Redemption Bracket: Tobias Stalt Vs Philomel

[Silence Sei]

Matches begin May 7th 12:01 AM CST. Good Luck!

[Philomel]

In a myriad of iridescent strands, the light rebounded from the wave that made up the sharpened side of the blade of "The Bastard," focused into one point, then then sent scattering. Holding this sword, based on a design of an ancient Dwarven King, the Nightingale stood, watching the skies. Her eyes were wide, rounded with awe as she perceived the vision in the sky that would not, should not, could not be Althanas.

After the expanse of the scrub-land earthy desert, which stretched before her plain and flat for miles upon miles, the sky met and kissed the ground in the gleaming horizon. Hovering just above this, the glowing orb of the usual sun took centre stage. Except - just beside her, in this deep orange sky there was a fainter, but just as proud, second star, sending a wide second arc over the landscape. Three dark blots also indicated three moons; one was exceeingly fast and racing across behind the clouds, as if there was no time to lose - the other two were just as lazy as the twin suns.

The monk had led her here, with a grumpy expression. Over the weeks of the tournment Philomel had, in some way, gotten used to these Ai'Borone or Ai'Bron or Ai'Ai-whatevers-they-were, comparing them with some glee to her good friend and "patron" Mister Draak. The serious inhabitants of the citadel were in no way as world-reknown or daring as the massive troll who worked as the herbalist for the multi-god monstery in the lower town. Instead they offered very little explanation when they showed her a door, then practically shoved her into this bizzare and unreal world.

Out of the mouth came a sigh, and slowly the faun turned around, looking over her surroundings. Of course, the doorway was completely gone. All there was was the expansive low-lying bushes, the dust under her hooves, spare rocks to throw at a being's head. Severe heat, presumably caused by the duality of the suns, caused her to begin to sweat in her hairy buttocks. Growling, the assassin-whore strode a little away, the tip of her sword dangerously close to being dragged along the ground. Her eyes still scanned the area, but she still found no sign of her opponent.

All she saw instead was the ginger-tipped ears of her beloved earth-spirit companion, who was sniffing at a rosy-leafed bush. She smiled a little, then returned to her irritation.

Seriously, she muttered under her breath, This is pointless.

[Tobias Stalt]

"What," Tobias drawled as he stared into the distance at a warped, unknown world, "the fuck."

He had narrowly escaped a hailstorm of arrows and dodged catastrophic carnage only to find himself in a world bereft of not only life, but also devoid of normalcy. "You know, I'm just going to stop asking questions." The obviously jaded Tobias brushed the mess of brown from his eyes and snorted belligerently.

The abnormal heat that blazed over the sand-blasted world seemed more annoying than impeding; the training he had done across several different climates had rendered him oblivious to most of the elements. Severe cold, severe heat, and everything in between offered him a specialized endurance that only a soldier could boast. Perspiration lined the inside of his clothing and stained lightly through, but his breathing remained steady.

Across his back, a black hilt protruded from behind his shoulder, and wrappings like a bandage covering a wound concealed a weapon the size of a short sword. He had grown accustomed to the weight, but it was still far more cumbersome than his previous Dwarven weapon. Each step burrowed a bit deeper in the sand. Tobias pretended not to notice.

He saw the strange, half-goat woman in the distance and narrowed his eyes. "Wild guess," he muttered, and small brush crunched beneath his boots. His hand hefted the weighty weapon and he slid it deftly into his grip. Wrappings slid away to reveal a blade like the dark of night, and it seemed to swallow light instead of reflecting it.

"My name is Tobias," he called to her, "and I wager that you're my enemy."

[Philomel]

Her chest moved as she regularly breathed, keeping every muscle in check and every heart flutter under control. As the words came to her ears she found herself startled, but her practise and self-taught control showed no sign of the fear. Instead her eyes rose, caught the attention of those, there, before her, of the other creature who had now come across this desert land. Dark pupils ringed by gold. Strong shoulders, proud stance. Slightly shorter than her.

Philomel tensed, her body on high alert.

Stay down, she said quickly to Veridian, Stay hidden.

And the giner-tipped ears disappeared behind the shrub. A very slight rustling to her ears told her he was merging himself, making his body one with the shrub.

And thus, then, she stepped forwards, directly to the man who had called, raising her chin as she did.

"I am only your enemy if you call me so," she answered back, as vehemently as he had called. "I am Philomel, they call me the Nightingale."

Her lips quirked a subtle, dubious smile.

"In that spirit, are you here for your death?"

Gently, into the air, she raised The Bastard. He shone like a beacon of justice in this red-tinged world, this un-Althanasly place of strange hopes and dreams, bizzare imaginations. Her tongue snaked across her lips; her full-bodied luscious lips. If her fighting did not quell this man, her feminine wiles would.

Should.

Would.

[Tobias Stalt]

"If Death be my fate," he replied in an earnest, almost nonchalant tone. Few people were as unafraid of the inevitable as Tobias; he had faced oblivion enough times to know her face. They were old friends. In his grip, the gauche blade reached for the hot sands and sent a tremble up his arm. He was unused to handling Blackheart with a single arm and would most likely wield it with two hands in the coming battle. The effort gave him a bit of satisfaction, if only by showing him he was getting stronger. "Just try not to hold it against me if it takes you instead."

His damnable signature smile mocked the "Nightingale" with its sincerity rather than animosity. He took a sturdy step toward the Faun and exhaled the breath from his lungs; hot air like the breath of a Dragon swirled rhythmically toward the sand. "Well then..."

The black cloak that covered his ragged, faded uniform- stripped of any insignia that might identify him as a deserter- fell from his mantle. As the cloth settled on the ground, Tobias hefted Blackheart intently.

He had no interest in small talk. The woman before him offered only one indulgence: war. It was the only thing he knew, and the only purpose he had been truly trained to have. Morose, amber orbs belied the gentle soul trapped forever within Tobias- he was proof that no man among the living would ever know peace.

The twin suns seared down and ravaged the land. Light reflected from the white grains forced Tobias to squint in order to see properly, and he spat with a dry laugh. "Shall we?"

He brought his free hand to the elongated hilt of his blade and gripped it tightly. Another breath, and he brought it into guard. Tobias defied the world and held his head high beneath it's weight. It was as nothing in the moments he truly felt alive.

Once more unto the breach...

[Philomel]

Her eyes followed the movements of the narrow sword intently, depending on the validity of her sight for the sake of her life. Life and Death, they seemed so close, yet so definitely different, two sides of the same copper coin, two notes played upon the same steel string. Either was the brother of the other, twins who were intertwined into the melody of existence. For though the absence of one meant the reign of the other, neither could one really mean anything without true existence of both. It was an underestimated timeless paradox.

Unsubtly the faun raised an eyebrow. "Indeed," she replied, her soft lips imitating his.

This human seemed perversely interested in settling the fight now and now later. From what she could judge by his appearance his past had been entangled in the army - militia or otherwise. His pose was that of a proud man, his eyes sparked something of the ferocity of battle. She had very little reason to believe he would grant her the while to get to know him better.

Gently, mutely, she shrugged and gave her blade what it longed for. What it yearned for. What he desired for. It sang through the air as she whipped it up into attention; just as she flipped her hair over her shoulder with a cocky flick of her head.

In mocking preperation she danced out a couple of steps upon the ground, sending out a flurry of dust. Her hoofwork was swift and agile, the mere beginnings of the speeds at which she could move.

She leapt forwards with a yell, the Bastard clashing with his blade for a single moment; yet as soon as she had knocked it one way she skipped back, jeering.

"Well come then," she purred. "If you want it, come and claim it, baby."

In the air, she twirled, spinning backwards as she did, inviting him into this deadly dance.

[Tobias Stalt]

Their blades met with a callous clang. Tobias shrugged off the impact with a bit more disregard than he actually felt, heaving a long sigh to mask his effort. His muscles rippled then relaxed, and he watched her back away in a flurry of movement. He had a mute appreciation for her exuberance, though his stony features hinted nothing of that fact. His gaze followed her carefully and assessed her motions.

He wasted no effort to chase her. The heat was a monster all its own; too much wasted movement could exhaust a fighter quickly. Instead, when she called out to him, Tobias stretched his neck until it let out a crackling pop. "You move well," he praised, but he offered no rise to her taunt. He knew all too well the way of words.

Several slow steps brought him closer to the Faun, the nightmarish blade dragging along in the sand. He could not boast any match to her quickness, and he knew that he would be outclassed it he attempted to fight on her terms. Instead, he would play to his own skillset.

He knew nothing of the woman he was at odds with. She knew nothing of him. That was one of war's worst injustices. Even breaths carried him across the gap she had created, but his smile never faded. She wanted for the violence, but he cared little about it. Tobias only desired the joy that combat brought, the meaning in a meaningless existence.

Blackheart rose again and Tobias tore the weighty weapon through the air toward Philomel. The jet black Dehlar gave a shrill scream, and he jerked backward hard. A grunt escaped him. Sweat poured down his back. His feet dug into the dusty ground as he twisted.

A quiet wind brushed over the lonely world. The hellscape that was not Althanas offered the two combatants a brief respite from their deadly dance. Tobias tugged the blade back from the feinted forward slash and brought it hammering down at the Faun from above to complete his tight turn. "I'm afraid I'm not much for fun, m'lady," he offered as an accompaniment to his attack.

Words, like the wind, were fleeting.

[Philomel]

Her patience bade her well. It was an art form she had honed through the years - the ability to wait, willingly and passionately, until the right time to let the darkened claws strike. After her many years of assassination she had begun to transform into the woman she longed to be, whom she dreamt of. That faun, that dominatrix of all whores, who had what she wished for at the stomp of a hoof.

Natural abilities from her racial status allowed her a certain amount of graceful speed advantage over this adversary. Her hooves could move from side to side in a beguiling dance, swiftly enticing him to give the attack as she moved backwards. Her first strike - the single blow to that sharpened blade - had merely been meant to rile him. And rile him well and good it did. He attacked almost viciously, with the strength of a rock and the expression of a dull bored orc, grunting almost as he slipped forwards to attack. She fended off his few blows easily, and barely listened as he complimented her.

Yeah I know I move well, she retorted, and beat her merry tune.

One, two, three, she spied his feint, and caught sign enough of his sweet twisting blow from above. It was skilled enough, pure and fast and effective, and did not allow much room for movement. Yet, her senses kept her aware of those things that moved around her. Things that were not rational in thought, or had no reason, but that were alive enough of their own accord. The shrubs around her - she was aware of them. Her slight dodge, also, that was due to the fact she could see the falling strike, and it caused the blade to clatter not with her skull but with her horn.

His, that is, the human's, weapon grazed over the natural curve of her ram's horn, forced to the side. Philomel took the short few seconds there to butt it away with a sharp upper thrust of her skull, then quickly ducked away. Wishing, and desperately hoping that she was blessed by Drys she moved further back, around two paces away and revealed a charming smile.

The Bastard raised itself into guard as she stared at the man. Full in the face, full in those glistening golden eyes.

Come to me, she said, Come my dear and follow me to your doom.

[Tobias Stalt]

He stopped short when the heavy blade met her horns. The pressure from her shunt was admittedly fantastic; the body of a Faun granted the girl strength in the legs and natural defenses that Tobias had no equal to. He did have an answer for them, however. When the girl pressed into him, Tobias held the weapon steady.

As she moved backward, the blade's sinister tip angled toward her. It dared her to try such a fledgling defense a second time. Tobias held Blackheart steady with both hands and drew it slowly back. His first test of her mettle had borne unexpected fruit. The soldier's golden gaze flickered in the late day sunlight, finally adjusted to the glare. Her horns provided an efficient defense against a glancing blow, he noted, but he doubted if they would hold against the full might of his weapon.

There was always doubt in the back of a man's mind. A whisper in his head that he would fail plagued him worse than any sickness. For Tobias, that fear had become an eventuality. A new enemy allowed him to learn new ways to battle, but it always presented new possibilities of death. It was that fear that drove him madly toward self improvement.

His enemy presented a wall to be overcome, and Tobias rose to the challenge. Her strikes, her blocks, her rhythmic movements- they would dance to his tune. Her choice not to answer his calm words told Tobias everything he needed to know. She had intended to play with him, and she was wounded beneath the surface by how he had spurned her. Each time she had denied his blade, he felt the waver of noncommittal strikes. Surely this woman had more to offer.

Tobias gave another laugh, one that sounded rife with disappointment. "I had expected more," he told her honestly. "You're playing with me like a virgin holding a stiff cock. Timid. Uncertain."

His eyes gleamed with amusement. "Bring me to life," he implored, "before I give you to death."

There was a monster in Tobias that had never shown itself before. His blade dipped toward the sand and tore a gash in the earth. His shoulders sagged, and he stared at her through those wretched eyes. "Or are you afraid?"

[Philomel]

As soon as he said it she stopped. Froze, rooted to the spot. Her eyes flashed with sudden anger.

"I had expected more."

Her jaw tensed, back teeth grating together. It was at this time she wished she had a tail, a rarity amongst fauns but nevertheless possible. If she had such she would be swishing it, angrily back and forth, merely exentuating the expression of her anger as he continued. His eyes sparkled, his mouth curled in a fucking cocky smirk.

"Are you too afraid?"

"Fucking hell I am not afraid!" she roared, flipping her mighty sword to one hand.

As it lay snug into her right palm her other swept down and bade parallel to the dusty ground. As her ire rose her chest she felt her chin rise up. Head tilted back she expanded her vocal chords, as she glanced from him to the cold strike in the earth, then back to him. Her breath was ragged at first, as her whole body was shaking with both ferocity and passion for this fight, but she quickly gained control over it. Letting out a savage goat-like bellow she moved, hooves moving like nimble toes of a gazelle, first one, then the other, then the first again, aiming a decisive kick straight at his groin.

While she did so, and her defiant bleat cascaded over the alien landscape, her sword swept down. The Bastard, like a majestic bird, took flight and matched the speed of her hoof. She aimed to kick, the sword aimed to strike, and it focused its interest for his neck. Her eyes were focused straight on this madman, this codpiece of human nature, whom she was so disgusted by. The faun was riled, savegely so, and it was only a few seconds until she would break.