Whatever Happened to Just Saying No?

[Iriah Caitrak]

((Closed to Malagen.))

Ira nervously scanned the random faces of the random people in this of all a random place. She should not be here and yet here she stood. What it was that made her walk through the large wooden doors of The Citadel and into halls filled with warriors, monks, mages and races she’d never seen before she could not say. Perhaps it was insanity, a brief moment in a lapse of her judgement that was now going to be throwing her up against the likes of these heavily armoured men and few women, yep she was one of a handful of women in the whole place. And she stood out like a doe-eyed baby deer in a room full of wolves as she was, wearing almost no armour and appearing to possess not a single weapon. The only things to adorn her curvaceous form were the robes of her native home, Fallien. Deep reds and purples that flowed from her body like water and fluttered under the slightest breeze.

Despite the fact that the halls were filled with warriors, or only those that thought themselves warriors, the place was rather beautiful. Beige stonewalls with dark auburn wood trim lining doors and walls stood out amongst the flickering light of the metal sconces and the waning light that spilled through large glass windows. The sun was setting outside but the halls of this place were not emptying.

Meandering through the halls, Ira ignored the looks from many of the men. Some peered at her with lust, their eyes trailing over her body as if they could imagine her naked and beneath them already and it sent a sickening feeling to the pit of her stomach as she imagined them touching her. Others, they looked at her like easy pickings and though this was her first time here, battling was nothing new to her. Yet nothing like this, no, battling in the sands of Fallien was much different and not as competitive than this appeared to be.

“Excuse me, miss, but may I be of some service to you?”

Ira turned and looked to her left at the male voice she thought was speaking to her and seeing the rather handsome looking monk starring in her direction Ira confirmed her first assumption. Help, finally. Just when she assumed one of the warriors in here was going to try something with her, help comes along.

“Ahh, yes. That would be wonderful. This is my first time here…to this um…”

“This is The Citadel.”

“Thank you,” She said smiling at him. He was much taller than her, at least 6’4 and he appeared to be rather well built underneath the plain, brown robe he wore, then again if this was a place of battle he would need to be. If only he had some hair, Ira did not enjoy men who shaved their heads or were naturally bald, “I was wondering how it works exactly…”

The monk smiled as her and ushered her out of the middle of the hallway so they could talk without getting into other peoples way.

“As I’m sure you’ve already noticed, this is a place for warriors to battle. Behind each door is an environment that we monks can create to look like anything you want and you may battle with one or as many opponents as you wish.”

Ira nodded her head to the man as he spoke, his voice very calming and soothing for someone who worked in a battle arena.

“There is of course the chance that one may die during the battle, it is actually quite a frequent outcome and though one may experience all the pains of death once the round is over we revive the dead and send them on their way as healthy as they came here, sometimes more so.”

Ira felt her brows rise as he said that. Revive the dead, was that even possible? Once you were dead, you were dead and no amount of magic could bring you back unless they had some kind of barrier that kept the soul from leaving the body, but honestly… Surely he was not speaking the truth.

“That’s not possible.” Ira said matter-of-factly.

His smiled never disappeared, “I assure you that it is quite possible.”

She was sceptical at best and downright disbelieving at worse. Still, she trusted her own abilities enough to wish to attempt this kind of battle.

“Would you like to participate in a battle?”

Ira nodded her head to the man and he led her to a door along the hallway. It was no different than any other door but to him it was.

“There’s no one inside here at the moment. Now, what kind of environment would you like to fight in?”

The desert of Fallien immediately came to the forefront of her mind, because it was familiar and because she knew how to fight in the shifting sands so well. It would be an advantage but she wanted something different, something she didn’t get to fight in, in Fallien.

“A forest, like Concordia, with an amazing waterfall beside a lush field.”

The cliché of the environment she picked went right over her head; to pick the desert would have been cliché to her but the forest, that was something new, something that she loved. And it would make an interesting environment for her to test her adaptability. After all, there had to be some level of difficulty when trying to battle someone with trees all over the place.

The monk nodded his head, “You may enter.”

Ira gripped the handle of the door and pulled it open, hesitated for a moment and then stepped inside. At first there was a slightly dizzying disorientation and then when she finally realized she had closed her eyes, Ira squinted them opened to find herself standing in the place just as she imagined it to be, only much more vivid, alive and real, very much real. She was knee high in grass so green it made the beautiful dye jobs back home look faded and old. To the left of the sweeping grass that moved like a living carpet with the wind was a magnificent waterfall. The crystal clear water flowed over the top of the cliff in a great rush that left if white with the air trapped inside of it. The water plummeted over thirty feet to the large river below, rushing and thundering with the force of it.

So magnificent the spectacle was that the trees and the lush growth of life that Ira loved so much about a forest was lost to her. Moving through the field, Ira took a seat on one of the many large boulders adorning the side of the river right by the waterfall. Mist danced through the air and landed on her bare arms and face, tickling her with its cool touch. The unfortunate part was that so close to the water all she could hear was its roar, completely oblivious to any who would be entering the area unless she reached out with her senses for them.

[Malagen]

They were all weak, and as such, unworthy of facing him.

Malagen was sitting in the main hall of the Citadel, leant leisurely in a leather armchair, as serene as if he was carved out of the same material as the wall behind his back. People came, people went, people boasted of their accomplishments and taunted their future opponents, but to the ruthless barbarian it looked a whole lot like children bickering over marbles. It made him realize that, while this edifice was a thing of undisputed marvel, its proprietors should’ve limited the participants to those that could battle with more then just words. But then again, if they did that, chances were they would be left with little or no traffic. Corone maybe was the land of heroes and fables, but far more numerous were the ones that liked to think themselves deft and strong.

Thrice now he faced that kind exactly. The Citadel was quite a discovery for the Dram, providing endless venues for countless battles and bloodsheds for the man whose knowledge was focused solely on fighting, and yet having none of the drawbacks such as the lawful prosecution after the deaths of so many. But the satisfaction of finding such a place was soon doused by the nitwits that they set against him beyond those enchanted doors. The first was a seven-foot axe-wielder that couldn’t hit a log, let alone a mobile target. Malagen took him down in a single swipe. The second was a daddy’s boy, a lad who most likely stole his father’s sword from the cabinet and sought glory with it. Malagen dislodged the blade from his hand and proceeded to pick up that sword and send the boy away with it in his gut. The third one was the most memorable one, a tiny lass wielding a huge staff. He faced her on a rope bridge that hung over a boiling volcano. The girl was so frightened from a single keen glance of his dead eyes that she stumbled backwards and over the ledge, freefalling into the magma below.

With such feeble opponents facing him and scampering around the main hall, the barbarian started to think that his grand find was actually a grand waste of his time. Murdering the weak had its charms, but even a single-tracked mind such as Malagen’s got tired of the bloody repetition after a while. He wanted a challenge and so far the Citadel failed to provide him with one.

And then she walked in.

Malagen wasn’t certain what it was that captured his attention, but when the woman in the light robes walked in, the rest of the room seemed to evanesce around her. Perhaps it was the way she walked, timid and uncertain, and yet with determination painted over her visage. Perhaps it was the foreign outlook of her attire, her bronze tan, her hair. Or perhaps it was just the call of his hormones that he preferred to keep in check at all times. The Dram didn’t know and didn’t care much either. Scarce were the females that struck him with their mere appearance like a slap in the face, and a slap in the face was more retribution then any of these weaklings offered him so far.

That was something that finally awakened his interest and made him stir in his seat before he rose to his feet and followed the woman and the accompanying monk. Half of the room – the male half, of course – seemed to have a similar idea, but one glance and two words made them change their minds. “Back off!” Malagen spoke, his voice dead calm as his eyes gave each and every person interested a dosage of an intimidating stare. Some of them crawled back like the maggots they were, some sustained The Look a while longer before realizing the woman wasn’t worth of the trouble they would get in with the ominous stranger. Only one figure remained standing, a teen with a brandished sword and shaky knees. Malagen’s left, already holding the sheathed sword, brought the weapon forward, his thumb pushing the saber less then an inch out of the scabbards with a flick. It was all that the youth could handle before scuttling away with the rest.

“You know, you could’ve just gone to the registration desk and claim this battle?” a courteous voice came from behind him. Its owner, the same bald monk that guided his female opponent through the Citadel and into one of the room, emerged from the dim hallway and stood calmly with his hands tucked into his sleeves.

“I know,” Malagen replied, his blade making a metallic click as he pushed it back in all the way, his muscled body turning and brushing past the arena manager. “But where’s the fun in that?”

A bland smirk was all that the monk got before the Dram turned the knob and proceeded into the room beyond. The first step took him into nothingness, the second as well, but by the third he was stepping onto the rustling leafs and through the lush fern undergrowth that rested beneath the thick canopy of maple trees. He expected the irritant chirp of the birds or buzzing of the bothersome insects, but instead all he could hear was a thunderous rumble. Once his eyes focused, he could see the origin of the sound. Beyond the last line of the trees, water crashed from a substantial height, the collision forming a myriad of minute water drops while the sun’s luminance gave birth to a faint rainbow above the rippled water surface. A more emotional mind would’ve found the sight beautiful, magnificent even, but such sentiments were more often then not lost on Malagen.

What wasn’t, however, sat next to the pond. Unarmed and undeniably fair, the woman seemed more like a lost maiden that strayed into the woods instead of a fierce opponent that sought a sparing partner amidst the illusions of the Citadel. Malagen strode forward, holding his sheathed blade by the scabbards with his left, and once he was certain that his voice would be able to defeat the rumble of the waterfall, he spoke.

“You seem lost, wench. The rooms for spectators are in a different part of the Citadel.”

[Iriah Caitrak]

Goosebumps.

They exploded down her arms and various other parts of her body as a shiver snaked its way down her spine. The water that was glazing her skin and clothing was cold, very cold considering she was used to such blistering temperatures and she was beginning to feel the affects. If it wasn’t for the constant sun that caressed her it would have been too cold for her to handle, but the warm rays warmed her body and made it tolerable so she could stay like this until her opponent arrived.

Speaking of which, she was supposed to be here for a battle, not to enjoy the scenery however beautiful it may seem to her. This was not exactly the time for her to be relaxing and reclining in the sun or stripping out of her clothing and diving into the crystal clear water. The one she’d put out of her mind even as the thought entered it. Enjoying the sights and sounds of the waterfall and whatever mist that coated her was fine, but stripping down and diving right in was not, especially when her mind reminded her of the fact that her opponent could already be here, watching her.

The realization startled her for a moment.

Reaching out with her senses, Ira at first felt nothing, no soul, no life, nothing. Though this place seemed alive and there technically should be creatures roaming the woods if there were any they were merely an illusion. No life truly dwelled here other than herself and whenever her opponent finally arrived, whatever creatures may come into her view possessed no soul within their bodies.

Just then she felt the presence of a soul suddenly appear in the surroundings. It made her entire body tense for a second. What if she fought someone truly more skilled than she was? What if she did die in this place and that monk had been lying to her and could not bring her back from the dead?

The fear was gripping but Ira was not easily overcome by it. And what if her opponent was a weakling, a mere child or an over armoured freak that could barely swing his blade? There had been plenty of people in the halls that had seemed strong to her but their eyes held no battle experience. They were merely facades hoping to be what she already was, a true warrior and they cowered in these halls because there was no fear of death. The monk must have been telling the truth for so many inexperienced people to be peppering the hallways, people who only cared about making a name for themselves never what they could truly accomplish with great skill, the preservation of life.

The soul traveled closer to her and Ira kept her eyes on the water allowing it to calm her, no point in allowing anxiety to take her over at such a moment.

His words broke over the roar of the water, cold and emotionless.

Ira turned on her rock and kept her face as closed and emotionless as possible as she examined her opponent. Definitely not a rookie. His eyes spoke more than his attire did; they spoke of having seen many things and perhaps of having done many things in his life. Though he stood still and straight, like a rock, immovable and uncaring, cold and distant, there were some things you couldn’t keep from your eyes.

His spoke of experience and much more, things she couldn’t fathom, things she didn’t know to read for.

A large, black cape covered his body in a way that resembled the monk who had escorted her here but he was no monk. The fact that his left hand rested upon the hilt of his sword was testament to this, plus monks weren’t supposed to look that yummy.

Giving herself a little push, Ira jumped down off the rock and landed softly in the grass below. She had no idea what a wench was but she supposed it was not an endearing term as she had not heard it often in her albeit short travels through Corone.

“And what makes you think I’d rather be a spectator than an opponent, siahd?”

It irked her that this stranger would dare to assume that because she was female and appeared like no other warrior she did not belong here. Appearances were not everything, he should know that if he’d ever fought here before considering the people she’d seen littered in the hallways. Half of them were too scared to know how to hold a sword properly and the other half only knew how to fight with words. It was pathetic at best and down right embarrassing at worst, for them of course, not her. There was nothing embarrassing here for her, irritating yes, that someone could easily make such an assumption for her. But then again, he was male, what did she expect from his kind?

No wonder Fallien was ruled by women, at least they knew what they were doing.

Talk was not why she’d come here though.

Stepping away from the water, Ira wondered what her first move should be. Attacking the living was nothing like attacking Fallen, or more likely the case being attacked by Fallen. She had advantages with her skills, skills some Althanians thought to be odd and slightly unnatural, like Storm Veritas, though that hadn’t stopped him…

Shoving her mind away from those thoughts, Ira quickly formed her dual Half Swallows in her hands. The weapons appeared as if from thin air, formed by energy itself and given reality by the mere thought crossing her mind. She decided it was best to make the first move and quickly pushed off from the soft ground. The treads of her boots were designed for fighting in the sand, not grass and wet soil but she correctly her stance slightly and continued crossing the brief distance between them. Her first attack was not meant to debilitate him, only to assess his skills and see just how good he really was. One Half Swallow, dubbed Uriahd went for the man’s chest, a straight jab to the unprotected flesh, the other cut across in a low swooping motion, the slightly curved blade aimed for his thigh. Both moves she expected him to parry or dodge.

[Malagen]

The eerily efficient mind of the barbarian wasted little time on foreseeing and predictions mostly because such thoughts were as fickle as the spring weather. However, what little thoughts he dedicated to assumptions made him believe that the woman was either a sorceress or a really feeble brawler. Both of these realizations were a product of the simple fact that the woman wielded no weapons, and yet was far too modest in the ways of muscle to be a proficient hand-to-hand fighter. Not that she was modest in her womanly aspects. On the contrary, the layers of thin silken cloth shaped her curves well enough for Malagen to notice that she was as shapely as a woman ought to be. Not overly so, but not as lanky as Skyler who was all bones and tireless sinew that rode him to exhaustion. He briefly wondered would this woman with sun-kissed skin be able to do the same should the manner of this battle change drastically.

Not that it seemed likely to happen. The retort to his verbal jab was curt and bitter, the woman getting on her high horse as all headstrong women did when they felt threatened by male domination. “She’s got sass, no doubt about it,” he thought and not with complete enmity. The Dram maybe was a cruel bastard, but he preferred when women had some spunk, some untamed ferociousness that made them rebel and bite and scratch and even come at him with exotic, conjured weapons. Yes, there was definitely more to this one then just looks. A pair of curved weapons came to existence in her hands as if they were cloaked with invisibility up until this moment, and with them the foreigner didn’t seem like a spectator anymore.

“Well, nothing anymore,” Malagen responded, his lips allowing a twitch that could’ve been interpreted as a grin. His hands worked automatically, responding to the appearance of the armaments in the female’s hand, repositioning the sheathed blade from his left to his right. “If I knew you had some magic foolery to go with that face, chances are I’d make a different introduction.”

“Hardly,” his mind’s voice added with a tinge or sarcasm. Perhaps she had the ability to make weapons, but that didn’t explicitly make her a fighter. If that was the fact, then every blacksmith would’ve been a hero. As if she wanted to prove him wrong, the dual-wielding wench came right at him. Her approach was far too slow to surprise him, her footing determinate but faulty, her grip just a fraction too tight on the hilts of her curved blades. Malagen’s eyes saw it all by the time she made a pair of hasty steps on her deadly dash. Suffice to say, he had ample time to fortify his stance, bending his knees ever so slightly to gain more balance. His azure eyes never left her peculiar silvery orb, but despite the focus, they saw every intricate detail relevant to the attack she was performing. So when the twin strikes finally came at him – and a rather sloppy pair of them – the raven-haired barbarian was almost a step ahead of them.

Using just his right, he pushed the first thrust sideways, then proceeded to intercept the diagonal swipe at his thigh before it came to full power. He didn’t strike the second weapon though. The steel scabbard of his weapon had just enough advantage in the means of range to allow him to strike at her wrist. This was intended simply as a distraction though. Because as soon as his clinical parries were done, Malagen spun around what he hoped to be a temporarily disabled right side. He proceeded down her flank fleetly, launching a single strike at her back. Or rather, her backside. His sheathed weapon usually would’ve been unsheathed and it would’ve aimed to sever her backbone, but given her weak opening, he decided to cut her some slack. Instead of a painful swipe at her back, the Dram intended to give her rump a moderate smack.

With the maneuver done, he backpedaled serenely, that same bland grin on his pale face as his eyes aimed to make contact. “Let’s see how brave you really are, wench.” From the discovery of his intimidation ability, few were the ones who could look into the nothingness of his blue eyes and remain undaunted by them. The chill in them was endless, relentless, presenting the window into a void that seemed to have no beginning and no end. If she could handle that then maybe his time in the Citadel wouldn’t be wasted.

“Maybe not a spectator, but definitely rude. Haven’t they taught you it’s not nice to attack people before introducing yourself?” he spoke, maintaining his emotionless glare and folding his left arm behind his back. “On that note, I am Malagen.”

The gesture might’ve seemed gentleman-like, something that prissy noblemen would do when they would enter their fencing duels, but there was a substantially different reason why a barbarian such as him did it. The truth was, while he could still wield weapons with his left better then the majority of grunts, the shoulder wound that he suffered in Salvar dungeons made his arm defective. It became more inert, more clumsy, and ultimately a hindrance in a battle. However, that was not something he would shout out to his opponents. Instead, Malagen turned it into an advantage. Nothing irked people more then when you treated them as inferiors, and if the sheathed blade didn’t relay that message, the usage of a single arm most certainly did.

[Iriah Caitrak]

Her first attack was easily pushed to the side and when she expected him to come in at her second blade, he didn’t. Instead he attacked her hand, the shock of his sheath hitting her wrist made her hand twitch; her fingers loosen their grip and her weapon slipped to the grass below. It would stay there for roughly five seconds before the energy used to create it dissipated. She didn’t care about that though for it seemed her opponent was not done yet. He spun about her right side, which was completely open and came in for an attack to her back.

Ira’s eyes widened as she tried to spun off to the left, avoiding his attack. Her move wasn’t completely successful, the sheath of his weapon hitting her hip instead of her butt as he has intended to. When she turned back to him, prepared to come at him again, though this time more prepared, Ira noticed the relaxed stance he had taken and paused as he began talking. Cold eyes locked with hers and Ira kept her gaze on his face, not backing down from a stare she was certain most people couldn’t handle. She could admit to herself that it was slightly intimidating, then again, so was looking into the eyes of a corrupted soul that wanted nothing more than to rip you apart.

His moves had been made to irritate her, to allow emotions to cloud her judgement so she would slip up and make another stupid move like the one she just had. That had been designed to allow her to see just how skilled he was and boy had it ever. He was good, really good and he’d seen right through her attack and if he’d actually unsheathed his weapon there’s a good chance she’d had a large wound somewhere on her body right now, either that or she’d already be dead.

Sad to think that all her years of training could quickly unravel and become nothing to someone like him. Just how skilled was he that he thought her so little a threat to at the moment have his hand behind his back and his weapon still sheathed?

She stood straight and took the time he was giving her to make some adjustments. Her boots had a flat sole to them that didn’t grip the wet grass and soil of this area, in fact she’d nearly slipped a few times while she’d come at him. Though she’d never used her ability to do something like this before she knew it was possible. Ignoring him for the moment and wondering if that would bring about any of his ire, Ira formed a harder sole on the bottom of her boots, one that had treads which would dig into the earth and give her greater traction.

Smirking, Ira broke off the little staring contest he had going with her and looked down at the ground, scrapping her feet across the wet soil and grass. Her new soles worked better than her old ones and provided the perfect traction to keep her from slipping. That was one problem solved, now if only she could get this Malagen to start acting as if this were a real battle.

Looking back up at Malagen, Ira cocked her head slightly to the side as she continued to gaze into his eyes. The constant swirl of her silver irises changing into a black so dark it was like a void.

“Ira Shinkara.” If the accent her voice was laden with didn’t give away the fact that she was foreign, her name on top of the colour of her skin should do it. Not that this one would care.

Letting Uriahd slip from her grip, Ira formed her Swallow in her hand. Though she usually fought with her Half Swallows, she wanted to change tactic on this one and try something else. The swallow was a harder weapon to handle but it’s attacks were more devastating and it was more balanced than her own invented half swallows which were top heavy because of the length from the handle to the blade and the length of the blade itself.

“Don’t you know it’s rude to attack a lady’s backside, especially without her permission?”

She didn’t give him time to answer the question. Instead she tensed her legs and launched herself at him, covering the much smaller distance between them in a second. Both her hands held to the middle of the swallow where a long handle lay, with guards on either side. She spun the blade counter clock wise, attempting an attack that would come down diagonally and slice him open from his left shoulder to his right hip. But the attack was shallow and would only create a superficial wound if he didn’t block it, but she was count on him to.

As the blade passed by his shoulder, Ira shifted her stance, her left leg coming forward and her hand pressing down on the other half of her swallow, reversing its spin to come around and attack Malagen from hip to shoulder instead.

[Malagen]

“Ira Shinkara.”

Malagen was unable to determine the origins of the woman – which wasn’t a surprise given the fact that he was never an avid traveler – but the foreign name combined with the peculiar little idiom that lay in her every word formed an air of exoticism around his opponent. And while it was a small wonder to find one such as her in a multicultural realm such as Corone, it was also another detail that further intrigued the barbarian. Judging by her tan, she was probably from the southern lands whose names Malagen had no knowledge of. North was his side of the word, frigid and relentless and cold enough to extinguish the flare in Ira’s silvery eyes. He was the ice, it seemed, and she was the fire, and the Citadel offered a locale for the battle for domination.

“A headstrong, spry fire,” his mind commented once the daunting glare of the azure eyes failed to strike fear into the woman. She paused her advance for a moment, but after several seconds Malagen realized the reason for it wasn’t his obscure ability. In fact, it seemed that it only furthered encouraged her to come forth. The physically inferior woman did her magic again, discarding her dual weapons and forming another, double-bladed one. The Dram registered it as a mere shift in the reach lengths. Ira had the advantage now, but if she handled the staff weapon the same way she wielded the previous two, he could battle her with his eyes closed. Besides, given the slowness of her attacks so far, the larger weapon would only further hinder her mobility. In short, Ira was dead already – Malagen foresaw it – and she didn’t even know it.

“I might as well have some...”

The cool, level voice in his head wanted to conclude with fun, but the movement of the woman made it clear that there would be little of it. Unlike her initial approach, Ira came at the barbarian with renewed resolve, her advance blistering fast as she twirled her weapon. Malagen barely had time to notice how her footwork improved on a steep scale when the first attack came. Were he not so involved in taking the measurements of her bosom and hips prior to her advance, his uncanny focus would’ve ascertained that the first attack was nothing but a decoy. As it was, though, his torso jerked back instinctively, forcing him to retreat unexpectedly and leaving him open for the follow-up. He had only his inhuman speed to thank for evading it, the blade coming from below and passing a fraction of an inch from his torso. Malagen backpedaled several steps, regaining his grace by the second one and his grin by the third one.

“Oh, I know. Especially such a nice backside,” he responded, the jest rather bland when spoken in his usual emotionless tone. “But I’m a rather rude guy.”

The Dram would’ve countered immediately had he not felt a peculiar half-tickling, half-aching sensation across his muscled chest. Only when he dropped his eyes to locate the origin of this sensation, Malagen noticed that the brim of his unbuttoned coat was cut on two places and that the shirt below had a foot-long tear that revealed a skin-deep wound.

“Complacence and underestimation. As bad of a combination as it gets,” he thought as his left hand appeared from behind to inspect the wound. It was nothing, a mere scratch and a few drops of blood, but it proved that the fox was all fired up and unafraid to bite. “And I just bought this coat,” Malagen murmured, more to himself then to Ira as he reestablished eye contact and made sure that she wasn’t coming at him at this moment. Satisfied with the distance between himself and the foreign female, the barbarian serenely took of his coat.

He didn’t let it drop to the ground though. As much as he liked the coat, this was the Citadel and here all the damages were repaired at the end of the battle, whether they were bodily injures of broken items. That was why Malagen decided to use his coat in his little strife with Ira. With a simple motion of his left hand, the barbarian threw the leather apparel at the woman, the large piece of clothing spreading wide enough to hopefully block her view for a fraction of a second. A fraction of a second that he needed to come down her left flank and sweep his sheathed blade at the back of her knee. It was a move that was supposed to throw Ira on her knees, causing more damage to her spirit then her body. The spirit he could live without. The body was too tasty to be ruined with dismemberment.

[Iriah Caitrak]

Ira smirked as Malagen backed away from her, his snide remark, which would have sounded much better if he were to speak with any kind of emotion within his voice was ignored. Well, not completely ignored, the fact that in the middle of a battle he could comment on her backside was well, she didn’t know what was it was, but she was quite positive she might be blushing…just a little bit. That didn’t matter though. She’d been successful. There was a long tear in the fabric of both his coat and his shirt and beneath that tear was flesh and she could tell she’d cut that too. There wasn’t a lot of blood, just a few red droplets, she must have just scratched the surface, shame, but at least the move had gone through. Her first attack had been a mistake but her second a little better planned and had proved that though skilled, this man was after all just a man and she could still win.

Watching him take off his coat, Ira glanced the expanse of muscle under his shirt, taunt, hard muscle. Good thing he didn’t take his shirt off as well or she may actually have been a little distracted. Then again, she wouldn’t mind getting an eye full of all that muscle without any clothes hindering her view. But this was a battle and not exactly the best time for her to get distracted by such things.

He’s not dropping his coat…

Her eyes narrowed and that instinctive feeling in the pit of her stomach told her exactly what he was about to do with it, but she really hoped she was wrong.

Nope, damn instincts…

He threw the coat at her, the heavy piece of material fanning out in front of her blocking her view of him. Her heart stuttered and starting beating twice as fast as it was before and worry and panic gnawed at the edge of her mind. She didn’t even have time to control the emotions, by the time she’d even registered the fact that they were there she caught him out of the corner of her eye. Instinct took over, but instinct wasn’t fast enough, he was much faster. The sheath of the weapon slammed against the back of her knee and Ira’s mind expected the cold bite of metal to be slicing through her flesh, instead all she received was the dull pain of the rounded edge of his sheath knocking her.

He was still playing with her.

The attack knocked her knee out from under her, but instead of falling to her knees, Ira took the momentum and dropped into a forward summersault. Her swallow slipping from her fingertips and falling to the ground, where it would disappear within seconds. When she stopped, crouched in the grass, Ira quickly formed a small throwing knife in her hand and turned towards Malagen, throwing the knife at him at the same time, the blade of the tiny weapon glowing blue.

If he wanted to continue to play with her, then she might as well have some fun playing with him.

She quickly rose from her crouching position, her swallow appearing once again in her hands. The Calerian launched herself at her opponent, spinning the swallow around in her hands. Lowering the weapon, Ira spun the blade around in a move that could potentially cleave the man in half, and as the one blade of her swallow was attempting to do just that she adjusted her grip with her other hand. The other half of her swallow broke off right in the middle of her first attack and Ira thrust the blade forward, aiming for the centre of his chest.



((Check my character profile for what the blue glow does, you’ll find it under the Ad Atmika enchantment.))

[Malagen]

Again, his plotted course of action was only partially effective. His attack connected in the intended manner, but Ira wasn’t prone to taking a knee. Given her disposition and her words so far, Malagen wasn’t surprised; she wasn’t of a kind that bent her backbone easily, especially not to men that opposed her with such blatant disrespect. Instead, she rolled forward, her weapon once again slipping from her clutches only to be replaced by a much smaller one. The barbarian allowed another smirk, his crouched posture an aftereffect of his attack, his left hand coming forth once again to set a handful of stray raven strands from his face. The chase was, after all, usually better then the catch and he decided to chase her, tire her, and take her if the development of the battle allowed such turn of events.

Proving that she wouldn’t be an easy catch, the woman once again combined some form of magic with mundane means of fighting. The dagger in Ira’s hands got enveloped in an azure aura before the woman launched it at him with some prowess, aiming at his chest. Unfortunately for her, the glowing of her enchantment was like a beacon despite the day’s natural illumination, telegraphing the trajectory to the ever focused Malagen. His left moved from his face in a timely manner, positioning itself in order to intercept the conjured missile. It would’ve done so too, trapping it betwixt his forefinger and middle finger if the blade had any coherence. Instead it passed clean through, finding no resistance in the flesh and bone of both his hand and his shoulder. The barbarian’s first thought was that it was just an illusion. The pain that sped down the length of his arm like a bolt of lightning told him otherwise. He felt as if the old scar on his shoulder opened up again and that somebody was pouring salt on it.

It took quite an effort to keep an emotionless visage at this moment, but even as his azure eyes made a quick survey and established that there were no physical wounds, Ira was charging at him again. Her twin weapons revolved again, this time coming at him vertically with an intention to split the barbarian in two equal parts. With the pain of his arm as a distraction, Malagen had no other option then throwing himself backwards, executing a rather graceful backflip, using only his armed right as support.

“Too slow.” He knew it before he even finished his little acrobatic move and regained his footing. The downwards slice caught a bit of clothes and flesh again, completing a bloody cross on his torso, the vertical wound oozing out a thicker streak of life’s liquid that moistened his tattered shirt. Luckily, at least he eluded the stab that was bound to impale him and be the death of him. His azure eyes inspected the left arm, firing a frowned look towards the hand that shook despite his explicit instructions not to do so. Stubborn and relentless as he always was, Malagen put the wounded left to work, tearing his shirt off in a single move. It hurt as if embers were coursing through his veins, but pain was a familiar taste to the Dram. Ferioh tempered him in more then just fighting prowess.

“You’re going to have to come up with some better fireworks then that,” he said, sporting a smarmy smirk and even bending his emotionless tone to give it a somewhat more jovial tone. The first rule of intimidation was never to let the opponent see you down, and Malagen stuck to that concept religiously. Each of his fingers hurt as if they were being yanked away from his hand, but he used them all the same, wrapping them around the sheath of his saber. However, once again, he didn’t brandish his weapon. Instead he took two serene steps towards Ira, the third one breaking him into a fast advance. He changed his direction once, feigning an advance down the right and sailing towards the left. In one fluid motion his right hand found the hilt of the damascus blade, pulling it out and executing an upwards slash aimed at the shaft weapon. Malagen’s bet was on an instinctive reaction that would make Ira try to block an attack. The clash would bounce her staff weapon upwards, leaving herself vulnerable for a blistering downwards follow-up.

Not that it really mattered much; once again, the woman’s life was not in danger. Even though the whole sequence was executed flawlessly, the second attack was merely meant to return the favor, aimed to rip the portion of her robes that covered the mounds of her breasts. The conclusion was once again serene, the saber disappearing into the scabbards a fraction of a second after the downwards slice was done.

[Iriah Caitrak]

Arrogance and pride bled from him like the blood from the new wound she’d left in his torso. Twice she’d wounded him now and he still felt comfortable enough within his own skills to continue to goad her, edging her on further and further as if she hadn’t the skill to actually kill him and he was enjoying this dance. It was frustrating and annoying to say the least, she’d come here taking this battle seriously and expected a serious opponent, of course she may be dead by now if he were taking this battle seriously but then that would be her own fault and that would be a lesson learned. The only thing she was learning right now was that even with his weapon sheathed he stilled posed a great threat to her and that didn’t sit well.

Her breath caught in her throat when he reached up and ripped his shirt off, allowing her gaze to roam over the newly freed expanse of flesh. She was more than happy to feast upon the look of all that muscle with nothing between it and her. A simple thought crossed her mind and she wondered what all that muscle would feel like beneath her hands, skin soft and smooth yet hard and unforgiving at the same time. She barely even registered the words he spoke, too busy with his body to care for what he was saying, but she caught the look on his face and the emotion that had somehow found itself in his voice.

Distraction…

Her eyes snapped back to reality as Malagen moved in on her. Her previous thought proving correct that without his shirt on all that muscle was indeed a distraction to her mind. But once he moved, once he legs shifted and he advanced on her, her mind focused on more important things like the fact that she was in the middle of a battle, one that could find her dead at the end of it.

But the monks will revive me…

She was still unsure on that aspect of this Citadel. In her tribe when one died there was no coming back, there was no revival, once the heart stopped beating the soul was forced from the body and meant to continue on to its rightful resting place. But here they could stop that; here they had found a way to bring the body back from its state of death. Perhaps they had ways of keeping the soul within so that it could not move on. She didn’t know the only thing she did know was that her mind should be focusing more on the fact that Malagen was about to attack her!

The Calerian’s eyes widened as she watched the blade pulled from his sheath, her stance shifting, her legs changing their positions and almost every muscles tensing in anticipation of whatever may come. His blade came at her from below, she took a step back and placed Uriahd in the path of the blade, which crashed against the staff and knocked it further upwards, slightly throwing her off balance. Then she saw his quick change of course and the blade sailing back down towards her. She was too slow. The nameless half swallow was still within the grip of her other hand but there was no time and his blade passed in front of her just as she took a few steps back too late.

Ira expected pain, but there was none. There had only been a feeling of wind on her skin as his blade passed before her. Her mind raced as he sheathed his weapon, wondering why she wasn’t dead right now. He’d had a clear opening and could have taken it, was he still playing with her? Was he just trying to prove how much a better fighter he was?

Feeling the shift of material, Ira looked down at her shawl, the dark purple cloth cut clean down the centre and almost all the way up to her neck. Her eyes narrowed and she looked from her shawl and to Malagen then wrapped her fingers around the damaged material and gave it a quick tug. It ripped easily, following the line he had created. The material, which had been wrapped around her shoulders and hanging over her chest slipped down her body and pooled at her feet. The blood red shirt she wore underneath was tight, form fitting, sleeveless and it had a slice through the fabric around her chest. Removing her shawl also revealed a series of tribal markings on her shoulders and fresh scars on her neck, all of which stood out in stark contrast against her dark skin. The markings were just a series of white lines, the scars were two clean puncture marks and two jagged rips in the flesh, right by the main artery, leaving one to speculate and how she survived.

“You know, if you wanted me to take my clothes off, all you had to do was ask.” A smirk passed over her lips; it was her turn to toy with him.

She didn’t give him any time to allow the sentence to even sink in let alone make a response to it, after all if he did ask her to take her clothes off she’d probably be tempted to remove his ability to reproduce. The Calerian covered the short distance between them quickly, she kept Uriahd at the defence and came at Malagen with her nameless half swallow, a simple thrust to the gut. She faked out of the move once she was inches from him though, her body twisting off to the side of his and her leg shooting out at the back of his knee. Then her half swallow came in towards his torso with a powerful swing aiming the flat side of the blade at him, hoping to knock on his back.

[Malagen]

Rare were times when something elicited enough emotions in Malagen to make him profoundly like what he was observing. Primarily, it was because he was taught that such sentiments were meaningless, that emotions were nothing but fog that clouded the vision and efficiency. It was a rigorous training he’d been through, where every weakness earned him a punishment and where ruthlessness was paramount, and it forged him into the man he was today. Another reason for the rarity of these glimpses of fondness was the fact that the barbarian was rather picky when it came to things he would even consider liking. The bar in his mind was set so high that only things with extraordinary and exotic attributes were taken in consideration. That was why he liked Skyler Manfield. The skinny assassin girl was rather homely and unremarkable, but there was spunk in her, a fiery core that clawed and bit and lashed out, regardless of repercussions. It was enough to save her from his belligerency.

Ira had the same mettle, only she had the body to boot as well. Once her dark bluish robes were torn to rags and cast at her feet, the thin sleeveless undershirt did a much better job at outlining her curvature. It also revealed significantly more of her tanned skin, leaving her shoulders and neck completely bare, complete with the unique set of markings. The white tattoos seemed rather tribal to Malagen, markings of a wildling lass that strayed from whatever place she called home and came to seek fortune in indiscriminate Corone. That’s what the Dram assumed at least. The markings on her neck were of an altogether different kind, the kind that he too had in abundance, especially across his back. They were scars, and like all scars, they probably had a story or three of their own. Malagen’s spoke of whippings and beatings and cuttings, all in service of making him more resilient, more stalwart. He wondered – in a rather offhanded and semi-interested manner – what hers hid.

In combination with her genuinely luscious body, this mulling served as quite a misdirection, and Ira didn’t seem to eager to let it pass unpunished. After a quick statement – that sounded a whole lot like a beguiling jape – the feisty tribal woman came at him again, dual weapons ready to tear more then just linen from his body. Malagen stored her words in his memory for the time being, deciding against a retort that would likely cost him another aching wound and positioning his sheathed weapon in a conservative defensive position. It seemed like the right thing to do given the fact that Ira came at him with the same type of attack once again, aiming to bore through his guts with a thrust. However, inches before their weapons clashed, the spry female spun sideways, launching a kick at the back of his knee. It wasn’t a particularly damaging attack, but Malagen couldn’t defend against it, the force making his knee buckle beneath him and bringing him into a half-crouching position. In the split-second estimation – characteristic for his serene mind – the barbarian decided to utilize his position.

Her follow-up was expected, her blade aiming where his chest used to be before he ducked. It was a perfect chance for him to duck even further, allowing the curved sword pass inches above his head, shaving off several of his black hair threads. It also put Ira in a rather awkward position, with her back wide open to him. Malagen wasted not a fraction of a second to make use of this opening. His left hand let his weapon drop to the ground, exchanging the hold on the metal for a tight grip on the velvety skin of her wrist. He yanked her arm back forcefully, springing back to his feet and pinning her hand to the small of her back. Her retaliation came as expected, the elbow of her free arm seeking his face as it snapped backwards, but Malagen’s right was already in motion, halting it firmly before trapping it in the same manner as her left.

Defenseless and effectively neutralized, Ira couldn’t resist his iron grip as he pulled her body backwards, leaning it close enough to his own that the cold metal of her weapons touched the muscles of his chest. His face peered over her shoulder, a visage of a pale devil in whose cold azure eyes finally a spark of fire came to existence. It neared her, coming close enough to smell her hair, the sweet aroma of the fresh sweat freckling her skin, close enough for his breath to pass over her bare neck. She didn’t shiver like most women would – somehow Malagen knew she wouldn’t – only struggled against his grip feebly.

“Why ask for something when you can take it?” he said, his lips nearly touching her ear lobe, his words a whisper that riposted to the sentence he didn’t have a chance to reply before. Though his tone once again struggled to convey just how tempting this closeness was, his lips decided to make it clear and give in to temptation. They touched the side of her neck just below her ear, attacking her with a caress instead of a blade. His hands weren’t idle either. They struggled to reposition themselves so that his right held both her wrists pinned while his left gave into exploration, sliding down the side of her clingy shirt and past her hips, en route for her delectable backside. Malagen wanted this woman, and when it came to the things he desired, the barbarian was like a spoiled brat: he always got what he wanted.