League A (Division 2): Enigmatic Immortal v. Lye

[Max Dirks]

Battle at your leisure folks. This thread must be completed by January 9th, 2014 at 12:00 AM EST. If you finish early, please submit it for judging per usual.

[Lye]

Lye paced in the dusty bowl of the old Theatre of War. This place was an arena of grand size, only open during the active season. Ai’Brone monks still called this place home during the off season. They were a strange bunch, dedicated to overseeing and maintaining the bloodiest of establishments such as this. There must have been a recent lack of effort since a decent coat of dirt caused the empty rows of ivory bleachers to fade from their usual luster. Several piles of street bird droppings congregated in miscellaneous corners, and the occasional debris lifted by the sea breeze littered the ground. Even in the current state of neglect, the arena was still guarded day and night – to prevent those like himself from entering.

He had little difficultly slinking in the shadows to get past the guards, but his unrest lied with the improper handling by his Order of the Crimson Hands. In an attempt to keep his blades and mind sharp, he enrolled himself in a battle competition. These kinds of event were not for someone who enjoyed working in the shadows, but the foes were said to be legendary. Typically, the master assassin would have his Hands of the Word collect information on his targets and see to it they walked into an ambush, but they really screwed this one up.

“Jensen Ambrose,” he said to himself as he rubbed the irritation welling in his temples.

He was supposed to have Jensen led here by one of his more seductive members of The Order, but alas, the twits back at base crossed their words and went a different route. His agents collected information pertaining to the loss of his wife at the hands of a Cassandra Remi. The details of which were desolate to say the least. Further reports named two more individuals that had become close to Jensen, Tobias Greenleaf and Erissa Caedron. Feeling they could provoke Jensen easier with this information, they sent out a messenger Raven with the following words:

“Tobias and Erissa will burn in hell alongside with your whore Stephanie unless you come alone to the Theatre of War.”

It was only after the bird had taken flight that Hands of the Word remembered to mention he was an immortal. Not only could he reanimate from any blow, but his speed and complex fighting abilities were said to be unimaginable.

Just what he wanted to hear.

Lye knew he could simply sub in one of the new recruits to be slaughtered, but this fight had to happen sooner or later. If he was to truly test his abilities, why not against the fury of an immortal demi-god? Still, the stupidity weighed heavy on his shoulders and once he returned, broken or in one piece, someone’s blood would be spilled.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

The immortal liked to think he had a lot of patience. He allowed himself to be bullied by his peers growing up, taking in stride some rather crass remarks. He knew it took divine patience to deal with the day to day operations of running the Ixian Knights Wetworks division as well as ensure the safety of Sei Orlouge above all other priorities. Even when his father had died and his world was shattered during the hellish night known as the Night of Debauchery the immortal was still careful not to lose his cool.

The Raven who brought him the note, black as the bottom of a chasm, pecked at his window insistently. Its tiny beak continued to hammer away and Jensen lifted himself up from his bed with a groggy cry of annoyance. His feet touched the stone work floor, shivers of ice spiking up and down his spine as he let out a gasp of surprise. He stepped lightly across the floor to the window, tripping over his boots and catching his fall on the lip of the windowsill. He popped the lock and with a grunt pushed the sticky window frame outwards with a pop.

The messenger bird fluttered its wings, hovering before darting with grace to land on the windowsill dropping a note from its beak. With a caw right into his sleep filled face it fluttered up and turned away. Jensen narrowed his eyes in suspicion, standing up to his full height as he popped his stiff back, placing a hand on his right shoulder and sharply turning his neck to loosen the pops in his neck. His free hand unraveled the bound scrap of paper easily enough, and lifted it to his eyes and read the words.

Jensen Ambrose liked to think he had a lot of patience.

Whoever had sent him that note had a death wish and Jensen felt compelled to fulfill their final desires. If they wanted to call him out in such a blatant manner then who was he to object? He kicked his boots to the bed turning to his closet and tossing his jeans and shirt onto the bed. In seconds he was dressed arming himself with his throwing glaives by tossing them up in the air like a crazed chef. He spun his trench coat around his body filling in the sleeveless arms with his body catching the weapons before they collapsed to the floor with a clutter. He deftly plucked each one into their holster. He maneuvered himself to the dresser, pulling the top drawer open and dancing his fingers along each of the throwing knives, hooking the looped hilts into his grip and placing them in their rightful homes. He turned to the door walking out the hallway holding his arm out and grabbing the leather strapped holder for his switch-blade weapons.

He approached the door to his darling treasure; Azza. With a soft sigh he opened the door seeing her sleeping sweetly in her bed. Her stuffed animals were neatly placed on the shelf above her, save for one tiny wolf that she gripped tightly in her grasp. Jensen tip toed to her quiet as a mouse, his fingers running through her hair as he knelt down and whispered his love for his daughter, kissing her around her curved horns. The little one didn’t know what race of creature she was, but Jensen had made it clear that his adopted child would always be his little girl.

That was how Jensen started his day. He intended to finish it the same way as well.

The old Theatre of War was a relic of a long ago time. Jensen had to ask Andrew Octane for the directions to the fields of battle and what atrocities to mankind had taken place there. It seemed the Ai’Bron monks wanted to keep the deserted ruins intact for some unknown purpose, but it mattered little to the immortal. Less collateral damage meant Jensen could cut loose and really let himself go. He had gone into the Cell with the bravest and strongest warriors he had ever meant, including the dominating warrior Joshua Cronen. He had fought the abomination Draug Remi and came back to life stronger than ever and he tested himself in a way few people would dare dream of. It never even occurred to Jensen to ask Sei for assistance. This was personal, so Jensen would keep it that way.

He approached the arenas of the olden leagues, feeling his blood start to simmer in anticipation. The salty tang in the air made Jensen’s nostrils flare, his eyes narrowing as he avoided the monks who patrolled the forgotten stomping grounds. He noticed the overgrowing fauna, wondering why they would go to lengths to protect this site, but not lift a finger to keep its posterity alive. He shook the thought out of his head as he feet dragged through the dust covered stones towards the meeting arrangement of his clandestine duel.

After a few minutes of hiding in shadows and dropping out of the line of vision from sentries, Jensen had arrived in his location. The seats that once held screaming fans were wasted away, and the immortal felt the cries of the Cell spectators echoes in his ear. Yet he wasn’t here to focus on the past. He stepped forwards letting the moonlight be his herald as he sauntered down the steps, slowly pulling on the leather steel plated gloves as his feet heavily trotted down the aged wooden steps. The gloves cracked audibly as he flexed his fingers around getting a feel for them as he entered into the central focus point of the raked seating amphitheatre.

“You either have Hromagh’s balls to call me out in the manner you did,” Jensen muttered loud enough so his voice echoed. “Or the brain power of a mentally enfeebled squirrel. Either way I don’t really care,” Jensen’s hand reached behind him, pulling out Cancer’s Pincer and letting the switch-blade sword dance around his body in show, ending his display of martial skill by activating the scythe mode and lazily letting the bottom drop and swing like an old grandfather clock’s pendulum tapping his foot impatiently.

Whoever the hell was calling him out either was strong themselves, or about to realize how big of a pile of shit they just jumped into.

[Lye]

Click.
Clack.
Click.
Clack.

The assassin scowled at the sound. The steps carried a weight and purpose; something a guard or Ai'Brone monk would not have at this hour. He shot a glance in the direction of the noise to see the lean musculature of what he assumed was Jensen Abrose. The sight of leather gloves losing their texture from being over-taught caused the anxiety to rise at the back of his mind. The cracking of an angry fist meant that his guest was indeed here to beat someone to a bloody pulp.

Great…

Lye’s muscles grew tense and he stopped his uneasy pacing. Whilst his target spun around a rather painful looking contraption, the silver-haired youth tilted his head side to side with a series of wet pops. He then rolled his bare shoulders to work out the tension and to flex the leather openings in his studded vest. The black denim leggings, hide top, gloves, and boots were going to prove little protection in the events to come. He knew that his only chance to avoid a certain death in combat would be the flexibility to dodge, and precision needed to strike something vital.

“If it’s any consolation, I would have preferred luring you here with one of our more seductive colleagues,” Lye replied to his insult with a hand prepped to draw one of many weapons, “but I have a feeling I’m going to answer for the dead man that wrote you that message.”

His green gaze locked onto a swinging blade in the confident grasp of the immortal. The transforming blade was not mentioned in their research and the lack of knowledge had already put the pale killer at a disadvantage. Lye knew there was no holding back and his bones already began to scream for a full onsaught. He mentally prepared, clearing his mind of doubt, then ran a light touch across the five blackened, carbon steel needles sheathed at his side. Their faint gloss shining in moonlight faded to balck before the needles hauntingly lifted from their homes and maintained a steady floating arc behind the assassin. The tips all aligned themselves pointed towards the demigod’s heart.

“I suppose this means my intent to interest you in working with me is shot then, Mr. Ambrose?” The assassin fetched his two foot katars to the ready.

A smirk crossed his face, not in a sign of mockery, but for the sheer thrill of testing his own mettle against someone so formidable. The cold evening winds kicked up the dust from the forgotten architecture, dancing playfully with the crimson vlince scarf that hung loosely around his neck. Lye's stance became aggressive.

“As an apology, I’ll let you take the first blow… if you can hit me.”

The assassin wouldn’t be dying for someone else’s mistake this night.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

“And you are?” Jensen said sizing up his opponent with the smallest of glances. He leaned back on one foot, placing the weight on his heel as he felt his blood softly stir within him. His grip on the weapon tightened, the leather smoothly gripping around the hilt. He made every action painfully slowly and deliberately as a final warning not to test him.

He waved a hand in front of his face, dismissing his previous comment. “It just occurred to me that it isn’t going to matter in the long haul anyway. I’m going to destroy you anyway.” He lifted his scythe up in a lazy swing letting the titanium weight land on his shoulder as he took in a deep salty breath of the air. He let out a smug smile as he pointed to his ready and waiting foe. “You don’t even have the damned guts to call me out yourself. Some idiot had to do it for you. Is that the same guy who wipes your ass?”

Jensen felt a bit of smugness wash over him and he dismissed it with a shiver of anticipation, a dark chuckle escaping his lips as he started to move in on his opponent. “You have to be somewhat informed of me to fight me, right? Otherwise you wouldn’t have just placed your foot so firmly in your mouth. I mean…who the fuck walks up to someone they just threatened and offer them first hit?”

Jensen’s nostrils flared as he took deep breaths, sniffing the air for dramatic effect. He lowered his weapon to his side, slapping his knee as the giggles came over him. Though he looked well and truly like he was losing his mind, he was actually losing his cool. This man was starting to piss the immortal off. “You know what I smell?” Jensen’s body stopped moving as his voice lowered into a deep, threatening, tone. “I smell a coward. A useless. Fucking. Coward.” Jensen let his words pickle in before he moved again, lazily coasting side to side like a drunk, his weapon held to the side outwards, switching back and forth between scythe and sword mode. Each time he flicked the rune the tension rod would make an audible click, and the sound of metal sheathing and unsheathing echoed.

When Jensen was mere feet away he looked to the man before him, taking all of his body in. “Shit, I got nothing better to do. You survive my first free hit; and the several others I plan to land on you,” he muttered under his breath. “Then I’ll let you have your due and listen to your proposal. So…first hits free, eh?” Jensen smiled, a wolfish grin that showed all his white, perfect teeth.

In a blink of an eye he moved with speed. Bringing his weapon up in sword mode in a bottom left to upper right slash. He finished the apex of his swing with an inward turn kicking out with a stiff boot; with the intent to finish moving swiftly forwards with weapon in hand, activating Scythe mode to reap his head clean off.

[Lye]

"Coward."

It rang firmly within his skull. He hated that word. For some god awful reason, the most arrogant and cocky of foes loved to use that in their vocabulary. Seth Dahlios, among numerous other nameless thugs and ruffians all spit that in the assassin's face. Granted, Lye was not the most stable of individuals, but if there were a set of trigger words, "coward" would rank top five. Immediately, his expression grew flat, posture loosened, and eyes grew into an icy emerald glare. Immortal or not, Lye was going to draw his blood.

Jensen was but mere feet before he finished his aggressive verbal parade. The man oozed confidence to the border of absolute arrogance.

"I am no--"

"Shit!"

Reaction time was limited and immediately the assassin regret his own ignorance. His body did not seem to move fast enough; he felt the searing tip of titanium drag through the thick leather hide of his studded vest. Adrenaline was quick to act and slow perception of time, ironically allowing him safety from being sundered in two, yet painfully lengthening the feeling of Jensen's blade parting the surface of his flesh. Lye barely avoided a fatal injury. The thrill of battle pumped feverishly in his veins to heighten the senses, allowing a speedy block of two blades to one boot. Although just enough to disperse the force of the blow, they did not negate it, and the assassin was pushed several feet backwards. His own feet rooted to keep his balance, leaving a wake of dust as he slid. The familiar sheer of the exotic weapon rang and commanded the assassin to look up. Eyes grew wide and injured torso tensed in defiance to the sting of pain. He managed to bend out of the way in just enough time to lose only locks of platinum hair mixed with shreds of his crimson scarf.

"What the fuck was I thinking?!" he shouted within his own mind in testament to Jensen's speed.

Lye exhaled before drawing a long breath; the wind returning to him from the previous impact. His senses struggled to regulate with the burst of adrenaline that saved his head, yet he immediately righted himself and moved in closer to the immortal. His vision was spotty and moves slightly less graceful than the norm, yet he managed to send a punching thrust of his katar toward the side Jensen exposed to accomplish his final horizontal sweep. Lye's boots crossed one over the other, pivoting his light frame to take advantage of the immortal's continued momentum and place him behind the attacker. Two of the five floating needles still hovering at his back spread wide and shot forward with the speed of an arrow toward Jensen's should blades. This close combat left little room for error, never the mind speech. Thusly, his gaze remain locked on his foe's speedy limbs, and the remaining katar tucked close to lash out in defense.