with his opponent's expert dodge, and he found himself morbidly impressed but with no time to admire her skill. It was not fear that gripped him as he realized from her rotation that she did intend to exploit the weakest point in his attack, but a sick anticipation of the glorious lifeblood soon to be spilled and the waves of pain which would wash his hesitation from him and bring an unusual clarity to his mind.

His foe's graceful spin brought one of her weapons bearing down on his outstretched leg, which he had twisted inward as it extended to protect the vital area of his inner thigh with fleshy muscle. Her ethereal weapon cut unnaturally silent through the searing air, and her strike rang true. A circular eruption of blood spewed from his earthen pants as the weapon passed through at least an inch of muscle, its exit through the other side trailed by a stream of crimson. The half-elf couldn't help but twist his grimace into a grin at her predictable attack as he brought the added momentum of his blade left over from Acyutanti's show of strength up to meet her slender wrist just as her weapon passed through his flesh. With what strength he could muster in his other leg the swordsman leapt back before he even saw his strike find its mark. He trusted from his calculations and his deduction of of her attack pattern that his blade would find skin before her weapon could be withdrawn, and it would feast gloriously when it did. He imagined it drinking deeply of her blood, grateful to its master for the glorious meal yet discontent with its maltreatment, much in the way he loved and loathed both the demon within him, and the man who put it there.

It was a peaceful and endless repose the swordsman enjoyed as his bulky body flew from the scene of the battle, his senses heightened by both the excitement of the situation, and the pain which now coursed through him. Despite his racing mind; no, perhaps because of it time seemed to stretch immemorial, all his careful planning and thought lost to the intoxicating sensation emenating from the gash in his leg. It reminded him so fondly of the eternities he spent in what he could only assume was some other realm of silence and desperation, flame and frost, a seemingly cliche dimension of damnation, but unnervingly effective to those trapped within its horrid grasp. It was during this most beautiful and endless of moments a disquieting rumble grew from within like the deep-bellied growl of some monsterous dragon. It was during this moment the great beast snorted in its slumber and opened one great eye upon the world of the living and the dying. Yet again, with growing interest and awareness, the creature laid its gaze upon the land, and yet again the swordsman felt that chilling feeling of staring out at the world from within a worthless shell.

A rough grunt flew up from the sand as his muscled torso landed, rolling awkwardly and painfully away from the fray. He needed more distance to heal his wound and fortify his body for the next exchange. Before he even rose from the sand which still clung to his sweaty skin in patches, his blade was buried in the ground and his dagger was ripped from its sheath. In what normally would have been one smooth movement the swordsman clumsily cut the leather ties on his boot while the blood soaking his other pant leg tantalized him with the aroma of death, and deftly slid the dagger back into its sheath at his waist. He began his next attack before he even noticed one of her hands empty itself and a much smaller throwing knife appear in its grasp. It was on pure instinct he chose that moment to act rather than assessing the situation first, something completely unlike, and yet such an integral part of him now. His injury prevented him from supporting his weight on that leg, and thus by gripping the hilt of his earthbound blade and kicking powerfully with his right leg the swordsman supported himself on his weapon. It sank even deeper into the sand as his foot whipped around, toes curling up to keep his boot from flying off until the time was right.

Acyutanti's blade was already airborne when he made his strike, her arm only now retracting from a powerful throw. In his intoxicated excitement the half-elf couldn't even tell if she had been injured by his counter-attack, and he only noticed the knife she threw as it slid over her lithe fingers and into the waiting air. Through the distance between them two weapons soared, one a tool of death wrought of the spirit and mind, and the other a tool of protection wrought of leather and steel. They passed eachother mid-air on their respective paths of pain, but luckily for the swordsman his weight had driven the blade deeper into the sand than he had expected. The vital areas of his chest and head fell out of the path of the dagger, leaving instead his right shoulder exposed, underneath which crusted bandages still covered an earlier wound. The weapon which seemingly called itself from thin air met his flesh, ripping through the skin as it passed. The wound was not as deep as the one on his leg, a mere annoyance in comparison, but the pain; that glorious sensation which reminded him that he was, indeed, still alive splashed as invigorating waves into the shore of his craving mind.

Burning sand met his bare and calloused foot as he landed on the other side of his weapon, spiraling into the grains as he spun to view the damage dealt and watch for her next attack. He dropped to the knee of his still-bleeding leg as he completed his rotation and tightly pressed his left hand to the wound, searching within himself for the tiny spark of power granted him upon accepting into himself the malicious parasite of a soul which unceasingly plagued his mind. Another grunt escaped his cracked lips both has he pulled the blade from the sand with one muscled arm, and began to channel energy into his wound to stitch the muscle and mend the flesh. His efforts would be for naught if his boot, which he had flung viciously at her face, failed to distract her for at least three seconds. He would be unable to strengthen his body in such a short time, but at the very least he could restore his mobility to some extent and hopefully put enough distance between them to prepare himself. The folly in not doing this at the very start of the fight was all too evident to him now. It was not fear that gripped him as he poured as much concentration into his leg as his blood-drunk mind could manage, but desperation; if he couldn't mend himself in time he would be forced to defend his life and create another opening from a position of immobility and vulnerability.

[Iriah Caitrak]

Adrenaline rushed through her veins, in time with the steadily increasing beats of her heart that seemed to thunder throughout her chest and her body like the drums of war. She could feel the effects of it as it seeped into her muscles and poured deep into her extremities, making them feel similar to a rushing river that cannot wait to go somewhere and do something, but unsure of exactly what that’s supposed to be. If she stopped moving now, she knew that her hands would be shaking and her legs would struggle to keep her off the ground, but if she kept moving, the river had a release and the river would not surge and threaten to pool within her. Deep within her, she could feel the darkness stirring, that one small part of her that was no more a part of her and no less an integral piece of her soul now, thanks to Iren. It danced and shifted within the cage she placed around it, pressing into the bars and reaching out with wisps of blackness that one could call a mockery of an arm. It reached and it got nowhere. By now, Acyutani could ignore the calls as they echoed within her mind and her soul, the ones that spoke and promised of power if only for a little taste of the world and the blood of the races that lived within it. That was the only price for the moment, a loss of self control and the blood of the innocents and as far as Acyutani was concerned, it was a price too much. So it reached out and she strengthened the bars around it, keeping it locked deep within her; she did not need its help to win this battle. She did, however, need to keep her mind more focused.

By focusing her attention on Abhrapatha for even the second that she had, it left her without eyes properly trained and focusing on Nyadir, a dangerous move in battle. When her blade left her fingers, she took that precious moment to turn inward. Were he here, she’d be flat on her back and staring straight into the shining edge of his sword, as it balanced mere centimetres from the tip of her nose. He would have berated her, mocked her even and told her to get up and try again until she could keep her focus straight, until she was just like him; an emotionless killing machine. In a way, he had succeeded, her focused could at times be merely infallible, but in her mind it seemed more important to lose that precious second if to prevent herself from becoming a monster. She’d almost killed him by not doing it in battle once before, he knew the dangers if the focus and restrain within her mind failed over the focus of her eyes.

The silver of her blade flashed through the air, giving him that brief moment of warning before it tasted flesh. And as she pulled back her hand, her eyes widened and watched his boot come flying through the air towards her. Her mind knew she didn’t have the time to move out of the way before her body did and pure instinct drove her, to turn her face to the side and bring her arms up to cover it, even as drops of blood slowly trickled down her palm and fell from her fingers. The hard and brown sole of the boot and the steel weight within the material added to its momentum as it slammed into her jaw and cheek, causing her to let out a small cry of surprise. Pain erupted and spread across the side of Acyutani’s face and as the boot fell away part of it tugged and pulled at the dark red shawl that covered her head, moving it aside to reveal short strands of purple hair. Her feet shifted, causing sand to fly into the air and dance through the wind as her right foot shifted back to restore the balance she had temporarily lost.

Ignoring the blunt pain as it throbbed and pulse throughout her face, Acyutani focused her blurred vision on the bright sand once more. The muscles within her body tensed and her fingers remained tight around the handle of Uriahd, expecting an immediate follow through with the attack, something that would attempt to end the beats of her heart; but nothing came at her. Instead, her black eyes found Nyadir kneeling upon the sand, the corded muscles in his neck and shoulders tense as he apparently focused on something. Narrowing her dark eyes upon him, Acyutani tensed her legs and pushed forward, the spray of sand following her steps as her feet dug into the substance. Bringing her arm diagonally across her chest, the Akhetamikan warrior stretched her arm out as hard and as fast as she could, sending the long and curved weapon sailing through the air; though the aim appeared to be off, to her, she knew it soared towards the exact target she wanted it to. It spun, the blade glinting and reflecting the light of the sun as it whooshed through the air and then impacted inches in front of Nyadir’s feet, causing a spray of sand to rush up and ascend towards his face.

Hoping that he would either move to block the annoying grains of rock, or that they would find themselves embedded within the sensitive flesh of his eyeball, Acyutani kept moving. Her hands did not stay empty for long, but unlike this time, the long pole of a Naginata formed from the air, created by her mind and her soul. Its long and slender pole stretched to the length of her body and then tipped itself with the same curved and sharp blade that her Half Swallows possessed, only upon the end of this weapon tassels of string and feather fell inches away, meant to distract the eye of her enemy. Two feet from her opponent, Acyutani brought the blade of the weapon behind her and using both of her hands, she rent the air as she brought it diagonally towards Nyadir’s neck and face.

[Ebivoulya]

A glaring, golden eye stared down at a pair of souls locked in conflict from the sky above, beat down onto the hot yellow sand, and called forth sweat from every pore. No wind blew to save the duet from the heat, and no rain fell to quench their thirst and replenish their stamina with the steady pitter of water falling upon them. Instead they fought through the torridity, fought through the sweat, and buckets of it were pouring from the unshaven face of the kneeling swordsman before the sun had even left the company of the horizon. A dull blue glow engulfed the gushing wound in his leg and quickly the bleeding stopped. No attention was being paid to the outside world, and for the moment it was distracting and useless, so in that moment the blade slinger decided to risk closing his eyes for a boost in concentration. He was already visualizing his wound and its repair as his eyelids shut for the briefest yet longest of moments, and noticing this preoccupation the demonic hunger within roared forth once more and gripped the mind of the sword-swinging barbarian voraciously from the shaded corners behind his awareness. It seeped and oozed like blood from every small crack and nook in the mortal man's psyche, of which there were certainly enough for the demon's needs.

It was a deep and heavy blackness which engulfed him as his eyes closed, a singular point of azure light in the center representing his focus and flickering like a star in the night sky. It grew brighter as he pushed more of himself into the wound, praying to whatever gods would listen to give him the time he needed. Even though his eyes were merely closed, the place in which he was had a strange feel to it, a distant familiarity which he couldn't quite place. He didn't have the time to worry about it, and ponderously the shadows closed in as if to contradict his dismissal. They shifted ceaselessly and threatened to engulf the blue becon which represented his concentration on mending his leg. The inviting dark called in hurried whispers, and was permeated by the distant scraping of metal chains across stone. His parched mouth, which opened to speak questioningly into the black, found the taste of ash unexpected but familiar, and mixed with the smell of sulfur were whisps of delicious food though none lay visible. It was a lobby of shadows with demonic bell-hops taunting all with an unseen feast and merriment to be had just beyond invisible doors of indescribable gravity and weight, and it was no small feat to pull himself from that blackness and back into the world of the living before he lost control completely.

A flash of brilliant yellow and white solidified into a scene the half-elf had seen moments before, and he inwardly gasped at the unexpected depth of the world behind his eyes as his breaths drew quick and deep from the mental struggle of both healing his leg, and retaining his individuality in the middle of and endless and faceless black. He remembered almost fondly the hot and heavy air which pushed its way burning and uncomfortable into his lungs, so unwanted yet undeniably familiar and comfortable. It was to his great joy that he beheld the golden sand as it was tainted maroon with the life and pain of this woman who very well could still defeat him. His stubble-covered lips curled viciously into a smirk which he could not control, nor did he want to, and some small part of him in the very back of his mind thought back to how he was before, and what his graceful and gentle mother would think of her child now. It was with a mixture of shame and anger he thought back to her face and their house, the mountains always visible in the distance to the North, and yet again a demanding regret gripped him as he thought of her death. To his chagrin, one even smaller piece even further back in his mind actually enjoyed the thought of her death, and more disturbing was the distinct feeling that the pleasure was his alone.

As a shower of yellow cascaded back down from the air Acyutanti caught her balance and immediately she was on guard again, despite how blurry her vision must've been after taking such a hit from his flying boot. The swordsman quickly stuck his massive blade in the sand once more, this time unsheathing his dagger, cutting the ties on his other boot, and resheathing it in one smooth motion as he normally would. Her muscles twitched in expectation of another attack, and in this time the muscle fibers closest to the swordsman's bone reformed and the gash became a shallow cut, though he still needed one more precious second to completely close the wound. It was a second ungranted, and as the woman's eyes met his own, which already exhibited thin swirls of crimson around the edges of his irises, the larger man's lips parted completely. His malicious smile turned into a madman's grin before she even left her position to make another attack. He knew full well what anger and pain rushed through her, and the mere thought of it was so invigorating he found himself not caring that he wouldn't be able to close the wound in time; blood was coming, and plenty more would be spilt upon the searing sands before this fight was over.

The first attack which she chose to unleash as she sprinted forward could've been very effective had her aim been what it should've been, but the blade slinger realized the nature of her distraction as he followed the path of her blade to the many granules of sand directly in front of him; it was a distraction. He needed only to duck slightly for his earthbound blade to block the irritating grains of sand, and he decided that if she wanted to play with distractions he should give her something fun to deal with. His leg was healed enough for everything short of sprinting, though he would have to favor it until he could completely close the cut. One muscled arm gripped the handle of his upside-down sword, and as the woman swung her newfound polearm behind her in preparation for a strike, he grunted loudly as he pulled the blade from the sand and released it mid-air, reversing its momentum at the last second to give it a deadly spin. Its trajectory wouldn't take it through the chest of Acyutanti unless she stepped forward even more, but that was not the purpose of its deadly rotation. Such an erratic attack path would force her to either stop her assault completely lest she knock the blade off course and through one of her legs, or step back to safely avoid the hazard. Hopefully she wasn't so skilled she could stop his weapon's momentum immediately, or his distraction would have been for nothing.

The swordsman dove to his opponent's right as she brought her much longer weapon around from the left to attack, and as his back hit the ground he rolled back onto his knees. His right arm had latched onto his dagger with fingers enveloped in leather. With a glance to his rear, he drew the smaller blade from its sheath at his waist and stabbed behind and to the right of him as he twisted his torso and put his weight onto his right knee. The shift in his center of gravity was both to keep as much use in his left leg as he could, and to prepare for another kick with his other steel-plated boot which, given the right direction, could be slung off his foot or remain as a shield between her steel and his flesh. Undoubtedly if she did not enjoy his fatally flung distraction, he would certainly enjoy digging the iron of his dagger into the soft flesh of her thigh, or perhaps the vulnerable network of veins on the inside of her knee. The crimson swirls in the edges of the half-elven man's eyes grew thicker and more numerous, and the sadistic grin never left his face despite grains of sand becomming stuck in his teeth. He was in his element now, and no thoughts of worthlessness or inconsequentiality would deny him the pleasure from this fight.

[Iriah Caitrak]

The sword he had swung widely at her body had been a distraction meant to throw the trajectory of her Naginata off course and away from his flesh and sadly it had worked. Her eyes had seen that it would not hit her, but while her blade swept the air, Nyadir expertly avoided the attack and rolled away from her, spraying sand in all directions. It clung to him like a second skin and Acyutani knew only too well just how uncomfortable it must feel to grate and rub against what exposed skin it could; sand really did have a habit of getting just about everywhere. Jerking her hand back against the shaft of the Naginata, she redirected the momentum of the blade and swiftly brought the weapon back in close, unsure of a counter from the lithe and now sadistic looking man. Her body spun as he moved away from her, never truly allowing him to see an opening in any part of her body. Whether it be her side or her back, Acyutani did not want to leave it open to him. Truly, the more they fought and the more intense the battle became, the closer to the surface that darkness within him seemed to come leaving the Akhetamikan wondering just how much longer he could hold it back, or if he even bothered to try anymore. The twisted look of insane pleasure on his face made her wonder. He, this Nyadir D’Var, clearly enjoyed this much more than she ever would and that fact made her wonder why what she was doing here beyond looking for some kind of blind second chance the fates would never give her. Acyutani seemed so far removed from the lust of battle that she could only seem to justify this as training, just like she used to do with him.

“Keep your arms parallel to your shoulders.”

“Do not keep your legs so tense and straight, bend your knees and place your weight on the balls of your feet.”

“Your wrists are too tense, your attacks will never flow like that; loosen them!”

“Do it again, attack me again and this time be more mindful of your surroundings.”

“Make sure that every strike you make counts, never waste a single one and always go for the kill.”

She had been wasting her moves. As each one came and went before her, she went for the easy strike, the simple move that would injure her opponent and possibly incapacitate him, but nothing that could be classified as a truly killing blow. Without even realizing it, she had been playing it safe and keeping it close to home all for a simple reason. Even now, after all of those weeks of training with him and lessons from him and having his mindset forced upon her; Acyutani could still not bring herself to kill a person. Even in this world where the death would not be permanent, where the body would be revived afterwards and the soul would never know true freedom from the mortal shell, she could not bring herself to kill. She thought she could in the beginning of this battle and had been confident in that ability, but in the end it seemed she had not changed much at all. The Akhetamikan warrior could cover her face with cloth and change the colour of her eyes, but underneath all of that she was still the same person and that person still had a hard time bringing herself to kill.

How could she expect herself to survive and hold rank within a place such as this if she could not kill her opponents? Even Gareth had been spared the killing blow from her blade, but she had beaten him to within an inch of his life and left his blood flowing all over his little arena with its tall grass and rocks and rushing waters. Did it even matter in the end whether or not her opponents creased breathing or left this place with their heart still beating? She didn’t know and could only ever try. In the end though, it came down to the fact that she needed to stop shying away from that fatal blow otherwise she would never be able to turn herself into a true warrior beyond the dealings with death she already had her claim to. She’d been in enough situations already to know that sometimes her blades need not only be used on the wandering souls of this world, but the living flesh as well. Of course, unlike most people, Acyutani did have a certain ability that could help her with this. Why she hadn’t used it by now she didn’t know, for it would certainly make this dilemma so much easier to solve.

Facing Nyadir once more, her eyes took in the cut strings of his boots and Acyutani couldn’t help but smile underneath the creased material covering her face. No one got away with using the same attack on her twice. Her black eyes watched the man as her bloody fingers released the Naginata and let it drop to the sand the same time she began moving towards him. Halfway there, the bladed pole arm disappeared as if it had never existed. The wound upon her wrist throbbed and pulsed in time with the erratic and excited beats of her heart. It would have been much worse and possibly even sliced through necessary tendons if not for her leather armguards. Though the sword had cut through its resistant material, it had slowed it down to the point that all she received was a shallow and annoying cut. Nearing him, she watched the muscles in his leg and arm tense as he prepared for her coming attack. With only a few feet between them, Acyutani ducked and pushed off the sand, fluidly rolling the last few feet towards Nyadir.

Sand stuck to her sweat slick skin, rubbing against it and creating an annoying itching feel as it slithered through her robes like questing hands searching for her most private and covered areas. Coming to a stop at a crouch, the Akhetamikan quickly formed the Half Swallow Uriahd in her right hand, the deadly and curved blade glowed a light blue that could rival the colour of the sky. Her left hand remained empty, but ready at a moment’s notice should this attack fail in its purpose. Thrusting her blade towards Nyadir’s heart and right where his Thread of Fate lay, Acyutani watched as he thrust his much smaller dagger towards the meaty part of her thigh. A quick thought later and a mere moment before the tip of the blade pierced her skin, a layer of steel wrapped itself around her leg, filling the air with the sounds of vibrating metal as his dagger pinged off the piece of armour.

[Ebivoulya]

In a tumultous sea of black and red a single eye surveyed the world outside the fleshy shell of its host, plotting its awakening unbeknownst to the man within which it dwelled. Waves of hate and pain crashed against the shores of the mortal mind, weakening its defenses and slipping silently into every thought like a devilish stowaway. On the surface the half-elf was enjoying the brutality of this fight almost too much, grinning at all the blood spilled, and that which was yet to be freed of its living container. His malicious smile changed to a disappointed frown but for a moment as Acyutanti slithered out of his grasp with another delicate spin, and the crimson in his eyes swirled furiously. The swordsman leapt away from his opponent, and his sword, and backpedaled a few paces to rest a mere stone's toss to the side of one of the obsidian pillars gripping the emblazoned sky.

Sleep.

An inescapable vertigo grabbed him, and left him feeling as if he'd managed to finish a barrel of ale without passing out or purging. The command, which was at first but random shards of sound, formed itself into a single, resonating word. It was at the culmination of this grating communication the blade slinger was forced to close his eyes, and upon opening them it seemed that all had returned to normal. In truth the eyes of the man with the two-handed sword had already been dulled and distracted with blood, turned inward to a world not unlike this one while his body did the bidding of the malicious and malcontent soul Malnmre. It had greedily stolen the awareness and ability of its host while trapping him in a realistic dream to dissuade him from any attempts to regain control. It was the tortured and tyrranical soul which he was bound to that had the upper hand in the struggle at the moment, and the mortal man's efforts would be pointless unless he realized this fact and awoke from the dream in which he was trapped.

It was a gloriously laid plan the half-elf executed in the fight against this woman which was now taking place in an arena constructed within his mind. Despite his many observations and calculations his improved sight had not noticed the small differences between this realm and the one in which his body was fighting; the sun was on the opposite side of the sky, the sand was no longer hot on his bare feet, and the wound he recieved before he began this battle in the Dajas Pagoda was gone completely, including the bandages. None of that mattered to his intoxicated psyche, however, and his grin widened as the dagger found its mark, pouring even more delicious crimson down onto the fabricated sand of a reality which didn't actually exist. There would be no controlling the actions of his demonic counterpart as it wreaked havoc in the world outside, no enjoying the true battle; this mortal would be resigned to play in a make-believe sandbox of his own design until such time as he gazed at the sky with his true eyes and saw through this facade.

In the real arena of the Dajas Pagoda, that of the Warrior Acyutanti, events were proceeding much differently. The normally black irises of the half-elven warrior were now tainted a solid red, signaling the posession of his body, and giving the demonic presence the smallest of insights into the mind of the woman before it. As one gloved hand reached for the dagger at its waist and cut through the leather ties on its other boot, the other hand was placed over the wound on its leg once more. The possessed swordsman lay crouched numerous paces away from its prey as she turned and dropped her weapon into the sand, the trickling streams of crimson running down her hand leaving stains on its metal shaft. By the time the dagger was resheathed and Acyutanti had taken but a few tenative steps forward, the wound had been completely mended and closed, leaving only blood stains and torn cloth in its wake. Immediately the conciousness of Malnmre began focusing the remaining two-thirds of its energy stores into all the muscles in the body of its mortal host, causing them to contract and harden considerably. Its weight due to muscle mass was reduced by a few pounds along with a noticeable slimming of its bulky frame, but the strength and speed those muscles were capable of increased by approximately fifty percent.

While still concentrating the remainder of the energy into its body, the shell of a sword fighter watched in curious amazement as the blade she'd dropped in the sand simply vanished, grains filling the gap left behind as if it had never been there. She dove forward and elegantly rolled across the remaining land between them in a move which would've been far sloppier had the half-elf been executing it. Her swift approach forced the possessed mind to abandon its attempt to infuse the last remaining third of its energy into its body, instead saving that for the possibility of another wound or the eventuality of its exhaustion. In a quick attempt to slow down her movements one mortal hand drew the iron dagger from its sheath once more and thrust it towards her exposed thigh. It was with a mixture of frustration and curiosity that the soul Malnmre viewed steel flow and wrap around her skin as if liquid, deflecting its attack in an instant. In that instant a counter-attack began, one of the familiar weapons from before forming in her hand and diving towards the heart of the kneeling swordsman as it abandoned its dagger, dropping the blade into the sand below to free up its hand.

Acyutanti's glowing weapon came deftly through the air between them in an exact thrust aimed for its heart. With no shield, and its sword too far away, the possessed blade slinger drew upon the pent up energy which it had just infused into its muscles to pull its back down to the ground much faster than gravity could ever accomplish. One strong kick from its left leg tore up from the sand as the glowing blue weapon of the Pagoda Warrior slid through the mortal shoulder of Malnmre and shot intense, invigorating pain into every piece of its mind. There was no physical damage, but the sensation was undeniable and much appreciated; it sharped the focus of the demon, gave its usually indifferent mind motivation and meaning. As its back hit the sand and it stared up at the woman from beside her, its left leg flew up from the sand with a speed and strength greater than that which was at its disposal at the begnning of this fight. It was only through redirecting the intense pain the demonic mind felt that it kept its focus enough to twist itself and aim its only foot still protected by steel across its body and directly into her side, a move which would send her tumbling and give the demon a moment to retrieve its sword. Unfortunately, it would only be able to manage a few more bursts of speed and strength before its accumulated energy ran dry and it returned to its normal ability level.