Quarterfinals: Cyrus the Virus v Storm Veritas

[Max Dirks]

Round 3 will begin at 12 AM EST on Friday, April 7th. Good Luck!

[Storm Veritas]

The soft, dull orange at the end of the paper burst to life, a fast-formed blaze at the end of the cigarette. It was not unlike the red star that rose beyond the horizon merely an hour before, painting the earth with its vibrant orange hues. Storm inhaled deeply, the pleasant and relaxing taste mixing perfectly with the lung-burning air on this cold, winter morning. Together, the fumes danced in his lungs, keeping his focus straight, his mind at ease, and his fingers from flicking up some maelstrom of electrical rage in their usual twitching frenzy.

He had to relax; it seemed miraculous that he was still alive at this point; to keep pressing his luck was simply unnatural. Serenti had been at once a terrible failure and a wild success. The jobs he was hired to do simply wasn’t getting done; the men who he had lined up to kill were either conspicuously absent or filled into the wrong slots within the tournament. Letho Ravenheart, the man called Sloth… they were merely memories now. The bankrollers of Veritas would NOT be pleased, and he knew his targets would have to be dealt with before he could set foot on Salvar again. At the same time, a smile crept across his face.

Money always made it better. His pockets were heavy at night, and he would go home to a more comfortable bed, drinking richer beers and eating well-cooked meats. The absurdity of the situation amused him; how could men chase down a hired killer? What leverage could those rich swine possibly have over him?

Dumb f*cks. Never see my ass back there. Come and get it.

The affairs in Salvar seemed decades away now, an ancient history from a world gone by. It was time for combat again, and he was as ready as he figured he would likely become. Rumor had it that he had drawn an old man, an aged professor of his, no less. Standing tall against the stone wall, he smiled at the prospect. Out here, he wouldn’t be touched, and no moral high ground would stop him from striking down some white-hair that was too proud to admit his aging. The old fool would fall like all the rest; swift, decisive, and permanently.

His mind wandered as he soaked in this arena, yet another random setting thrust upon him by the tournament administrators. It was a nice enough place, where he had been sent. Nestled at the bottom of a small valley, Veritas’ mind flashed back to the “Stonehenge” he had read about from old earth. The grass was probably once lush, although the winter cold had beaten the green from its blades, leaving a dull, lifeless brown. From the earth spouted several random stone outgrowths; large, tombstone shaped rocks that would tower over him. There were dozens of these things, scattered from a large central rock, and yet they all fell in line as spokes from the central hub. Whatever, whoever had created these things; it was not created to be a stage for killing. Perhaps today it would become one.

Another puff, and he dropped the inch-long stub of cigarette to the grass below, stamping it out beneath a large, leather-soled foot. That made five. Another would come right behind it, a snap of his fingers lighting the spark for the blaze. The wind was light down in the valley, and Storm enjoyed the cool air across his face. However this had come to pass, however he had wound up in this godforsaken land, their tobacco was good and mornings calm.

Waiting for the old man wasn’t so bad.

[Cyrus the virus]

Luc Kraus, more than anyone, needed a way to rid himself of anxiety. Some people smoke, some drink and some pillage or kill, but many bottle their anxiety inside and release it in doses of anger. He was one of those people, never able to deal with his anger or frustrations.

The mage stood at the opposite end of the rock formation than Storm, completely oblivious to the man’s presence, his existence even. He was too focused on the air, the calm breeze and the earth, trying to get a feel for just how effective his magic could be, here. The land was speaking in whispers; telling tales of fallen men and forgotten treasures, the details of this area’s past and present.

It was very common to Luc, who had always had at least a bit of communication with the elements. They were alive and constantly in motion, seeking mortals who could hear them so that conversation was possible, not unlike a lonely wench in Radasanth. The life of the wind always seemed so fascinating to him, roaming endlessly through Althanas’ skies and observing events of interest didn’t seem so bad, even as lonely as it probably was.

But as fleeting and exciting as these thoughts were, they did nothing to rid the geomancer of his anxiety, or the throbbing of his head. The Serenti was taking its toll on the young man, draining him and mounting frustration atop frustration. He needed a way to get rid of all of the tension, and the only idea he had was to win this battle.

“Round three,” he spoke to himself reflectively. “This is farther than I’ve ever gotten in one of these things. How I never advanced in the past, I don’t know.”

Luc began to move through the formation of stones and examine them, to see just how earth-based they were, when he noticed Storm standing beyond the edge of the circle. Hm, didn’t know my opponent was already here.

He cast a Stoneskin enchantment upon himself, and a thin green barrier came into existence around his body. It would absorb three hits of any kind, and was merely in place to make sure he didn’t get caught off guard with this man. After all, this could be another Dan Wilmhearst, and Luc didn’t want to face a juggernaut like that without first knowing his style and strength.

Barrier up, Luc came out from the structure and brushed his feet against the old grass. He had little to say, and was hoping the noise would be enough to grab Storm’s attention. There was no need to speak, not yet, as introductions didn’t belong here. He didn’t need a name, and he didn’t need weapons.

On a day like today, when battle would decide his fate, Luc needed nothing but clarity of mind.

[Storm Veritas]

A faint rustle caught his attention from behind, a soft sound leading him to turn slowly in curiosity. The sun was at his face now; low against the horizon and cutting a dark silhouette around the curious figure that loomed before him. The black cutout behind the sea of yellows and light shades was striking, and it didn’t take Storm long to identify it. It was another slight man, like the last one, well less than six feet. Thin. The long, stringy hair was almost strawlike, and the pitiful lack of power displayed through this veneer was glaringly apparent. Eyes widening immediately, Veritas recognized that he had drawn one of the professors, but this was no gray-hair.

Krauss.

His old professor from Vara Moire was well known throughout Althanas, and the diminutive physique had little success in wrapping feigned weakness about a powerful mage. His ability to wield magic was vastly superior to Storm’s at the time of training, and his understanding of the magical arts was unparalleled. Sneering at the once-friend, Veritas stood tall and lean between two titanic stones.

“Ah, Professor Krauss… wouldn’t have taken an academic like you for the mercenary type…”

His hands began to twitch nervously at his hips; the long, skeletal fingers dancing wildly. This gunslinger wielded his own sort of firepower, and hoped that his speed may outmatch the power of the well traveled young professor. His right heel began to tap rapidly and independently, adrenaline beginning to surge throughout his body. This was it; the time to feel alive.

One flick of the wrist, and a searing blue tendril of electricity hissed from his right hand at the mage. It twisted in its arc, chewing and torturing the oxygen around it as it fired towards the target. The element of surprise was not afforded him, but Veritas thought that perhaps bypassing the trivialities of a formal introduction would help catch the wizard off guard.

Of course, for any man that knew the leech of a man that went by “Storm Veritas”, such low tactics could never qualify as a surprise.

[Cyrus the virus]

The valley felt cold and empty then, like the tomb of an ancient king or some forgotten saint. Rarely did Luc feel so alone and secluded while in the presence of another, but the cold, gentle wind carried the lifelessness of the arena like a cancer. In the brief moment of eye contact between the two, Luc felt a chilling recollection of the man, but it left with the breeze.

Professor? He wondered as his opponent spoke. In a less hostile environment, Luc might have felt annoyance at not recalling one who knew him. But this was war, and there was no room for friendship here. Ah, of course, that brief Vara Moire idiocy. Teaching magic to the ungifted, the stupid... One of my lapses in judgment over these past years.

"I taught a lot of students," he remarked coolly. "Forgive me if I can't recall every magic-inept fool who walked into my class."

Before he could further insult the man, which was something he truly felt the inclination to do-- if only to satisfy the urges he'd had to insult many of his past students --Storm released a bolt of surging electricity. The projectile raced forward, cutting through the air with deadly accuracy and speed, but Luc made no move to dodge. The bolt struck him dead on, setting the grass below him ablaze in a chain reaction.

A small fire surrounded the area where the geomancer had been, and all was silent in the valley but the snapping of the flames. Luc let but a moment pass before he charged out of the inferno, wings of wind on his back and a gust of surging power behind him.

Two left, he noted as he tore through the air, an inch away from the ground. The grass below danced with the momentum of his flight, and Luc locked eyes with the black-mopped mage.

He came upon his opponent as fast as he could, two long blades of wind forming in each hand. He stabbed forward with a leading right thrust, a basic attack he'd known from back when he used an epee, and followed it up with a wide swipe from his other hand, aimed horizontally for Storm's chest area.

You underestimate me, he mused.

[Storm Veritas]

The bolt exploded fast before his eyes, disintegrating smoothly and evenly about a radius some three feet around the Professor. Krauss had some sort of magical barrier surrounding him, and he moved forward almost without hesitation. The moment was surreal; Storm had never seen such a dour side to the mage he had taken as being gentle, kind, or caring.

Out here, I guess we’re all pricks.

Luc Krauss bound forth at Storm, some sort of horrendous hovering burst that pulled the wind from the lungs of the wiry Veritas. Two blades exploded from his fists; long and thin things that the professor seemed to conjure with the ease of a cook striking a match. It was afterthought; such was the way for these fortunate powerful types.

Instinctively, his hand went to the hip, long and clammy fingers desperately gripping a hard sandalwood hilt. The dagger withdrew, but it was short and weak and good for merely stealth. Without any knowledge of what his adversary was wielding, Storm wouldn’t dare to try to strike out at such mystical weaponry with a glorified butter knife.

The slash came fast, and Storm was close to ready. His weight balanced tenderly on the balls of his feet, he moved as a matador, slickly sliding across the crisp grass beneath him. The rustle was perfunctory and nondescript, hidden beneath the harrowing hum of the second blade. This one moved much more quickly, sliding at shoulder height with speed and ire. Storm pulled himself down and away, knowing instantly that his toxified system was more than a touch to slow.

The blade cut clean and clear through his right shoulder, a shadowy, wispy slice that barely burned but left a residual twang of intense pain. His hand opened instinctively, the cold titanium kriss blade twanging to the ground with a distant ping. Eyes widening, Storm tried to assess the damage done, but fear always overwhelmed reason and responsible decision making.

Oh, son of a bitch… what the hell is this all about?

He reached low, dragging a hand over the dagger as he turned his body behind a stone outgrowth. His breath was ragged, thoughts desperate, and eyes fervently scanning his periphery for the arrival of his doom. This Krauss was far too powerful for him now, far too unpredictable. Hiding, thinking, he scrambled to devise a plan. Something would have to work, something would expose a weakness in the young professor.

Light dawned, and the smile returned. Left hand cupped hard over a throbbing wound, he was remarkably calm, the sanctity born of false confidence. His back pressed firmly against the stone, Storm smiled and thought inwardly. He needed only wait at this point.

Come and get it, motherf*cker.

[Cyrus the virus]

As his second attack hit home, a grin as wide as the valley itself spread across Luc's face. He wanted to follow up quickly, but the faster Storm was able to get away from him and behind one of the rock formation's stones. Rather than follow blindly, Luc used his better judgment and stayed out in the open. He still had two hits left in his barrier, and there was no worse thing he could do than squander the valuable enchantment.

A chill came over the valley, but the geomancer didn’t pay it any heed. Too many times had he been arrogant and foolish in battle, embarrassed by weaker foes and dumber men. He was well known for it, ever since Brock Rundgren, a traveling rock star, managed to fight him to a draw. The Serenti was a chance to change all of that, and wipe his losses from the minds of Althanas’ people.

Ever the vain one, Luc was; so self conscious.

"I won't play into your hands," he declared, instead of going directly on the offensive to keep Storm on his heels. "We fight on my terms!"

Indeed the stones of the formation were close enough to dirt to be subject to Luc's magic, but the weight of them made it impossible for the mage to simply lift and throw them at will. With Storm within the cluster of massive pillars, the mage hatched the most effective plan he could. Kneeling low and putting his hands to the ground, Luc allowed his swords to disappear, and concentrated hard on creating a disruption of the ground under the entire formation of stones. The rumbling set many of the stones to moving, swaying dangerously from their delicate balance.

One by one, the massive boulders crashed to the ground, kicking up dust and brown grass with each thud of impact. Some portions were knocked down by other stones, like dominoes in the games Luc often saw Radasanth children playing. All but the central boulder had collapsed in the end, leaving a cloud of dust and piles of debris in the area. The mage imagined that the odds of Storm escaping were slim, but didn't put it past the man.

After all, he had seen stranger things.

That took a lot of out me, he thought. Worry was the farthest thing from his mind, so confident was Luc in his abilities, but he also knew that he couldn't be too careful. But it was worth it if I killed him already.

“Are you still alive, my student?” He asked mockingly. “I have more things to teach you,” he cackled, though it was truly all a ruse. If Storm had survived, Luc didn’t want him attacking right away.

[Storm Veritas]

The ensuing strategy employed by the crafty Krauss was one that Storm could have never seen coming, but it was one he was prepared to deal with adeptly just the same. Following a mindless tirade, the mage finally quieted himself. Knowing this was the time for action, Storm stepped back to face him with one single step, turning about and keeping a single stone in perfect eclipse between Veritas and the mocking master.

The ground rumbled and heaved, sending the stones shuttling off their path, tumbling errantly to the ground. Of course, rocks of such size fell with great power but mediocre speed, and Storm fell to the ground just as the protective stone wobbled from its stance, hitting the dirt with a soundless whump. His shoulder cried in pain as he fell, the searing, screaming wretch now accompanied by a dark burgundy blotch. The wound was more serious than he had thought, and although his mobility hadn’t been hindered, each movement tore through him with a thick and tortuous pain.

Stay focused. No time for crying now.

Dust fluttered and kicked high amidst the sea of cracks, thuds, and thumps. The thick and filthy setting gave a thin veil of cover for Veritas, who knew that the time to strike was a fast closing window. Luc Krauss was a powerful and skilled veteran, and he would not be had easily.

His fingers sang again quickly, the soft scent of ozone coming from the hands. He rose behind the stone, elevating himself to a knee and laying eyes upon the dominant Krauss. The taunts continued now, but Storm gave them no more than a passing thought. Any type of responsorial taunt would only give away his position, and in his weakened state, Veritas was in no condition to go toe-to-toe with such a mighty mage. This was a fast assault, and would not be afforded the luxury of time. The fingertips exploded to a hot blue color, and sizzled violently before erupting.

“Couple falling stones ain’t got no business with me, Doc. Try these on.”

The cheap line was also strategic; Storm wanted the Professor to look at him now. After all, a broad-standing man makes a better target, and the lightning wanted to eat. The crackle-hiss was abrupt; the bolt striking the stone not four feet before him. A small section of the rock shattered, firing tiny fragment ballistics forward in a wide spray. The focus of the energy deflected well, headlong darts spinning quick at the waiting wizard. They were small, and probably less than lethal, but they would have to do.

[Cyrus the virus]

Come now, he can't be done already, Luc thought to himself. Winning was important, but the mage was beginning to have fun with the 'weaker' man. The domination of his magical assault was not only bringing joy to his heart, but was doing wonders for his aforementioned anxiety. It didn't seem to exist anymore, or perhaps it had been pushed to the back of his mind.

The dust blew quickly away in the wind, revealing a kneeling Storm, still quite intact and apparently ready to do battle. A smile crossed Luc's face, an expression half composed of impressed surprise, half satisfaction. Storm hadn't proven to be an effective opponent, and unless he had some kind of secret weapon, it occurred to Luc that this would be nothing more than target practice.

Luc readied a rebuttal, or at least tried to, when Storm's fingers began to show that familiar tingle. The mage cracked a grin and chuckled a bit. Hadn't the fool learned from his first 'spell'? Luc had a barrier with two charges left in it, and despite the power of those bolts, they could not break through until the enchantment expired. Luc's confidence was soaring high in the clouds.

But Storm's plan was too good, too clever for the geomancer to see coming. Maybe it was intuition on his part, but Luc's opponent had done one thing to defeat Stoneskin that Luc would never have expected. The spray of rocks came on too suddenly, there was no time to soar out of the way, or even create a wall. Even if there was, Luc was still exhausted from his previous attempt at crushing the other man.

So Luc did the only thing he could, crossing his arms in front of his face and bracing himself.

The missiles hit him rapidly, dissolving his protective enchantment under a hail of rock. Then the pain came. It was like a snowstorm in Salvar, but the ice and snow were sharp, stinging bits of stone that hit hard against his flesh. Blood was drawn in a dozen places on his arms, but when it was all said and done, Luc was more angry than hurt. The wounds were minor but many, and when the mage lowered his hands and saw his own crimson fluid, he gasped aloud.

"You... You little shit!" He growled through clenched teeth. His eyes darted up to look at Storm, to imagine his body impaled on a number of the most brutal weapons he could think of. Luc's face was red with the anger, for though he wasn't in a great deal of pain, his pride had fallen.

"I'm going to kill you," he stated. It wasn't a blind declaration this time, but a result that Luc had decided upon. Pride was a dangerous thing, and a trait that Luc took very, very seriously.

A new blade of wind flashed into existence, gripped tightly in the right hand of the geomancer. This one he threw, guiding its movement with his mind. It climbed high into the air and dropped, drawing back into the sun's light, as Luc tried to hide its trajectory. It made for Storm, and from his perspective Luc hoped that the blade would be difficult to see. Though the blade was incredibly light, it was also only as strong as an iron weapon.

It traveled slowly, however, as Luc's true attack lay elsewhere. Behind Storm the ground broke apart, and a hand as big as one of the fallen stones rose from the earth. After just a moment of looming, the hand formed a fist and began to fall, heavy and strong enough to crush the ant before it.

Luc would have liked nothing more than to see just that.

[Storm Veritas]

Oh, sh*t.

The attack was effective enough, but Storm felt his brilliant ruse had done more harm than good. The mage was not knocked down, not badly injured, and clearly enraged. He moved swiftly and decisively, conjuring another mighty magical blade that quickly flew up high in the air and twisted back on itself. The path was abnormal, impossible, and all too predictable. It was destined for him, a self-propelled missile hell bent on his direction.

A grunt from the ground, the growling parting of soil came from behind him. Veritas instinctively leapt forward away from the noise, his eyes catching some titanic manifestation of earthen ire. His eyes widened with disbelief as he witnessed the rock and soil collaboration twist upon itself, growing and changing and forming some sort of bizarre representation of a fist.

Oh, f*ck no! What the hell is this?

The confidence and clever drive had left him, replaced with unadulterated confusion and fear. He began to dart to his right, a sneaky-quick and cat-like leap, yet in his rush he had not accounted for the fallen stones. He tripped, barreling forward through the air like the buffoon shot from a cannon. The path was short and ended viciously; his chest and head smacking violently on one of the granite stones. Dizzy, bewildered, and discombobulated, there was merely a half second before the injury was added to insult.

Sssslink!

The blade of wind had fallen, finding it’s home deep in the recess behind his right knee. The pain was completely overwhelming, Storm’s head fast becoming light and airy. The lights were going out.

Don’t give in. Fight, scratch, claw… whatever it takes… if you pass out you aren’t getting up.

The wiry vagabond knew better than to submit to the pain, and crawled furiously, a fish traipsing about the bow of a ship. He quickly scampered on his hands over the rock he had landed on, hearing a horrible thumping sound behind him. The earth-fist had impacted somewhere, and luckily he was not within its range. The leg he dragged behind him felt dead, and his shoulder still cried in defiance. Blood was pumping fast from his various wounds now, and the trail of scarlet he had created seemed to foreshadow his demise. His head groggy, his thoughts few and far between, Storm now relied on the miraculous and obscene.

Desperate, he reached the grass, crawling helplessly for a precious extra second or two. It was madness; he was defeated, yet refused to go quietly. With no other options available, he sadly pulled a handful of soil into his palm while he waited for fate to come up behind him, in the form of an inevitably boastful Luc Krauss.