Observe, Young One, the Stars Above (Open)

[Mordelain]

Open to one opponent.

[Mordelain]

In the Zaileya Mountains stands an observatory. Cut off from the rest of the desert island of Fallien, it has existed for centuries unnoticed. Its people are a withdrawn cult of tinkerers, engineers, and scientists. Remnants of the pre-Vhadya society that occupied not only the island, but much of the seas around it, and the skies above. When the Cataclysm sundered the verdant lands, those that survived retreated and watched. They waited. They rebuilt a sanctuary that would stand the test of time.

“The view is spectacular,” Mordelain said with admiration. She held her hand against her brow, to shield her gaze against the sun. Even from behind thick peals of grey, dusk-to-come clouds it was blazing. “Suresh, come and see!”

From the central cupola of the observatory’s viewing platform, the tired and dishevelled merchant emerged in a fluster. He practically crawled into the daylight, red faced and sweating as ever. The months of inactivity following their endeavour to free the minds of the Fallieni people had done his girth few favours. Mordelain turned after a few moments, to check that he had not fallen behind.

“Oh, really?” she clucked. She skipped to his side and with a heave ho, helped him upright. He wavered, glaring at her intently. “Come on. You have to see this.”

The look of doubt on his face spoke a thousand words. Reluctantly, he advanced towards the eastern edge of the platform and rested his hands on his hips. Sure enough, the view of the ocean was beautiful. He looked own, examined the sprawl of dockland and market place that seeped out from the tiered structure and nodded with approval.

“A fitting place to get back into shape for the tribal games, yes?” Mordelain called her partisan to her side with a thought, and took it confidently into her left hand. She leant on it like a staff, and trailed a finger along the horizon. “Before the Vhadya, the ocean was some half a mile back. Arid mesas separated the observatory from the sea, and there was much traffic back and forth between the landing bays and the colony.”

“It changed the shape of the island, as well as the temperature?” Suresh raised an eyebrow. Over the last few months, Mordelain had divulged more and more of her history. As he learned about the island from centuries ago, he became increasingly, perhaps too feverishly eager to learn more.

“The island sank, as far as we could tell. The Cataclysm divided the island in two, allowing the Atereyi River to become as wide and powerful as it remains today. The mountains crumbled, the skies burned, and the island became separated from the mainland.” Her history lesson finished, the il’Jhain turned ninety degrees to face the centre of the platform.

The Ai’bron recreated the arena perfectly. Six hundred feet radius of thick sand worn sandstone, four great pillars, and nought but the wind and sun to guide her towards a new uncertain destiny.

“I’m ready!” she roared.

[Philomel]

In her hand was a single copper piece.

In and out she wound it through her fingers, letting it flow head to tail, edge to edge, from one gap the the other, then sliding it around to come to the top of her pinkie, rest a moment and then it ... dove again, right back to loop up, around, through, up, around, through ...

Mesmerised, like a kitten watching a simple pompom dangling limply from the end of a stick, Veridian attended on the coin. Great icterine eyes unblinking, he stared long and hard, following each dip and rise with endless wonder. For her, this was dull; though she followed the coin's journey also, finding it was necessary to keep her eyes upon the darting trick of hers, her expression remained unsatisfied. Eyes half-closed, lips pressed slightly together, ears twitching with unconcious agitation, the faun-whore stood, nearing utter boredom in the archway of the corridor.

Pretty, was the only useful thing Veridian could say.

Philomel just grunted, and tightened the other hand on the antler-made hilt of her mighty weapon. The sun suddenly peered through a high window, and caught the orange-brown of the coin near the edge, sending a dancing shimmer of light across the wooden floorboards. It was abrupt, and piercing, and it made the Earth Spirit all the more excited as he wriggled his behind and chattered loudly, like some cheeky baboon on a sugar-high.

Veridian ... the Nightingale muttered.

He continued to natter, throat not resting until it had gotten over the simple joy of loving this trick of a few practised deft fingers. Boredly, the faun continued her movements, adjusting only to lean onto the other hoof - her left one - for a little variation, until the Ai'brone poked his head out.

"They are ready."

Unwavering in delightful enthusiasm, Veridian leapt to his eager paws, and raced straight to the stone doorway. Behind him, lagging in the only artful, languishing way she could muster, Philomel dwadled, but followed, stepping lightly across the floorboards, making a clack, clack as hooves of keratin met ground of yew. Rolling her shoulders back, she prepared for whatever might lie in store, but did not cease her coin flipping. Coming around the edge of the door, she let the arena wash over her - that with a large platform it seemed, some emptiness beyond, a world with naught in it but sand and a red-haired woman.

Noisily she clicked her tongue behind her teeth, stepping into place beside the Earth Spirit at the very edge of the sandstone dais, and then yawned once more. Her hand rose, waved the Citadel monk away, and her eyes came to focus on those of their enemy before them, all the while that Philomel's coin kept flipping.

Flip, flip, flip.

"Greetings, lover," she said, in a bored tone, "How are you today?"

[Mordelain]

Mordelain expected many things to venture through the entrance, but not this. The creature, unknown to her even in her experience of nine worlds possessed a strange and spurious glamour. Alluring, almost, and yet devilish all the same.

“I’m quite well,” she said, stoic common stolid from parched lips.

Suresh stepped forwards, father-like defence of daughter obvious despite being veiled by a swaddle of sand blasted cloth and brooding eyes. He would have drawn his khaddar blade, had they been anywhere but the Citadel. Instead of swords, he settled for sarcasm.

“But she is no-one’s lover without my say.”

“I’ll speak for myself,” Mordelain rebuked. She disappeared from where she stood, and re-appeared four feet in front of the merchant. Her hair was dishevelled, and leaves protruded from her clothes. A hinting at unspoken adventure. She cocked her head to the left. “It’s too early to say.”

Flirtatiously, the il’Jhain spread her legs and bent her knees. This was the battle stance of the Riya Nomads, a fearsome Bedouin tribe that prided themselves on stave combat and surviving in the desert without Irrakam’s protection. The metaphor for independence and self-reliance would be lost on her observers, but it fuelled Mordelain with pride and certainty and resilience.

“Buy me dinner first, and then let us see,” she said with a smirk.

Suresh scoffed, and then turned away to give partisan and pronged horns space to settle their differences, or carve out nuptials.

“You’re definitely my daughter…,” he grumbled through clenched teeth.

[Philomel]

With the first response spoken from those lips, the copper piece came to a standstill. It rested between forefinger and thumb, hesitating in its circumnavigation of its strange fleshy world.

Philomel's lips pursed, a pouting-imitating form of curiosity, before an eyebrow caught up with her emotions and arched. Grey eyes flicked from male to female, intrigued to see the interraction to this man who claimed to be the other's father. It was clearly the fiery-haired woman who was to be the faun's opponent, but this man was trying to assert himself as far more of an authority over the battle than was necessary and correct. According to the Matriarch's standards.

As the conversation betwixt them climaxed, then fell with a guttral grumble, Philomel flipped the coin casually to the side. She watched as the man moved further to the side, and then was free to focus on the woman. Human in form, tall and oddly determined. As the copper coin landed with a light ping on the sandstone of effortless gravity and soundwaves, the faun decided to match her. Slowly, she drew her mythril blade, then leant forwards slightly, tensing her legs to jump or run, which ever movement was required first.

Behind her Veridian watched as the coin rolled away and fell over the side of the dais. His eyes scoured the area, with the wide expanse of the harbour city achily grappling its way towards the horizon. As the coin was sent heartlessly plummetting down tens, perhaps hundreds, of feet below Veridian found himself pausing for a moment, and reached into Philomel's mind to warn her before all earthly hell broke loose.

Philomel. The drop below is vast.

"Hmmm," she replied, with one sound and a short sharp nod. "I know. Steady feet."

Casually she straightened a little, then copied what the red head had done not moments ago. Philomel let the earth open beneath her, calling on the powers of the faun-mother and tree-mother Drys. Disppearing from being opposite her, to then being behind her, the faun inacted the start of the fight with a mighty suprise attack. Down the rabbit hole, and up again, she jumped via the portal in an instant of time stolen from no-one, and launched her sword strike at this woman so fair.

[Mordelain]

It was difficult to surprise Mordelain Saythrou. Living in Irrakam on its dusty, thief crowded streets meant you had to keep your wits about you. In the momentary idyll afforded by her trip abroad, a brief holiday in her busy academic timetable, she forgot what it felt like - paid the cost for ignorance.

"Oh dear," Suresh mumbled.

He turned away from the viewing orb in time to miss the faun's blade nick his protégée's hip. He opened them again to see Mordelain jump ten feet forwards, out of harm's way, and re-appear facing her opponent with a partisan gripped tightly in her right hand. She held it over her head, tip down and forward like a scorpion's tail.

"Good form," he complimented.

Several of the crowd watching alongside the merchant muttered under their breath. Gold exchanged hands as the fickle nature of the wagering halls made men waver in their resolve and fates and outcomes defy the odds.

"Come on!" he roared. Too much date wine was beginning to get to him, and the more he wanted Mordelain to triumph, the more he drank. Everyone in Irrakam had their vice, and everyone in Irrakam had their price.

"Tell me," Mordelain began with a whimper. "How did you do that?" She tried to ignore the pain shooting up her back for as long as she could. "I don't cross paths with another like me..." She wanted to say ever, but giving the creature a stone to throw back at her was ill advised.

Their lofty battleground continued to dance with flecks of sand and dust devils. Mordelain raised her feet, so that she stood on her tippy toes, and narrowed her gaze on her opponent's midriff. She calculated the distance. She calculates the likely outcomes. She calculated the wind speed and the sun's virulent glare.

Her question posed the planes walker darted forwards. A gobbet of blood trailed after her, a streak of crimson flashing into view down her lack. Her partisan, enchanted and poisoned, trusted at the last moment towards the faun's belly button. The scorpion, tense and coiled, lashed out.

[Philomel]

A gasp, as fresh as blossom buds in the first spring warmth, was released with her exhale. The spear-like pole arm was thrust towards her belly at an unmerciful speed, something which Philomel, for all her Drys-blessed agility, found she could not avoid. So precise was the blow, so neat and perfect, that the faun barely had time to think before she realised where the blade was headed.

Desperately, she attempted to sweep to the side, the idea of portal-jumping now so soon after the last queasy to the stomach. The partisan, however, was too keen a weapon, and it pierced her just at the curve of her ash tree tattoo. Moving with the wind Philomel changed it from a gut stab into a shallow streaking wound, however the pain was still excruciating.

Picking up speed with her legs and entire being, she pulled her sword out from its sheath, letting the snow white blade whisper to the brilliant sunlight. Veridian yelped as the injury passed on through their mental link to him, now some distance away - but Philomel bade him not to enter yet. She wanted to truly compose a fiendish duet with this new opponent, before he showed his fiery nature and added bonus to their battle.

Later, she simply relayed to him, and then took a leap back.

As much as her hooves could carry her with the wound, she sailed through the air away from the red-haired maiden. Landing around seven feet backwards within the space of a second, Philomel found herself well placed enough away to prepare for the next assault. Or indeed, prepared to bring on the next assault. When she touched earth she stumbled slightly, the agony of the belly slash grounding her down. At the previous site of fighting the opponent seemed to be gearing up to either chase or wait, Philomel could not tell which, but action would take place soon nevertheless. Therefore the Nightingale had little time to react.

Seconds. Less than this, perhaps.

Knowing that Veridian was not within the vacinty, Philomel placed her spare hand over her belly and began to enchant it with the simple skin-healing magic, her hand already dusty from the mere environment. Her hoof, however, acted in defense of her own body, for she needed time for the patchwork healing to take place. Launching down as hard as she could through the circumstances, Philomel threw a earthquake - a tremour that ripped the blocks of the sandstone dais out of place - right at red-head.

[Mordelain]

Expecting steel, not a sundering, Mordelain’s defensive stance did her little good. She fell backwards the moment Philomel’s roil struck. Beneath her, the flagstones shook apart. All around her the very air trembled. Though the sun continued to scorch the dead leaves and the dirty ground, waves and maelstroms churned the battlefield.

“Oh.”

Suresh could only flinch at his daughter’s discomfort. All the same, there was a wry sense of satisfaction in the merchant when the planes walker slammed into the rock, flat on her back, and bereft of a retort.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said softly. He stopped speaking to begin returning the coin he had wagered in Mordelain’s defence. He felt bad for his daughter, but worse for his pockets. They would be much lighter by day’s end.

With a grunt, she pushed herself upright even as the ruin trembled. She had to admire the faun’s gall. There was more to her than meets the eye. She spat a gobbet of sand and spit and desperation, then looked the faun dead in the eyes.

“I see I under-estimated you.”

Her eyes sparkled with the crystal radiance of her long destroyed home world. Sorrow filled them, and then madness. She adjusted her attire, losing cloth from butt cheeks and ribbons from hair. In that moment, Mordelain gave up on elegance, and resorted to a more primal urge. Survival.

“So. When I say this, I mean it in earnest.” She parsed her legs and gestured for Philomel to advance. “Let’s dance.”

[Philomel]

As if all the light of the world was converging into one single space, Philomel gorgeously smiled. Her cinereal eyes sparkled like stars as they watched the other girl get to her feet, and gather her sword. The wound beneath her bare hand stopped bleeding as flesh knitted smoothly back together, as words slipped into the air.

"I see I under-estimated you ..."

Red hair swayed in a new soft breeze, as the speaker lowered herself into a traditional fighting crouch.

"When I say this, I mean it in earnest ... Let's dance."

Behind Philomel, at a point now in his moving, sitting, moving again and sitting again, Veridian watched the opposition with curious golden eyes. His white claws dug a little into the sandy dais, scratching at the grains that had been loosened over time via fight and flight, and he tilted his head to the side. As the comment from the girl they still did not know the name of came to his ears he relayed his thoughts to his beloved faun, and found their minds to be of like consideration.

Dance ... he said.

Philomel's smile blossomed into a wondrous grin, curling from ear to ear. Entirely, she agreed.

"Oh honey," were her words to the other woman as she tugged her sword close to her body. Beneath the crimson of her half breastplate her belly, waist and hips soundlessly waved into a sensuous rhythm that spoke of uncountable seditious meetings. "I think you and I likely dance in a very different way ...

"But I am willing to waltz with your defintion in mind."

Mirroring the opposition the faun bent down, hooves scraping across the golden ground. A glorious blue sky over head and a playful wind to their east, she took up a similar stance, readiness thrumming through her veins. Two hands now on her sword, wound healed at least at the skin, she placed aside her flirtation and deemed the other girl as equal a partner.

"But first," she tickled the air between them with the white tip of her blade, "You come to me."

[Mordelain]

“Oh fine,” Mordelain hissed.

Until that singular moment, she had been analysing her opponent. Had she the gall to be honest with the faun, the Troubadour would have commended her for her gall, strength, and determination. Here, before her, was a woman with a backbone as strong as stone.

“Centuries ago I was a young girl in a faraway land.” To be precise, it was six hundred light years. She stepped forwards, upright, stalwart, and defiant. “We learnt three things.”

“I said dance, not recant,” Philomel said through grit teeth.

Mordelain bowed. The faun recognised the coy step as a start to a courtly dance all too common in noble households. Stale. Uppity. Bold.

“We learned to lead,” Mordelain continue, unthawed by the turbulent environment that howled and wailed at their presence. She rose, stared straight, and smiled. “We learned to manipulate time and space,” she added, non chalant. Most important of all, the third lesson taught on Junkyo rolled off her tongue slowly. It enticed. It scintillated. “We learnt to dance.”

Dance she did across the cracked stone. Though her injuries and her body pained her, she drew close to the faun. Naturalistically, they stood face to face at the tail end of dual pirouettes. Mordelain pressed both palms against Philomel's, as though they were reflections. They bowed with a delicate tuck of the knee.

"Ready, then?" Mordelain asked.

Philomel smirked. "Yes. Absolutely."

The sun cusped the horizon, finally confident to break through the ochre clouds. The women danced.