Redemption Bracket: Tobias Stalt Vs Philomel

[Tobias Stalt]

His lips shifted subtly, but he gave no verbal response to her declaration. It was good enough. Tobias grasped the hilt of his blade tightly in hand and eyed Philomel silently. She roared defiance to the heavens, her body swayed with anger, and Tobias' smirk slipped into a broad smile.

At last, he would face a foe worthy of the title. The man who had began the Magus Cup as a timid trickster had evolved into this beast, eager to slake his thirst for violence with blood. He caught himself and stifled a tremble of anticipation. His tongue flicked dangerously across his teeth. As she jolted forward, he hefted his sword.

The flat of the weapon greeted her powerful hoof. He pressed his palm to Blackheart and felt it's malicious beat as it shivered from the impact. Tobias spat on the ground as he slid backward from the utter strength of her strike and his boots dug into the white hot sands. Though she had proven her point, Tobias did not waver in his tenacity. Her strike had drawn a gleeful laugh from him- a masochistic and maniacal sort of laugh.

Her bastardly blade swept for his neck and Tobias tilted his body backward. The Dehlar blade shot upward, punched into the motion by the hand that had previously been reinforcing his block. The resulting collision gave an earth-shattering shriek. Tobias stared at he woman above their interlaced blades in the way a lover might suggestively stare at his mate.

He winked at her.

[Philomel]

Satyrs are the fauns that are borns from ire. They have larger, rounded horns and tougher bodies. Their spirits can rarely be dulled and neither can their attitudes. They are ugly, cruel, rape-loving brutes who are all related, all absolutely insane and all think they are pretty much the best the world can offer in terms of concious life.

Not being a satyr Philomel was lacking a certain vigour when it came to proclaiming her anger. If she did have the strenth, the upbringing, or the inbred madness to support her maybe she could have let herself go completely at this moment; let herself become overwhelmed with the rage she was feeling, and turn into some sort of blood-lustful berserker. But as it was she had been brought up a prostitute, and later an assassin, and their style of life was somewhat entirely different. Her mother, the first faun-whore had learnt the more secret, charming ways of winning battles, that did not need as much bloodshed. Instead they needed patience. They needed courage. They needed a strong will. And above all, they needed a quick and witty mind.

That which Philomel had in abundance. All her years within the fucking and killing industry had taught her how to rely on her speedy tongue, and wisdom. Her lithe and appealing body were merely tools to apply to the methods - they were not the key to the final goal. Instead, that was her brain, her dedication to strategy, and thus, thus, Philomel knew she could not be weakened by a mere wink.

Though it boiled her blood, enflamed her spirits, and sent her tongue cursing his name with a snake-like hiss, the mocking did not take over. No, she was far too practised for something as such as this. She had already committed her entire life.

And so she kept fighting the same way she had done - slowly retreating, one hand on the hilt of The Bastard, eyes watching the enemy before her. She pressed against his weapon, and he against hers, eyes matching, hearts soaring. A simple parry broke the contact of the blades with a shimmer of steel, then the faun took another step back. Easily she kept up her guard against his strikes, not letting herself be daunted. When far enough she stopped retreating, and simply struck blows for a while until the right time came.

The right time and the most auspicious of places. Gathering her breath the assassin-whore prepared. She stretched her neck and extended her arm, holding it parrallel to the earth beneath her cloven hooves. Her sword swish, clash, clang-ed against the other dark strange metal as a faint wind began to pick up over the surface of the planet.

Then - unexpectedly, even for her, there was a small nicker, a gackle. A swift patter of paws, a flash of russet red and the creature leapt from the shubbery. Correctly, within the perfect position now, it gained the two feet it needed to assault the ankle of the solider-human, claws and ivory teeth flashing. It took one - perhaps two - seconds, for the small but killer jaws to aim; ready to latch themselves around the area above the boot.

Tail swished, Philomel's sword rose up with the realisation of this advantage. Savagely, she aimed for her - their - attacker's head.

[Tobias Stalt]

Tobias continued his backward falling motion with a practiced grace. His back arched and the sword flicked backward in a high arc. He batted away the oversized sword of the Faun with his blade as it sailed along. Tobias was carried upward like a bird in an updraft, dragged clear of his assailant by continuous momentum. His body coursed with adrenaline as he ripped through the air and twisted to face his opponent proper.

A streak of orange from one side caught his eye as Tobias threw his legs viciously overhead, his body a perfect counterweight for the bulk of his blade. The Fox leaped and clamped on air, mere centimeters from a perfectly executed distraction. The soldier let out an indignant huff.

Her blade cut through air with savage skill. Tobias landed with a thud on one knee, several feet clear of the feral pair, and pressed off of the sand with his free hand. His chest rose and fell with effort, and Tobias shook his head. "Lucky for me, I suppose," he muttered, eyeing the fox and the Faun in turn. "Seems she has friends in low places."

He rose slowly to his feet, this time with Blackheart in a low guard. He brushed a hand over the cut in his wrinkled shirt, pulling his hand free with a crimson blush. His head shook. "I moved a bit slow," he called to her with a laugh. "It won't happen again."

It was almost disturbing how little he cared about a wound. He looked oblivious to the pain, or like he enjoyed the rush. Blackheart had begun to feel light in his grip, familiar. The excitement danced in his eyes as he offered his opponent a smile. The woodland creature changed the paradigm a bit, but not much. It was just another enemy. Just another corpse.

Sand kicked up in the dull breeze and buffeted the trio. Tobias lifted his ratty sleeve to his forehead and wiped away the beads of sweat that had amassed there. "My turn," he said with a hint of amusement in his grim voice.

Driven forward by a force akin to madness, Tobias surged toward the Faun and her companion. His sword dipped into the grainy ground then ripped upward in a fluid motion and sent a wave of sand toward them. He lunged forward behind the wall of dusty gold. His arms ripped the dark blade across with immense effort, and Blackheart erupted through the sand like a massive tongue from the mouth of a monster.

[Philomel]

There was a curious strength to the way the man moved, one that could not be easily comprehended. His blade, after all, seemed to not just be a weapon or a tool but an extension of the man himself. It was, if one could call it such, an additional appendage, a fifth feature, a living limb. The seemingly dullness of the metal was not to be underestimated, however. That was an easy assessment to make; it seemed to give the warrior some form of extra bought of courage. Philomel was no stranger to magical weapons, of course - she had had her fair share of wizards - but when it came to recognising and detecting magic within things ... that was not a talent of hers. Therefore she could not be sure if the thing itself had any enchantments surrounding it.

She cursed under her breath as Veridian's jaws closed upon whatever gases made up the atmosphere in this habitat. The Bastard rested still, lonesome, in her right hand, and she used this moment to let it rest upon the ground. As the human did a sort of somersault midair she took time to gather her breath.

The thin form of the earth spirit, now visible to the eye and no longer hidden, streaked low to the ground and over to her. Golden eyes pierced before him, claws ripped through the crusty earth of the ground.

Images of the villain's face, plus a raging sense of irritation battered her mind, and the faun-whore could not help but agree. It happened to choreograph perfectly to the man's landing - then subsequent attack, as his blade scooped up a mount of the dust underhoof and underpaw. Vehemently it cast it straight towards the two defenders. Thoughts were quickly cut off, and simply proved correct as the two of them hurriedly hid their faces behind hand and foreleg.

"Villianous wretch!" Philomel cursed. In readiness she flicked up the end of The Bastard again. He sung through the air, a light god - though likely very little match for the heavy, strong wanker who had just made her temporarily blind.

She flung her blade around as she retreated, widening out her natural sixth senses to keep in tune when the earth around her would be disturbed. In that way she could keep a check on his approach, be ready when the danger did come.

Curses and low-blows, her thoughts exploded, Bastards and brigands.

Steady, steady was the way to go, surely. If only she could hold herself for the time that passed.

[Tobias Stalt]

Blackheart met the Bastard with a powerful crash, then there was silence.

The last vestiges of sand rained down between Tobias and his flighty prey to reveal the soldier with his head bowed. A quiet laugh escaped him and slowly rose into a bemused chuckle. "Now we're both fighting dirty," he said as he glanced up, an evil flicker in his golden gaze. "Isn't that what you wanted?"

His inane laughter halted, but his smile remained. With a stare that could carve through stone he watched her run. Every step brought her further from danger, each increment of distance brought a sense of disdain into his chest. "Fight me." The words fell off his lips like spittle from a drunkard, then echoed with ferocity. "Fight me, all the gods damn you!"

It was unfair; he had tasted the pain from her blade, but it was not enough. He felt the rush of battle welling up, and she sullied it with a hidden ally. Then she had the audacity to flee from his reprisal to her demeaning act. Even his gracious attempts to lower himself to her level met with dishonor, and Tobias felt despondent. He thirsted for a battle worthy of the title, and with each moment, he lost hope that he had found it.

He stood slowly and exhaled, his grip tightly wound around his blade. He stared at the ground between he and the Faun as it became more plentiful and his smile began to fade. "There was a time," he said, more to himself than to his enemy, "when I was afraid. I feared battle, and I feared dying. I feared myself and for what I was capable of," he strode forward in a slow, stalking stride that offered him respite from he wild battle. "Only through adversity I was able to find find the error in that. Living in fear is not living."

He wasn't sure that she could hear him; in fact, he doubted she would be listening if she did hear. Blackheart drew a fine line in the sand as it dragged along the ground behind him. His eyes were darkened again, devoid of the life that their short lived encounter had stoked in them. He longed for that sensation once more. He desired no more than that. "Fight me," he begged, his voice wrought with despair, "just fight. Forget victory and defeat. Just validate me for a little longer, and you'll be rid of me."

A single tear stained his cheek, out of place. He did not see Philomel as friend or foe- she was simply his fix. He knew nothing of her, nor she of him. He wagered, though, she might understand that sentiment. The feeling of being empty. Everyone knew it. He did not jump to strike her or rush to take her back. He just stood there.

[Philomel]

Truly, she was shocked by the sound of his desperation. It was a sorrowful noise, a mourning in some sense. As she listened to him the faun-whore could not help but begin to awaken her curiousity to this character further. His heart beat as steady as any warrior, yet his facial expressions were devoid of much passion, much love, much of anything really. Hard lines, deep valleys and rifts, dark circles beneath the eyes.

As she listened to his words, as he said, "There was a time when I was afraid. I feared battle, and I feared dying." She was reminded of his expression when she had truly battered at him with her equisite blade. As the two of them had met his eyes had danced; a light had literally shone in them. It made her realise that this man was a warrior - once it had been his whole entire existence, and now he was starved of that which he craved the most.

Simple, honest violence.

As the sand and dust whistled away on the wild wind she looked pitfully at the man. The tip of The Bastard drooped somewhat and her head tilted gently to the right. A gentle amount of calmness came over her, and a high amount of respect for him. Slowly her lips curled into a smile. A small knowing smile.

"I will willingly fight as you wish," the assassin-whore said in a clear voice, "If you admit defeat to me."

Her hand still facing the earthen ground moved slightly, inching towards her belt and the dagger hilts portruding there. Near her hooves the fox-spirit stood up, stretching as if to prepare for playtime.

"Say that I have won this round, and I will give you a battle to whisper to your grandchildren."

[Tobias Stalt]

Tobias watched her in somber silence and drank in her words. Indulgences of the flesh, carnal and futile, danced through this faun. To her, victory mattered above all else, and in that, the empty husk before her felt a tinge of pity. It dissolved but a moment later, but for as long as it lasted, he offered her a discontented frown. "You would take an empty victory over one you worked for?" He questioned her with conviction in his tone that had been earned through immense loss and suffering. "I offer you a middle ground, Lady Philomel. Come take your victory, and in so doing, validate us both."

It was a simple response, yet it resounded like thunder. He remained implacable and stoic, and the dull golden gaze never wavered. "What have you got to lose?"

He reached up with slow, steady fingers and brushed away the inkling of a tear that dared to stain his face. "Show me your resolve. Perhaps then you will find the victory you seek."

Tobias took a slow, almost painful step toward the woman and raised his blade to point at her accusingly. "You may learn something of yourself." His smile was no longer mocking, but soft and sincere. "And, perhaps, of me."

Tobias waited patiently for her answer.

[Philomel]

Softly she laughed, mouth transforming into a gentle smirk.

"Never ask me about my resolve, human. You know nothing of me."

Her eyes glanced at the ground briefly, lost as she was in thought. Veridian kept his gaze upon the broken warrior, wary of any sudden movement. As she considered, or rather simply thought, Philomel's mind began to consider images of her past: of that time when she had stabbed her old teacher after he raped her mother; of that time she had watched Mort, her pimp, get stabbed to her hearts content; of that time when she had wandered back in time and stabbed her father. Stabbing with the blade of her keris knife, the waving beauty.

Stab. Stab. Bleed.

"You beg me to fight?" She said quickly, lifting her eyes to him, "Beg like a dog?"

Her laugh turned into something macabre, mocking as her spare hand now drew out the Keir's dagger. That steel piece that had stolen so many lives, stopped so many hearts ... Stolen so many resolves.

It had changed the fate of her whole life.

"Well then, if that be, come at me."

She dared him with her expression, bade him with her romance. Spread her arm wide, exposing the naked flesh.

"Come at me stranger."

And with her hand-and-half sword at the ready, her dagger in rearguard she summoned her strength. The faun-whore readied herself for a fight worth dying for.

[Tobias Stalt]

"When you have nothing else," he replied, "the method of procurement becomes meaningless."

Tobias ripped forward like a stain of darkness in broad daylight. His eyes beheld the powerful form of Philomel with nothing but the respect an honorable opponent man ought to offer his enemy. Blackheart lunged outward. The sorrowful sword scoured sand with a familiar touch as it sought the Faun's blood.

Her voice seemed so faint now. His smile had become a mask of contentment as memories boiled over in his mind and the battle consumed him, but he could not hear Camille. Not even when straining. How short a time ago it had been that she stood beside him, crooning in his ear. Her touch was love, her scent was life. Now, though, she was nothing. She was dead.

He had hated her just before the end. She had thrown aside their love for the backward promises of power and the notion that she would rise high on the updraft of murder and lies. In spite of all those things, to see her bleed out the last moments of her life had been too much for him. It had ripped open a wound that had far from closed, and he had fallen so far from the man he once was.

The only thing that gave him any peace was waging war.

Blackheart streaked like a Stygian blur to and fro in powerful swings seemed mismatched to the frail form of Tobias. Each moment was a duality of heartbeats- one his own, and the other, vibrations from the dark blade when it made impact. His breaths were one with the wind; constant, immense, loud. In spite of his joy, Tobias was lost in a world of suffering.

If he were to die, he would die fulfilled. If only for a few moments. The agony of this tournament was it's lack of finality. He had come so far and grown so much, yet now that he longed for death, he could not have it. His only choice was to move forward, and Philomel or he would fall in pursuit of that lofty achievement.

Either, Tobias was convinced, would be a fitting end.

[Philomel]

Sweetly the moment, the opportunity was there, and she wholeheartedly took it.

Dancing as lithely as a gazelle in the wild wild Alerar plains, her movements were one with the earth itself. The twisting grains of dust, sand and soil merged as one to greet those hooves and touch the darker tones of her flesh. With this new need to prove herself came the chance to display her vigour, and vigour she did display.

Hoof after hair after skin, the two of them clashed and danced together, their steps making elegant scars in the landscape. Grey eyes, gold eyes - they were two of the same, of similar spirit. Both willed it so, both wanted it so.

Clang, clash, graannnggg...

Sounds of symphonic nature, the pickaxe in the mine. The blades met and kissed, then parted. Again and again and again...

Paradise could be found. Paradise in a sense was found, at least for him. The solemn soldier. The man who could not live until he felt the release of violence.

Her dagger and sword were one, and she was one with them. Subtly, she smiled, and urged Veridian into action. As she attacked from below and above his belly, he lunged for the human's waist.

Three silent moves. Three silent attacks. Perfect synchronisation.

If only there were such beauty in normality.