The Art of War (OPEN, 1 character only, Level 0 - 1 characters only please.)

[Xeraph]

There are many ways in which a man may prove himself. Some may seek adventure, others will hunt riches. Some will succeed, and some will fail. A man can only truly make his name on the field of battle, where his peers and his enemies can see his true skill displayed in honourable combat.

Xeraph Tollan stood before the mighty oak doors of the Citadel in Corone, taking a moment to gaze at their exquisite workmanship… the detail was extraordinary. Reaching out, his callused hand brushed against the door panel, and with his blue eyes closed, the detail seemed to leap out at him all the more. He had heard much of what happened behind these doors… all comers, be they experienced veterans, mere children or simply fools with a disregard for their own being, were welcome to come and take part in battles between equals… or not, if some foolish newcomer challenged someone far beyond their ability to handle.

He took a single, deep breath, and then pushed the door open. It swung silently on well-oiled hinges, and he stepped quickly inside. He had no idea of what to expect, having never been to Corone, much less The Citadel. That didn’t mean he hadn’t heard of it… who hadn’t in his line of work. It was considered to be the ultimate test of skill for any mercenary. Underneath his travelling cloak, one hand closed around the hilt of his longsword… he was sure of himself, but still, it paid to be cautious. The possibility of death here was very real, and Xeraph had no intention of dying here, not with so much left to do with his life.

As he began to move forward, he noticed something. There were almost two distinct groups of people… those who congregated, congratulating themselves on having bested some punk who thought they could handle the stress of combat.

Of course, thought Xeraph, bypassing one such group on his way forward,defeating a child who stole a sword to prove himself worthy of being called a man is nothing, compared to beating someone who truly offers you a competition.

The other group were those like him. They were loners, who stood in dark corners and said little to those around them. Xeraph had enough experience with this group, and they were the ones who would require watching. It seemed everyone here came with different skills. Archers, mages, swordsman… of all races, colours and creeds. Truly, a place where like-minded warriors could meet.

As he passed by a high vaulted archway, he was hailed by a monk, one of those who helped to create the battles, “May I assist you, sir?”

Xeraph took a good look at this monk… it was obviously he had seen combat in his time. But, as a monk, he was not a possible opponent, “Yes, I’m looking for a field on which to do battle.”

“What sort of field are you looking for?”

“Something that requires not only brawn, but brains, in order to win.”

The monk thought for a moment, and a thin smile passed over his features, “I believe we may have such a field. Please, follow me.”

The monk turned on his heel, and Xeraph, glancing round to see if anyone had been listening, taking an interest in his queries. Then, without a word, he followed after the monk, who was moving rapidly through the halls and almost vanished on more than one occasion. Eventually, the monk stopped at a door, and twisted a key in the lock, “An opponent will join you momentarily… please, be patient. You have as long as you wish.”

Xeraph nodded his thanks, and stepped into the field…

It was quite astonishing. The field was a ruined settlement, a large square in the centre, but buildings dotted around. Lots of places to hide, and plently from which to fight. The grass was a light green, but brown in patches, a result of the pounding sun. A light breeze flitted through the settlement, ruffling Xeraph's unkempt blond hair. It was a place where you could fight in the open, or you could use the cover to your advantage, and attempt to assassinate your opponent that way. For his part, Xeraph was not concerned. The point of battle was to defeat to your opponents, and the ends would always justify the means as far as he was concerned.

He leaned back against a crumbling stone wall, undoing the clasp on his travelling cloak so that it hung loosely on his shoulders. His hands delved into his pockets, withdrawing his pipe and a book of matches from his tunic. He brought the pipe to his mouth, sniffing the end to ascertain which tobacco he had left in there before he lit it, taking a deep breath in, and exhaling through his nostrils, “Ah, apple.”

A distinct meow sounded from around his ankles, and he looked down, “Tabitha, I though I told you to stay at the dock, I wouldn’t be long.”

The cat rubbed herself against his leg, purring gently, and he couldn’t help but grin, “Alright, but stay out of sight. I don’t want my opponent picking on you.”

[Christoph]

The art of war is of vital importance to the State. It is a matter of life and death, a road either to safety or to ruin. Hence it is a subject of inquiry which can on no account be neglected.

~ Sun Tzu


Once again, Chris awoke to the steady staccato of dripping water. He shivered violently and struggled to sit up. Glancing around with bloodshot eyes, he saw that he was still alone in his dingy, dark cell. His white chef coat was torn and ragged; it was tearing at the seams, stained with old, rust colored blood, and still completely soaked with water. The chill this condition caused was wearing him down. The injuries he’s suffered had been healed by the citadel monks after the battle on the boats in the flooded arena ended. Unfortunately, their efforts would be of little consequence if illness took him while he was still being held by the Radisanth city guards as though he were a murderer. Indeed, his wounds were healed, but his body was still exhausted. He sighed wearily at the clicking and creaking of the cell door, followed by the clopping of polished boots.

"I certainly hope you're finding the accommodations suitable," said the cruel, mocking voice of a guard, a guard lieutenant, to be exact. His name was Williams, if Chris remembered correctly. Williams was a tall man with broad shoulders, blonde hair, and a perpetual pompous sneer on his face. He circled his prisoner with the eyes of a hungry shark; he had his prey, but wanted to toy with it first. "It's the best we could do on short notice. Although... if you do us some favors, I'm sure that we could see to an upgrade." Chris rolled his eyes.

“Honestly, is a hotel cliché the best you can do?” he asked, forcing a laugh. “I mean... if you really wanted to be intimidating, you could try--” The imprisoned chef forced himself not to cry out as a fist crashed into his face, knocking him over.

“Listen here, rat!” warned the guard angrily. “I have every right to kill you right now!”

“Please, no you don’t,” Chris replied, picking himself back up. “You wouldn’t have the authority to carry out a legal execution, let alone to murder a prisoner out of anger. You still need to answer to someone higher than you... granted, there are plenty of --” A swift kick cut him off again, knocking the air from his lungs and leaving a throbbing pain in his side. He groaned.

“Just what do you want from me?” the chef asked, making a futile attempt to keep the despair and desperation from his voice. “I did what was required of me. I fought in that stupid citadel event. Let me go, already!” The guard laughed. It was a pompous, self-righteous laugh that caused Chris to grit his teeth.

“It’s not that easy... We still have you for disturbing the peace and harboring fugitives. Now, if you tell me where they went, perhaps I can pull some strings and see that you are released.”

“Harboring a fugitive?” Chris slapped his forehead. “I don’t know any fugitives. None of those girls were criminals. Besides, I don’t have the slightest idea as to where they’ve gone. I mean… should I wait to spit in your face until later, or should I just get it done with now? You’re just an idiot with power issues.” The guard growled, but Chris smiled maliciously. Did he strike a nerve? A swift back hand sent the chef onto his side again. Yes, he’d definitely struck a nerve.

“Still not talking, then?” asked the guard, as though he hadn’t heard a word of what Chris had said. “Well, it seems that you will be making another guest appearance in the Citadel.”

“I won’t,” Chris replied, resolute. “I already held up my end. I played as a grunt for the city’s big display of violent debauchery for the sake of pleasing discontent masses once. I’m not doing it again.” The guard stopped circling and folded his hands behind his back. Chris gave a single-syllable laugh and looked past the guard.

“What makes you think that you have a choice?”

“You can’t force me to fight there again. You can physically throw me into the arena, but now that I know that I will be healed, even from death, by the monks, I can simply refuse to fight.” The prisoner sneered with triumph.

“Perhaps I will simply tell the monks not to heal you when it’s done,” William threatened. Chris chuckled.

“That’s not a bad bluff,” complimented the chef. “But I’m sure you can do better than that. Perhaps if you’d kicked me again, it would have prevented my brain from seeing right through you.”

“That can be arranged…” the guard growled.

“You can’t control the monks; you can’t stop them from healing me.” A sinister chortle escaped the guard’s lips. It seemed a bit forced to Chris, though.

“You’re forgetting, boy, that I’ve lived in Corone my entire life,” countered the guard. “You, however, are a filthy foreigner.” The prisoner shook his head.

“I still say that you’re bluffing… besides, you’ll still need to drag me all the way there again.” He leered upward, finally bringing his bloodshot eyes, brimming with madness, into contact with the blue eyes of the guard. “And I’m getting pretty desperate. I may just start biting if you grab me.” The lieutenant snapped his fingers, summoning two more city guards into the cell. Chris struggled to his feet.

“All right, then,” challenged the chef as they began to circle around him. “Who wants to lose a finger first?” A sharp pain surged through his temple before he could react.

And then there was blackness.

* * * * *

Chris awoke with a sharp pain in his head. His vision was still blurry, but he could feel something different, something welcome: something… warm. Sunlight. It was as though he could feel its life and energy flowing into him. It was marvelous. He spent several moments simply lying in the loving embrace of the sun and the soft grass. Finally, he struggled to his feet and blinked the blurriness away.

Well, this is a bit different.

Squinting in the light, he found himself in a deserted, dilapidated settlement. It seemed to stretch on for quite a distance. Crumbling grey stone buildings with collapsed thatched roofs surrounded him. From what he could tell, he was standing in what was once a marketplace. The rotted remains of wooden stands and stalls lined the straight, deserted street. He stretched out for the first time in days. Perhaps he should try to figure out where he was and what was going on. And maybe find some food.

[Xeraph]

After some moments, Xeraph's patience was wearing thin, and he removed himself from the low wall, stowing his pipe back into his pocket,"Come on girl, let's go see if there is anyone else around."

Meow!

The cat seemed almost to scowl at her master, as she had been comfortable on the low wall, bathed in sunlight. Still, she followed close at his heels as they began to move, albeit slowly, through the dilapidated area.

As they rounded a corner that seemed to lead into a main square, Xeraph spotted a man at the far end. He wasn't extraordinary in any way, someone that he might pass in the street and not give a second throught to. However, he was here, and that should mean he was the opponent. His state of dress, on the other hand, was something else entirely. He seemed to be wearing the remains of a white coat... and the only people Xeraph had ever seen wear white coats had been chefs in high class restaurants during his childhood. No more did he frequent such places.

"Tabitha, go find somewhere to perch. If this is what I think it is, this should be over quickly."

So quickly it'll be insulting, to me, him, and this citadel in general.

"So, the monks deemed you an appropiate opponent," he intoned strongly, one hand resting on the hilt of his longsword.

[Christoph]

“The art of war teaches us to rely not on the likelihood of the enemy's not coming, but on our own readiness to receive him.”

~Sun Tzu


Chris had still been wandering about aimlessly, simply trying to make sense of what was going on and where he was. The settlement seemed sprawl out like a partially completed jigsaw puzzle. The areas that actually made sense, such as the decayed market street, served as a telling epitaph to an otherwise unrecognizable town. Perhaps it wouldn’t have appeared so jumbled and illogical had Chris seen it at its prime.

The voice that finally came could only be described as businesslike. Chris turned his head purposefully and slowly, almost to the point of disinterest, toward the source; it was another man standing before him. This stranger was definitely a bit older than the chef was. His hair was long and he had the untidy appearance of a traveler. Normally, Chris would have considered such an exterior to be shabby and unkempt. In this instance, however, he was fully aware he was far from presentable at that time.

“I suppose that would be a logical assertion,” the younger man finally replied, his tone curiously unenthused. He tilted his head and yawned dismissively as he spoke. On the negative side, Christopher’s head was still throbbing and his body and mind were both drained. On the bright side, at least his vision wasn’t spinning anymore. He chuckled; it was a shame that he was unarmed; he might have actually stood a chance. “So you actually asked for an opponent, then? That’s quite a luxury.”

The weary chef slouched, glancing around, but didn’t make any other movements, whether in retreat or aggression. On his left were the remains of a single floor house with a collapsed roof and a pile of rubble where one of the side walls used to be. To his right were ruins that were likely from a taller structure. The roof on that building was also gone. It was identifiable as having been a taller building because of the formidable pile of brick and stone that occupied its hollow interior.

Chris had been caught in a curious position that rested between the states of being mentally prepared for the arrival of a foe, not having any real interest or desire to fight except to escape from the Citadel, and of being completely unequipped, in the context of novel things such as weapons, to engage the opponent anyway.

“Not to strike up casual conversation, but you haven’t seen my sword lying about have you? I don’t know of those guards tossed it in with me or not.”

[Xeraph]

Xeraph was well aware of the importance of first impressions. They formed most of your opinions on a person very quickly, and so a bad one tended to stick. Of course, they could be manipulated, and he was in no doubt that his unkempt appearance was serving its purpose. Still, this man’s seemingly uncaring attitude was even more of a disappointment than he had thought… the man didn’t even have a weapon with him.

“You entered without a weapon? You have a death wish, to be sure.”

He turned away from the stranger, “This is insulting. They place me in a field with what appears to be a cook who is down on his luck, carrying no weapons with him, and who appears to be so disinterested in his own life that he wouldn’t care if his opponent slipped a dagger between his ribs or smashed his brains out with a halberd. What the hell are you doing here if not to fight?”

His eyes by now were blazing, even though they could not be seen, and the anger was apparent in his voice, “I came to this place because I was promised combat of a worthy standard. Even if I lost, and revived by the monks, I could take solace in the fact that I had been beaten by a superior opponent. But with you… with you, there is no honour, no point to the fight.”

He began to walk away, head bowed slightly. As he walked, he called back, “If you ever find your sword, if you even own one, then I’m sure I’ll be around. After all, you can’t leave this place until I kill you… and I won’t kill a defenceless man. You need to pay me well for that particular service.”

[Christoph]

“If you know the enemy and know yourself you need not fear the results of a hundred battles.”

~Sun Tzu



Chris sighed and grumbled at the same time. One half of him felt his pride sting a tiny bit. The other half, however, really didn’t care about the older man’s remarks against his worthiness in the slightest. One thing that both halves could agree on was that he wouldn’t be getting out of the arena without not only fighting, but convincing his ‘opponent’ to battle as well. Just standing around and waiting for temporary death wasn’t going to cut it. It appeared that Lieutenant Williams was smarter than originally anticipated.

Oh, wonderful. He’s going to be stubborn about this. Why do I only run into men with codes of honor when I don’t want to?

It looked as though the apparent sell-sword wasn’t going to cooperate with Chris’s plan of not cooperating with the guards imprisoning him. Life seemed to be full of such irritating little ironies. The only way to convince the other man to fight would be to appeal to his honor – his desire for a worthy opponent. Most unarmed men would find it all but impossible to appear as such. Of course, most unarmed men were not Chris. He needed to find a way to play upon his adversary’s honor and pride; and possibly hatch a plan to use it to his advantage in order to punish the man for being so annoyingly obstinate.

“I see that you’re going to be difficult about this,” called the chef after his foe. There was a certain forced assertiveness his voice. He was tired and had little desire to fight, but he couldn’t appear as such. “You may wish to redefine what you consider ‘unarmed.’” Chris extended his hand, palm up, out in front of him.

Foosh!

A wave of dry heat swept across the chef’s face, causing a stinging sensation in his eyes, reminding him of when he'd held his face too close to a wood stove.. In his palm now rested a ball of flame the size of his fist. It was white at its core, and faded to orange and red, and finally a dark shade of purple along the edges. The supernatural fire spun hypnotically, an exotic dancer in his hand.

[Xeraph]

Xeraph heard the distinctive sound of the fire igniting, and he looked over his shoulder, a thin smile spreading across his face,"So, the chef has powers beyond the kitchen? Interesting..."

He turned on his heel, and gazed at the fireball,"That's quite exquisite... so, a pyromancer? Tell me, why does someone who obviously wields such power feel like he should hide it? And then go off on some tangent about how he's lost his sword?"

He drew his blade, a longsword that was well balanced, but had maybe seen better days before now,"You have your weapons, I have mine... perhaps we can now make something of this, before we get bored?"

[Christoph]

The quality of decision is like the well-timed swoop of a falcon which enables it to strike and destroy its victim. Therefore the good fighter will be terrible in his onset, and prompt in his decision.

~Sun Tzu


“Well, I actually did lose my sword,” Chris replied comically. “I like them for their style value.”

Chris formed an almost sinister grin, having quickly regained his foe’s interest. The distinct crunching of the worse for wear cobbled street under purposeful feet was soon the only sound left to mingle with the dancing flame as the chef took a protracted step to his left. No wind blew, no crowds cheered, no music played; they were alone to fight for their own sake and no one else’s. He barely even noticed the biting pain in his head and his extreme weariness.

One step was all that he allowed himself after gaining his opponent’s attention. The familiar shing of a sword being freed from its hilt was the only signal that the fight required. Certainly, he didn’t want his foe to become bored. Wasting little time, Chris hooked his right arm, flinging the fire ball at the mercenary as one would throw a rock. It streaked rapidly at its target, leaving sparks in its wake and a whiff of smoke in the chef’s palm.

Simultaneously, the fighting chef took a confident backward stride. The same birth sound of fire preceded the formation of yet another flame, this one in Chris’s left hand; barely a second after the first was thrown. In his tired state, he had to focus a little harder to produce it. The fire gave off the clean, appealing odor of burning wood, but it also contained the slightest tang of sulfur. His mystical fire had never smelled quite like that before, but he didn’t have time to ponder the oddity of it.

[Xeraph]

As the first ball of flame came towards him, the mercenary moved to one side. He frowned as the fire sailed by his cheek, feeling it ever so slightly singe his stubble as it did so, “You know, that’s not a bad trick. But I would have thought that you would be above cheap parlour tricks.”

The insult was well calculated to make his opponent fight harder. Xeraph saw no harm in loosing this battle… he knew he would be revived if he was killed, and saw no dishonour in loosing to a superior opponent. But he wanted a good fight if he was to die. The backwards stride might have looked confident, but he saw the reality as different – this man could only fight effectively at range, the area in which he, Xeraph, was at the greater disadvantage.

Still, there is one good thing. Fire burns, but not always fatally. Steel has a quality to it that ensures it is a killing blow.

He knew, from experience, that leather was a good insulator against the heat of a fire, having found himself set alight on more than one occasion – albeit due to his own folly rather than the actions of another person. As the second fireball gave it’s distinctive noise of creation, he was deep in thought about how to combat this opponent. A man of lesser mind would simply charge, and trust to blind luck that a fireball did not hit him. But the accuracy of the first was cause enough for Xeraph to disregard that particular strategy. He glanced around, looking for something to help him out… and he found it.

In the dirt nearby, a sheet of corrugated metal, about two feet wide by three feet high, lay discarded. He looked around to see where it had come from, and noticed that the hut nearby had the remains of a roof made of such a material. He shrugged, and dived for it, trying to turn it into some sort of impromptu shield against the fireballs. He managed to grip it in such a way that he wouldn’t have to expose too much of himself to the fire, but could advance towards his opponent, where his sword and punches could deal their blows.

With the ‘shield’ in place, he straightened up and began to walk slowly towards the enemy, occasionally glancing out from behind the metal sheet to see where he was going – for all his brilliance, he had neglected to check if he could see easily. Such things are quickly overlooked in the heat of battle.

[Christoph]

You can be sure of succeeding in your attacks if you only attack places which are undefended.

~ Sun Tzu


Had only Chris been given his sword, he wouldn’t have much cared for the warrior’s advance. Unarmed and tired as he was, though, allowing his foe to get into grips with him didn’t seem like an intelligent idea. On the other hand, the mere sight of his foe, marching forward with a large piece of scrap metal in front of him like a shield, as though he were a soldier in a phalanx, was enough to make the fire-wielding chef chuckle. And he did laugh as he continued to take steps backward.

“You know, you really look quite ridiculous,” said Chris, rolling his eyes. “Even if you could catch me while trying to move like that, how are you supposed to fight? I mean... maybe if I had some of my kitchen spoons with me, I could lose the fireballs and we’d have an even fight.” He gave a mocking laugh and tossed the ball of fire from his left hand to his right.

Obviously, he couldn’t produce enough fire to heat up the metal in any effective degree. Continuing to back up indefinitely didn’t seem very efficient, either. The law of averages would state that it was only a matter of time before he bumped into something; and that certainly wouldn’t end well. The solution to this hilarious complication was patently obvious. The mercenary’s “shield” lacked an arm strap, being that it wasn’t a real shield. This meant that his hand would be at least partially exposed.

It was a hard shot, but far from impossible. The chef chucked the fireball with a quick flicking motion. It surged through the air, leaving a trail of sulfuric smoke in its wake as it flew toward the mercenary’s hand.