Round 2: Vigil Vs Jonah T Barnham

[Silence Sei]

You have 2 weeks to complete your battle, may the best man win!

[Vigil]

Tossing more kindling into the fire, Liam listened as it crackled hungrily and watched while the orange flames danced over the timber as it began to char, ebbing in and out of his vision. Embers hopped from the fire and sought purchase in the surrounding snow, disappearing in tiny wisps of steam. Sitting on a log next to his bedroll, the Irishman warmed his hands by the fire until his palms began to sweat. The nourishing warmth kept his joints from getting stiff and allowed his hands to remain limber. Even as he began to sweat and the heat started to make him uncomfortable, he kept close. The old man had a feeling he would need his hands soon, and he could not use his blade with numb fingers. Occasionally, Liam looked up into the surrounding wilderness and into the dark, but found to his satisfaction that he remained alone and his keen senses were still left unchallenged. On his lap, his swordcane rested with the tip of the cane resting on his boot instead of on the cold, wet earth out of respect for his weapon. He was always at his ready, and seeing as the man he expected was already a day late, he found the desire to sleep leave him. Instead, his mind was filled with dread at the thoughts of an ambush or a rogue waiting behind one of the thick, frosted oaks to wait for him to leave the safety of his campfire to relieve himself before striking. It was unlikely, but Liam hadn't lived this long without weighing the risks he was taking, or making a few assumptions.

As time drew painstakingly on with dumb, elephantine steps, Liam Duigenan's mind began to wander away from the camp and to different places. He was in the foothills of northern Uroda. It was the only part of the Salvarian steppes that received any snowfall at all. The foothills served as the borderlands between the steppes and the tundra of Skavia. It was a cold, desolate place that saw the enmity of winter all year round. There were few dirt roads up in these parts that connected both the tundra and the steppes, and the woodlands that rested in the foothills grew thick, rugged and tall with age. It was easy to get lost and the few that traveled outside of the caravan stuck to the roads. Without a good woodsman as a guide or a compass, it was likely that you would find yourself drifting further and further into the tundra. All it would take is a whiteout or a wild beast in these savage lands and your remaining life would be measured in seconds. Liam had learned all of this from the old woodsmen and trappers who had learned hard lessons and paid steep prices for succumbing to wanderlust.

An old, scarred man by the name of Djorar had warned Liam at the lodge he bought supplies at of the dangers of journeying into the wilderness alone. The man was older than the Irishman and had a good twenty years on him. His hands and face were gnarled by frostbite and his body weathered by the elements. One of his ears was missing and his injury's origin was a tale he told happily to any traveler. He would do anything to warn them from wandering into the wilds alone and unprepared. He had been a trapper looking to seek camp with his friends further into the tundra years ago. It was the middle of the season and he and his friends were getting ready to trap beaver and other small varmints for their pelts. Accompanied by a dog and with the bravado of a young man who had been untested, he had let his friends go on a day ahead of him as he met his carnal needs with a nameless whore in a mining camp. He had set off early in the morning with a red sky and all the makings of a blizzard. With compass and map, the young trapper traveled across the tundra for hours until the storm hit. The blizzard was harsh and unrelenting, allowing snow to fall by the foot. A whiteout forced him to halt his journey and find cover and fast, for death found those in the tundra no faster then those who lost themselves in the middle of a storm. Striking a torch when he found the entrance to the mouth of a cave, he journeyed inside. Djorar had followed after his dog, desperate to escape the brunt of the elements. He ignored the foul smelling stench of urine and knew not the scent of rotting meat that permeated the air around the mouth of the cave. Soon, in the darkness with the blizzard to his back, the trapper came face to face with a Kodiak who stood between him and her young.

Watching the old trapper rub the gnarled remains of his ear, Liam found he could draw the rest of what happened from his own imagination. Still, even as the old men conversed and shared stories, the Irishmen let his pride get the better of him. Rather then have a guide or wait for the snow from the last blizzard melt, he bought supplies and went on alone. He had left the lodge with the story of Djorar in his mind and the warning he gave him. Liam stuck to the dirt roads and eventually made his way into the foothills, but he knew better then to stay out where any highwayman could come at him in his sleep. Instead, when Liam found he had ventured into the foothills enough, he went off the path and retrieved great round stones and stacked them on the side of the road and above the snow. He built the cairn so it pointed in the direction he was headed and he set off into the wilderness. Against all advice and wisdom given to him by men hardened by brutal, unforgiving lessons given by Nature, Liam journeyed off the path and half a mile into the wilderness. There, he built a campfire and a lean-to near three great trees. Knowing better then to sabotage himself, he had knocked the several hundred pounds of snow from the boughs of the tree to keep him safe from an unsuspecting thaw that ruin his campfire and potentially kill him. At that spot, Liam camped for the better part of a week waiting for the arrival of his next adversary. It hadn't been hard, and for the last four days he had remained alone. He only left the campsite to search for wild game or to relieve himself. Otherwise, he kept his hands busy by whittling.

Now, in the darkness of his fifth day in the foothills of Uroda, Liam began to grow impatient. A man he knew to be Jonah was late and the Irishman found himself beginning to lose his nerve with each passing hour. He had enough supplies for two more days before he had to return, but he was only staying another night as far as he was concerned. Unlike the infamous Breaker who never showed back in Radasanth, Liam would not wait another two weeks in the cold for a man he knew would not show. Still, there was time left, and Liam distracted himself by looking from his fire and into the night sky. Above him upon a canvas of dark purples and dazzling blues melted into velvet black was a sea of stars that dappled the dark sky. It was a sight that struck Liam profoundly, and it was something he knew could not be witnessed in the likes of a city like Radasanth. Looking to where the moon should be, the old man found it waxing and at least drew some comfort in that fact.

At his camp he grown accustomed to, Liam warmed his hands by the fire, sitting on that heavy, birch log that had been covered in moss. Quietly, he waited for that fateful meeting, staring off into the cold darkness.

(Source material used for setting found here.)

[Jonah T. Barnham]

Snow clung to boots better suited for the dirt and dust of ages past, turning tan leather dark where it melted. The night’s chill soaked into the canvas of Jonah Barnham’s coat, the denim of his trousers, doing its level best to suck the warmth from his skin and bones, clear to the very marrow of his being. The archaeologist paused for the tenth time this hour to knock snow from the treads in an attempt to lighten his steps, grimacing at the clear path of trampled snow he’d left all the way back to the stone near the road.

At least you’ll be able to find your way back, he thought, grimly, If Liam Duigenan doesn’t kill you first. And the marker wasn't a clever ploy to lure you out so you die slowly from the elements.

He knew nothing of his opponent beyond that name – he’d been given it and a roughly sketched map, guiding him to where they were to meet. The map had been wrong. Jonah had to force himself to accept that fact as he trudged through the Uroda Foothills, trying not to flinch against the darkness surrounding him. He’d lost at least a day of travel to that scrap of parchment, and his supplies were running out.

Despite that thought, he shoved another strip of dried beef into his mouth, trying to stave off the hunger in his belly. The sound of chewing distracted him from his own thoughts for a moment, even as he heard the sound of heavy claws crushing through the snow. He swallowed, and held out the last handful of jerky.

It was taken from his cold-clumsy fingers almost delicately, though he could feel hot breath against his knuckles, see the billowing gouts of steam as his familiar devoured the offered food and looked up for more, hunger burning everbright in her yellow eyes. “That’s all,” he murmured, though his voice still sounded loud in the snow-bound stillness. “We’re in big trouble if we don’t find…” he didn’t finish the sentence. The raptor was already prowling off, stalking after some prey that he couldn’t see or hear. “…this guy who’ll try to kill me,” he finished, lamely, regardless. He puffed out a breath of air, and resumed his journey.

The effort of making his way through the snow seemed unfair. It was almost a mercy when he finally reached the woods. They were at least three miles off from where the tree-line was marked on his map: deep, old, and dark. The oaks and pines towered above his head, biting chunks out of the stars with blackened teeth, but they held the worst of the snow at bay. The tiny, flickering light of his mining helmet, however, did little against the darkness. He could feel it pawing at his back as he walked, licking at the sweat that beaded his spine.

Soon, though, the familiar smell of smoke met his nose; rich and welcoming after the scentless tundra scouring his nostrils with every breath. He took a step further, and the flames that had been eclipsed by a stand of oaks came into view. His fingers ached at the sight, but instead of bursting into the clearing (like his body desperately wanted to do), he tugged off one glove and pinched out the light from his helmet. He shucked off his pack, carrying it in his left hand while he reached beneath his coat to loosen the knives on his belt.

A more tactically minded man would have, perhaps, been able to work this to his advantage: set up an ambush, lure his opponent from the camp. Jonah was…far closer to a scholar than he was to a tactician, and so he stepped closer to the campfire, one foot deliberately landing on a seasons-dried branch. It snapped with a crack that seemed to echo against the tree trunks, and he tensed, waiting for a greeting or (more likely) an attack of some sort.

[Vigil]

(Bunnying approved.)

Liam ran his knife slowly along the remnants of his last potato that he was peeling, trying to keep his hands dangerously close to the fire to keep from shivering as he concentrated on not cutting himself. Whenever he sliced off a piece, Liam reached up and bent closer in order to throw the remains into an old iron pot that hung above the fire. Every now and again, he would stop what he was doing and take a wooden spoon to stir the pot's thick, viscous contents as it continued to boil. Smelling the fragrant, frozen air, the old man watched as the potatoes he added joined carrots, chunks of venison, and onions that bubbled in the sea of that delicious brown stew. With one last glance that caused him to begin salivating, Liam closed the pot and waited. He had grown tired of sitting alone in silence and the uneasiness that filled him. If he was going to be here another day, the old man was convinced he might as well expend a bit of supplies into a late night meal that would raise his spirits. It was working. Liam's nerves couldn't take any more, having already endured the feeling of his imminent doom when he chose to meet with Cronen weeks earlier. Nor had it helped that he had taken the pilgrimage up here on the promise of another opportunity. If he continued to keep himself as high strung as he had been during the last couple of weeks, the old man was convinced he was going to come unhinged.

It was only a matter of time.

For his health and peace of mind, Liam chose to turn his thoughts to more pleasant avenues to keep himself distracted. What was once a distant memory found at the bottom of a glass of whiskey and a napkin covered in lipstick, the old man remembered Jana, a woman from a bar he had begun to frequent in his summer excursions on the Coronian Coast. She was a few inches shorter then he was and possessed the weathered, plump look of most women in their forties that had raised a family. Her husband had been a miner before he had died years ago in a cave-in, leaving her widowed at the time when she had two teenage sons. Henry and Robert, she had said, were off raising their own families and tending to their own lives that she was left alone and drifting in a life that she had spent the majority of doing things for other people. She was an alcoholic and spent a lot of her time in bars nowadays, but Liam had become attracted to her. Even as he stared into the campfire and watched it burn, he could feel his own fire burning within his heart that seemed to make the cold melt away. As he thought of his long nights with her and times they spent at the coast, Liam longed to return to his vacation. He began to remember the smell of her chestnut brown hair and that aged perfume she used. Those soft, blue eyes and the sound of her chortling laughter sent ripples down his spine. In truth, the memory of Jana was beginning to arouse him and the more he thought of their time apart, the old man felt his heart ache.

As he continued to be lulled at the thought of returning to the woman he had grown to know during his short time on the coast, Liam almost didn't even hear the branches that snapped in the darkness. But, he had.

The dumb smile was wiped off of Liam's face as he stood and turned in the direction of the noise, peering into the oily darkness for its source. "Who's there?" Liam demanded loudly. When there was no response, the old man raised his voice in irritation, "Show yourself, whoever you are. If you were a beast I would have either already heard you long ago or you would have rushed my camp already and attacked me in search of food."

After a long pause, Liam stepped over the log and brought himself to the edge of his camp in a vain attempt to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness and see the would be intruder. Despite his poor night vision, Liam could make out the silhouette of a shadow moving around in an attempt to get out of his sight. Already irritated, Liam found himself too tired to play games with people. Instead, he tried something else. Walking over to the cauldron that sat above his fire, he removed the lid and began to waft the delicious aroma in the direction of his assailant. Swordcane in hand, Liam walked back to the edge and shouted into the darkness, "Smell that? That's dinner. Without a torch or camp at this time of night, I can tell you're either lost or foolish. It is already ten below and far too cold to build a fire at this time of night. I am the only camp within tens of miles, so if you are who I think you are show yourself."

Another long pause came followed by a feeble voice in the darkness. It belonged to somebody who was meek and as far as Liam knew was succumbing to the cold, "H-H-How do I know y-you won't attack me?"

The old man paced around his campfire at the sound of the voice, unable to believe what he had just heard. "What?"

"W-What do you mean 'w-w-what?'" The voice angrily called out. "I'm a-a-alone and c-c-cold. H-h-how do I know if I show myself to you that you won't... won't try to k-kill me.. L-Liam D-d-doogan.. H-how do you say your name again?"

In mild surprise of hearing his name from a man he had never met before, Liam realized his suspicions were confirmed. Reasoning that he still held the upper hand and there were only a handful of people who knew him by name that knew he was up here, the old man figured his odds were fairly good of this ending in his favor. Considering it for a moment, he was interrupted by a shout in the darkness, "S-So?! How do you say it? Can you h-hurry up, I'm fucking c-cold!"

"Shut up." Liam snapped before adding, "I'm thinking."

"A-about how to say your own n-name?" The voice in the darkness replied in disbelief.

"No, you idiot." Liam shouted angrily. "Its Duigenan. DOO-GEN-NAN. You got that, Jonah?"

There was an eerie silence that made either party uncomfortable in this awkward situation. Having revealed each other by name without ever meeting before and in the wilderness of the Salvarian foothills, it stood to reason that the only name they knew around these parts belonged to people they knew were was supposed to be hostile. It was a weird feeling knowing that the only salvation one of them had to survive the night was in the camp of a man he was supposed to kill. Or be killed by. At least that was Liam's guess. However, seeing as he hadn't caught an arrow in the throat yet, the old man reasoned his chances were pretty good that the boy was harmless.

"Well?" Liam said. "You coming or not? I've got stew and biscuits, and I'm not going to kill you over them either. So pull yourself together and come out of there and accept my invitation before I come and find you. I've been resting for the last four days; I guarantee you that I'll run you down before you even make it a yard, boy."

Standing at the edge of his campsite, Liam waited for the boy to call his bluff, already trying to remember where he had put his torch. As he began to turn back, he stopped when he heard the crunch of snow and ice under foot. Turning back in the direction of the noise, Liam watched as a young man wrapped in whatever feeble clothing he had worn melt into view. Shivering to the point that he looked as if he was about to fall over, the man he knew to be Jonah walked toward him with contempt and embarrassment. Rubbing his chest, he paused to look at the Irishman with a glare and said, "Your hat looks dumb. And you talk funny, too."

Realizing Jonah was trying to salvage any pride he had left, Liam tried not to laugh. He looked pathetic and the only emotion the old man could feel for the young man was pity. He couldn't kill a poor soul like that. It was a problem he would have to figure out later. Now conscious of his accent, Liam welcomed the young man who had already walked past him with as much dignity as he could summon and sat on the birch log trying to warm himself by the fire. Without a word, Liam walked past him to his pack and grabbed a large metal cup he had been using for his entire trip. Turning to the fire, Liam picked up the lid to his stew and began to ladle it into the cup. Potatoes, carrots, meat and all. Blowing on it, Liam sipped it and nodded appreciatively. Putting the lid back down, Liam turned to Jonah who was already staring at him hungrily and trying not to drool at the mouth.

"Here." Liam offered him. When he looked like he was going to resist, Liam narrowed his eyes, "Eat the food. Warm yourself up and relax. We'll kill each other tomorrow."

Jonah accepted it and said softly, "Thank you." Unable to feel it was enough, the young man looked the Irishman in the eyes and said again. "Thank you, Liam. I mean it."

Liam shrugged and sat down beside him and began to warm himself by the fire again. Sitting side by side with the man he was supposed to kill, for a good hour neither man said much. But already as either one stared into the fire and occasionally said something to break the awkward silence, they found themselves liking each other. It wasn't common to find people this far north in the wilderness, and when it mattered, kindness meant a lot in hard times. Considering what he had just gotten himself into, Liam took the cup he had been sharing with Jonah after their third helping and spooned warm, tender venison into his mouth. Next to him, Jonah sat in silence eating a hot, flaky biscuit.

This was going to be harder than Liam thought.

[Jonah T. Barnham]

Jonah tried his level best not to eat like a ravenous wolf, honestly, but the healthy, hearty taste of the thick broth (after days of dried meat, melted snow and hard tack) was too much. He bolted his share, vegetables and all, and tried not to fidget as he waited for the tin to be refilled.

He had seen tournament battles in the past. One couldn’t live in Radasanth for six years and not see the fights in one way or another. Not once, however, had he seen any start like this. He would have expected, perhaps, the cane-sword resting at Liam’s side to already have been rammed through his throat – not an offer to recover the energy Salvar had stolen from him. Not hot food and a place by the fire. Steam rose in little clouds from his coat as the splotches of dampness and patches of almost-ice evaporated in the heat. His numb toes tingled as the feeling slowly returned to them. His numb mind, likewise, felt frayed around the edges.

He took the stillness as an opportunity to size up his would-be opponent. Liam was an older man, grey streaking his reddish-brown hair liberally. Wrinkles creased the corners of his eyes, gave his face a weathered expression, a warrior’s countenance. He moved about the fire with an easy grace for a man of his years,

He said tomorrow, the thought came unbidden to his mind, now that he had food and warmth. The mouthful of biscuit turned to a lump in his throat as he swallowed. He was an alright fighter with Ira or Jenkins, his friends back home, but Liam….Liam looked to have the advantage of age and actual experience. I’ll be he’s bloodied that sword somewhere other than lessons. I’ll bet-

Snow crunching drew him from his grim reverie. A flash of orange and pewter flashed between the trees, prowling closer.

So that’s where you got to.

Jonah felt through the pockets of his coat until he found the long, leather leash. He drew it out, and whistled sharply.

Thighbiter let out a high, chittering chuckle, but obediently stepped from the trees to join her master. Her baleful stare fixed on Liam, and her heavy talons dug deep into the loam as Jonah snapped the lead to her collar, wound the other end around the nearest, sturdiest tree branch.

“What the hell is that?” Liam’s deep, strangely accented voice made Jonah jump, the movement startling a hiss from between the raptor’s wicked teeth. He didn’t answer, rubbing the ridges over her eyes. Her scales were as rough as sandpaper against his fingertips and she all but purred as he tested the lead, tugging on it hard. It held fast, so he made his careful way back to the safety of the fire.

“She’s…the last Dynonychus in the world, near as I can figure.” He kept his eyes on the leather and steel of the leash as Thighbiter pulled on it herself, eyes gleaming in the firelight. The chain jangled, but didn’t loosen. Liam chuckled. The sound drew Jonah’s attention back to the older man.

“That clarifies damn near nothing, boy.” Liam said, adding another chunk of wood to the fire. The fresh fuel and flow of air tossed sparks into the darkness, fading away before they hit the trees. “What’s the thing when it’s at home?”

“It’s…a Dynonychus. They’re…an ancient creature that used to live all over Corone, years and years and years ago.” They had wandered the continent until some unknown cataclysm had wiped them all out nearly to a beast, mysteriously leaving the Elves and the Dragons alive. He had his theories – anyone in his field did – but he also rather doubted that Liam would give a damn. “They might be a distant relative to today’s dragons, might not be, it’s not like we can ask them, after all.”

And he’d dragged her from the past on a whim. As a test: a sad, lost boy desperate to see if he could do something other than hurt, cry, or bleed. He rubbed his arm through his coat, settling on one end of the mossy log. Thighbiter, as if aware that he was done talking about her, curled up on the ground. She looked like a massive housecat, her orange tailtip flicking.

He wasn’t about to use the Dynonychus in the upcoming fight, outclassed or not. He’s seen what she could do to a human only once, to an assassin his estranged father had sent. Ira had helped him clean up the resulting mess, but the screams sometimes joined the rest of the monsters that lurked in the dark. He shuddered hard, masked the movement as a shiver, and turned his gaze back to the fire instead of the darkness between the trees.

“If-” his voice sounded loud in the silence, and he broke off awkwardly, unsure of how to phrase the words. “-if you kill me, tomorrow, you’ll have to kill her, too. She’ll try to eat you otherwise.” Tried to eat everything, when he wasn’t around. Would eat him, if not for her collar. He should not have summoned her with so little experience, should have tried with a fucking herbivore first. Rookie mistakes, still dogging his steps. “I just…thought you should probably know…”

Liam didn’t look the least bit surprised or intimidated. If anything, Jonah would have been willint to swear there was laughter held back in his pale green eyes. But the old man didn’t laugh at his warning, clumsy though it was. He simply nodded as Jonah stood again, flustered and reaching for his pack and the waterproofed bedroll inside. At least he’d had the sense to bring that. “But I’m…going to turn in. Tomorrow…”

Tomorrow was going to come too damn soon.

---

The night passed slowly after he curled up, full of nightmares. The dreams brought darkness with them, a thick malaise that even the clean, bright glow of the fire could not drive away. Jonah fought not to toss and turn, knowing he had to sleep. Needed to sleep, or the morning’s fight would end so quickly that Liam’s kindness, whether honest or some sort of sadistic ploy, would go to waste. He tried to stay still, but the ground was hard through the treated fabric of his bag, all twigs and small stones. He rolled over, once, pulling a narrow branch from beneath the small of his back –

The next time he opened his eyes it was morning, the sky visible through the trees above his head.

He sat up with a sharp gasp, hands scrabbing for his spectacles. He shoved them on, relaxing somewhat when Thighbiter’s slumbering form came into focus, along with the still-crackling fire. Fears banished momentarily, he looked up again.

The clouds dotting the deep blue sky glowed gold and faintly pink with the rising sun. The only sounds he could hear were those of the fire hissing, and the breeze through the treetops. The air was still cold, but less bitingly bitter than it had been last night. He pulled his gloves on regardless, scrambling his way out of his bedroll and buttoning his jacket up tight before his mind even woke up enough to spare a thought for Liam.

And that is why you're always in trouble.

[Vigil]

(Bunnying approved)

Liam had awoken an hour or so before Jonah crawled out from under his bedroll. It had still been dark, even as the night sky began to grey with the coming of a false dawn. He had not slept well; having awoken every hour to tend to the fire and make sure it still burned brightly even as they slept. When he awoke, he found his sleeping bag and blankets he had wrapped himself in to be covered in frost. Though the fire and his bedding had helped, Liam still felt the Salvarian chill. Much of his own body heat and energy had been sapped from him by the cold, hard earth which left his body stiff and muscles tight. Old and grey, Liam felt like the walking dead as he crawled out from his bedding. It had taken him a good fifteen minutes of warming himself by the fire before Liam felt life return to him. Breakfast was a simple affair of leftover stew, some fruit and hard cheese that he had. Though he had been charitable the night before, Liam hoped the boy could feed himself because he had no intention of allowing his kindness to be mistaken for weakness. In a situation like this, it could be a fatal one to make.

Jonah had awoken to the sight of Liam rolling a warm apple in his hand, manipulating his fingers and muscles in order to remain limber. The old man hadn't cause for concern over arthritis or the aches of age, but he had known enough about his body and his weapon to know the extent of how the cold would play into it. Liam stretched, drank and ate with the sole purpose of readying his body for war. It would be hard on him, for sure, but he knew better than to squander any small opportunity that presented itself to him. With the coming dawn came silence as both men attended to their own affairs and spoke little of what they were about to do. Liam attempted twice to make small conversation, but nothing really came of it. Jonah was suspicious of his intentions and had gone so far as to draw on him when he moved too quickly. If it hadn't been for his pensive gaze and cold stare, Liam was sure that the boy would have tried something. Instead, he simply put his weapon away and apologized. Liam would tell him to relax, but somehow the young man never seemed to take his advice.

It didn't take much to realize that Jonah feared him. Liam wondered if he had ever killed a man before. If he had ever stained his hands with blood and knew whether or not he had the nerve for such a thing. Though he was beginning to doubt it, Liam wouldn't allow himself to second guess the archeologist. It would invite a break in discipline and allow him to let his guard down. These were strange times. And this pagan tradition of killing one another for sport with the promise of no reprisal bothered him. Liam didn't understand how a fight for survival could be considered entertaining and if he were to kill a man without reason why it wasn't considered wrong. Murder was murder in his eyes, and Liam knew even before he had met the young man that if he didn't give him cause, there was no reason to go any further then incapacitating him. Cronen would have been different as Liam could have probably measured his life in seconds if he had provoked him. Here, even as he looked the boy, all he could see in the murder of such a young man was a killing that was both unnecessary and wrong. However, that was the extent that Liam chose to philosophize on morals of the subject.

It had taken an hour or so before they both agreed they were ready. Taking a thick branch with an oil cloth tied to it and drenched in pitch, Liam held it near enough to the campfire where even just the fumes caused it to ignite. Dripping with fire, Liam handed the torch to a curious Jonah before dousing the campfire. He intended to come back to it, but Liam would need the torch for something else. With heavy grey smoke billowing from the camp's remains, Liam took a smaller pack from his campsite and slung it around his shoulder, knowing he would need it soon. The contents of which he chose not to discuss with Jonah, but he assured him it would be necessary and something he would thank him for later. With swordcane in hand, Liam pointed at the trail near the edge of the glade he had been camping in and began to walk there.

"Aren't we.. aren't we going to just do this here? Get it over with, I mean?" Jonah asked, hesitating even as he said it.

Turning to the young man, Liam stopped long enough to watch his own breath as he considered what he was about to say. When he found the words for it, Liam shook his head. "You never draw blood where you sleep in a place like this. Not ever. Beasts like wolves will smell it in the air for miles and invite them to my camp at nightfall. I have no intention of spending my last day here in the cover of night and having my throat torn out by animals scavenging for food. Understand?"

"No. I don't understand." Jonah replied defiantly with a perplexed look on his face. "Why are you so cocksure that you're going to be the one to come back alive? What makes you think I can't best you? You're an old man. Experience or not, I have youth on my side."

Liam snorted at the angry words and looked only to the reptile who slept beneath his own blankets at his beckoning. Even if the young man was right, if he didn't know what a cold blooded animal was or why he shouldn't have even brought it up here to begin with, the Irishman was sure it led to many other simple truths that Jonah ought to know. But just because he ought to, didn't mean he actually did. And therein lay the difference between the two men, and wasn't something Liam was about to explain to him.

"You coming or not?" Was all Liam decided to reply with. When it didn't seem sufficient to budge the young man from his resolution, the old man sighed. "We have a ways to walk and I have no intention of spilling blood here. If you're here to best me, then you'll do it on my terms. So either follow me or leave now."

Jonah thought about challenging the old man, but thought better of it. Instead, he conceded and walked with torch in hand to the old man's side. Liam guided him out onto the trail and away from his camp. They walked for ten or so minutes along the snowy path that had been cleared of foliage until Liam was sure they were almost there. Liam noticed that the more time he spent with the young man, the more Jonah grew impatient. It was beginning to worry him that the archaeologist would grow erratic and become more difficult to predict. It was giving him cause to have second thoughts on the idea of remaining a gentleman in an affair like this. But, his steel remained sheathed for a while longer.

Approaching another clearing, Liam led Jonah off the trail and out into the open. They were at the shore of a large lake that had iced over from the elements. There were many reasons why the old man chose this spot, but he felt it obvious that the wide open space gave them plenty of room to maneuver. Unlike his campsite, the soggy, wet ground had frost instead of six or so inches of snow, which gave them both freedom of movement. The site was empty except for two tall branches that Liam had buried on either side of the clearing. Taking off his pack and setting it at a nearby tree, Liam took the torch from Jonah and proceeded to light one branch, while fixing the torch to the other.

Beginning to take off his furs and the cossack that rested on his head, Liam leveled his gaze at the young man, "Here's what's going to happen. You have two minutes to prepare yourself. The fire is meant to warm your hands or any part of your body you see fit. After two minutes, I'm starting. I'm not waiting any longer for you to get good and ready for this. We will spill blood and hopefully this will be over in ten to twenty minutes. Start getting ready, boy, because if you're not willing to make the first strike, I will. Any questions?"

Liam was tired of playing nice and the young man's attitude only served to irritate him. Already prepared and ready, Liam used the following minutes before their fight to gauge Jonah and weigh his chances one final time. He still liked his odds.

[Jonah T. Barnham]

It had only been a ten minute walk, but the distance from Thighbiter was already starting to grate on his mind the same way his fresh hunger jabbed at his belly. He could already feel his attention and energy being siphoned off through the nebulous somewhere else that connected him to the raptor. It throbbed in time with his heartbeat, the steady pulse he could feel in his fingers as he held them out to the torch.

He hadn’t wanted to bring the creature in the first place; hadn’t wanted to be here in the first place. Had merely mentioned his nightmares to Isa, told her of his desires to go back and find a way to deal with his memories…

And he’d been handed that map and the name and told to survive, if he could. Step one in surviving: don’t travel without Thighbiter. No matter how hard he’d wished he could go without the parasitic familiar the moment he saw where he was meant to travel, remembered the average temperatures. The archaeologist cracked his knuckles, and sized up the situation.

Two knives. Fucking freezing wasteland, an iced-over body of water. Zero dry spaces to draw the chalk and charcoal circles he’d need to summon a different dinosaur . One bloodthirsty ravenous creature that always went for the gut rather than anything quick, merciful or clean –

And an old man who he was obviously making increasingly annoyed with, stress stripping the leash from his uncouth tongue. It was either be a complete bastard, or burst into tears of utter frustration. It wasn’t a pretty equation, no matter how he turned it in his head.

Fuck it.

Jonah stripped off his coat – meager protection though it was – and caught the lanyards around his neck. He took another surreptitious glance at Liam, calculating the old man’s temper, and the reach of that cold steel.

Speed or protection…

He couldn’t imagine either helping him for very long, not against a sword and a man who knew how to use it properly, but his fingers finally closed around the Vylokiraptor talon. He could feel the change washing over him, turning his skin a faint green, his nails to claws. He tried to ignore the uncomfortable burn of his teeth extending, moving his lips against the unfamiliar protrusion. It didn't matter. If he could outmaneuver the other man long enough to get the sword away somehow, he might just stand a chance; might be able to get out of this situation alive.

He tugged the other lanyards off over his head, and dropped it onto his coat. The heat from the torch didn't keep the chill out long as he stood there, shivering in his shirtsleeves and bracers, respiration fogging the air in front of his glasses. Hook and Talon slipped from their sheaths in the husking brush of steel on leather as he drew in a fresh deep, slow breath of air, watching Liam carefully.

Surely it's been two minutes by now.

[Vigil]

(Bunnying and.. bunnying and... bunnying and... bunnying and... approved.)

Liam had had enough. He had fed the boy, allowed him to share his camp and had given him the time to recuperate from the ruthless cold that had spread over his body like a cancer. If he had been of a weaker moral fiber, Liam would have ran him down in the darkness and cut his throat right then and there. But, instead, he had shown Jonah kindness. The gesture had certainly not gone unnoticed, but Liam was getting the feeling that he had shoved Jonah out of where he felt comfortable. Into a place where only the Irishman felt dominant. Instead of taking the initiative even as he drew his strange blades, Jonah stood there and waited for him to decide what to do. Still, as Liam found some part of himself continuing to stay his hand from killing the young man, he was tired of talking.

With a firm grip upon the leather hilt and the whisper of steel, Liam drew his blade. The old man stopped trying to postulate and decided to act by running at Jonah, already listening to the blood beginning to well in his ears as they turned red from the cold. Bounding across the circle, Liam's feet found purchase and he was within striking distance in seconds. Upon the young man who had drawn his blades moments earlier to taunt him into acting, the old man swung his cane that acted as his sheath that he had been holding in his other hand and cracked the archaeologist on the side of the wrist with a glancing blow. Howling at the pain, Liam watched as he dropped his blade and moved in for the strike. Swinging his sword in an arc, Liam spun to throw all of his weight into it. Rather then block an attack that surely would have made him lose his footing, Jonah instead took the opportunity of Liam's blind spot and ducked behind him, still gripping his wrist. Feeling something move behind him, Liam moved in the opposite direction to meet him only to feel the sharp bite of a dagger in his side. The old man hissed and winced in pain, feeling hot, sticky blood beginning to gush from the wound. Pushing Jonah away from him with a shove, Liam snarled and drew in sharply on reflex as he touched the wound, the cold air that filled his throat as a result caused him to begin to hack.

Feeling the wound, Liam knew it had not been mortal. It was minor and had only gone a few inches beneath the skin, but it only just missed one of his kidneys. Whatever motivation Liam had needed, he found in that moment as the stinging pain of his wound intermingled with the burning sensation of flesh exposed to the cold. It only served to anger the Irishman and when he looked up, he caught Jonah's fist in his face as the young man hurled his body into the blow in attempt to smear the old man's aquiline nose across his face. His eyes growing red as they flooded with tears at the pain, Liam had little time to react as Jonah came in again in an attempt to tackle him. Diving towards him, Jonah attempted to thrust himself into Liam's gut, only to meet bone on bone as Liam raised his knee with a jarring blow against Jonah's head. Off his guard, Jonah gripped his head and was about to say something before Liam belted him across the fingers with his cane, causing him to roar in agony and look up. Exposing his entire lower body. Taking the initiative, Liam kicked him sharply between his genitals and his right leg where flesh met bone and his foot struck Jonah's pelvis.

Even in anger, Liam could only feel worse as he heard the young man cry out in pain, unable to take any pride or relish in what he was doing. Instead, Liam could only look at the man who he had inflicted such pain into and feel the cold, heavy burden of lead fill his stomach when he knew he would have to do more before this was over. Unable to decide whether or not to go in for the kill, Liam instead chose the safer option and swung his cane at Jonah's face, hitting him smartly across the ear.

[Jonah T. Barnham]

Little bunny Foo Foo….

Everything throbbed: his knuckles, his wrists, the sensitive flesh of his crotch, the side of his head. His knees, where they hit the frosted ice, trying not to curl in on himself. Everything. Tears stung at his eyes, threatening to freeze in the chilled air, but he forced himself to draw in a shaky breath. His fingers wrapped tight around the hilts of his knives as he tried not to instinctively flinch against the raised cane-sheath.

Jonah had spent most of the first nineteen years of his life being passed from one owner to the next. The scars that still marred his entire back attested to that past, a mottled story of hit first, ask questions never. It hadn’t always been whips and fists. Canes, after all, appealed to more than just old men.

The subsequent years of freedom may have taught him that he was more than a punching bag to take anger out on, more important than the blood and bone that made his physical body, but the sight of that cane still tried to drag him back to that little boy who was never sure why he was the one being hit.

I am never going back.

The aggression that had failed to appear on demand reared its head now in the face of remembered humiliation and the downward slice of the cane. Jonah’s skull rang at the impact but he grit his teeth against the pain and let Hook fall from his grip to the hoary ground. His hand closed around the sheath instead. His heavy borrowed claws sliced grooves in the night-black wood as he yanked on it with his full weight, simultaneously launching himself from the ice with as much force as he could muster. Not to pull Liam to him (the man’s stance was too firm for that), but to pull him back to his feet, closer to Liam, close enough to try and sink his teeth into Liam’s forearm.

The Vylokiraptor fangs scraped flesh, the faint copper-tang of pennies against his tongue, but Jonah’s dazed motion, his momentum, and Liam’s quick feet kept his teeth from sinking true. The older man’s elbow slammed against his spine as Liam twisted away and forcibly shoved Jonah forward with a foot to the back of the archaeologist’s leg and that elbow.

The sheath and sword arced in twin swashes of obsidian and silver, flashing through the air between the combatants. Jonah half-danced, half-scrambled out of the sword’s path, Talon lashing out at Liam’s nearer side, at whatever flesh the steel could reach. He thought he felt the curved knife strike, felt the subtle catch of splitting skin against the razor-fine edge, but the sensation was lost in the breath-stealing impact of the cane against his ribs.

[Vigil]

(Bunnying approved.)

Crack.

Wrestling his arm from the jagged maw of the creature Jonah was becoming, Liam buried his sword in the ground to gain a good grip upon his cane with moist, sweaty fingers that were already becoming numb from the prevailing cold. In the confusion, the wounded Irishman held his cane aloft like that of a club and swung with all of his might and was rewarded with the sickening sound of the crunch of bone as his cane smashed against the monster's ribs. The creature howled in pain, exposing its sharp fangs that still dripped with Liam's blood. The scales, the teeth, and the claws were all Liam focused on as he stepped forward, pulling his blade from the dirt and reaching for the tail of his overcoat to wipe the dirt from it. Jonah's appearance had become much like that savage reptile he had brought with him to the campsite. He was turning more greener with every passing moment, and it wasn't with envy. His flesh hardened into bumps that began to separate themselves from his body and form a tight sheath of scales that would protect him from the Irishman's blade. Those fangs continued to grow larger and more grotesque as they filled a mouth that hadn't the space for it. In a few moments, Liam could hear the soft click and snap of Jonah's jaw dislocating itself from the sheer size and weight of those accursed things.

And the claws. Ugly, black talons that grew from finger nails and became the man's fingers. The metamorphosis was startling and for lesser men it would have been enough to run screaming into the foothills until they either hit a tree or fainted from hysteria. To Liam, he fell back upon instinct and what he and others of his holy order had drilled them to accept as their sacred charge. Whatever humanity Jonah had left was leaving him before the Irishman's very eyes, and did so rapidly and without provocation. Liam needed no longer be concerned about the physical wellbeing of the young man that lay struggling for breath as it clutched its broken chest and stared at him vehemently. Any moment now that creature would recover and if the old man didn't do something, he was certain that however nimble he was he could not outmatch the ferocity of such a creature.

He needed to slay the creature that possessed the man that was Jonah Barnham, and he needed to do it now. Only then would the Irishman be sure that the pagan's soul was freed from its horrific prison.

Crimson blood dripped down the Irishman's right arm and pattered onto the cold ground with every step he took. At a glance he saw the arm of his overcoat was in tatters and deep, jagged teeth marks tore into his arm that would surely scar him if he lived long enough for it to scab over. It hadn't been his fighting hand, so Liam was thankful for that much. As he closed the gap between himself and the wounded archaeologist, he broke into a dash when he noticed the monster struggling to his feet. Reaching him, Liam swung his cane into the soft, fleshy cartilage of the left elbow. The creature reacted, as if on instinct and snapped its jaws at him, closer to Liam than he cared for. Not pausing to see what damage he had done and already in enough pain that his vision was beginning to haze, Liam turned his attention from the frothing jaws of a monster in the midst of a frenzy and did the only thing he could think of. Dropping the cane, Liam smacked the creature against the head with an open palm and kicked it in the shoulder. Pressing his weight into it, the old man drove the creature back onto the ground, pinning its chest and right arm under his full weight. Punching the lizard man in the face when it tried to bite him, if he had been a few seconds slower Liam was sure he would have nearly lost a finger from it.

With his consciousness wavering and fear gripping him, Liam wasn't even sure the creature was entirely subdued when he put his blade against its throat. Cold, pale green eyes met the monster's fierce gaze. Almost losing himself to his baser instincts, the Irishman instead looked upon Jonah's face and uttered through clenched teeth one word. "Yield."