Round 2: Dissinger vs. Ashiakin

[Artifex Felicis]

Thread will end in 2 weeks time, at 12:00 PM EST on May 6th.

Best of Luck! Finish your battle early so it can be judged early!

[Ashiakin]

Edwin’s fork carved tributaries in his slices of chicken, lush juices pooling where the grain of the meat had been severed. His fork slipped absently from his fingers and clattered against his plate. He jumped in his chair, the dreamy haze in his young eyes vanishing in an instant.

The woman seated across from the boy, Vissal, chuckled but did not pause in dissecting her meal. She ate carefully, considering each stroke of the knife, triangulating. Despite her concentration, the woman seemed very aware of her surroundings. She gave off a coy acknowledgment that her casual demeanor was false. She could drop the dinner knife in her hand and exchange it for the formidable blade on her hip in an instant.

Ashiakin could only shake his head at both of them. These are my companions, he thought with disdain. Edwin was his squire, an awkward, acne-encrusted boy of sixteen. Vissal was a bony, plain-faced woman in her late thirties, and the captain of his personal guard. Both of them had been forced on him as a punishment by the Salvic monarchy after a past defeat in a tournament. I’m really not sure which of them I should be more embarrassed about, thought Ashiakin, grasping his wine glass by the stem and lifting it to his lips. He tilted it back.

He let his eyes drift around the crowded, smoky common room of the inn. It was terribly lower class. Most of the patrons were drunk and loud, fat boors who seemed to think every joke about a barmaid and a bear was the funniest thing they’d ever heard. The place shook with their laughter, plates and lamps always rattling, and the smell of their reeking garments mingled with that of roasting meat to a sickening effect.

Vissal and Edwin had complained that they only ate at effete cafes and high-class markets. They wanted to try something casual. He sorely regretted his acquiescence.

A commotion arose in one of the room’s corners as a balding man with a bulging gut brandished a mandolin. Edwin and Vissal turned toward the man with interest, but Ashiakin groaned quietly. “I can’t bear this,” he said, standing and pushing his chair to the table. “I’m going for a walk.” He left quietly, a chill breeze dashing into the room just as the door closed behind him.

Vissal rolled her eyes at Edwin and the boy laughed. Then he appeared nervous. “Are you sure it’s okay for us to just let him go like that?” he asked.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” she said. “He’s being ridiculous. He won’t be gone long.” Then her eyes searched the floor next to the table for something that was not there. “Wait… Edwin,” she said, concerned. “Where are his weapons?”

* * *

Ashiakin did not think of his destination until he arrived, although he must have known what it would be all along. He wound his ways through the streets and alleys of Radasanth, passing by the roaring merchants and skulking rabble all the same, lost in his thoughts and only cautious enough to avoid getting mugged. Distracted as he was, he made sure that his hand was always near the hilt of his sword, a message that he was no victim. Some thieves were tempted by his elaborate clothes—fine silks of deep blue, white lace, and unobtrusive but impressive jewelry—but none gave him a second glance.

He rounded the corner of a wide Radasanthian boulevard, strewn with dust and garbage, to find himself before the object of his irksome behavior: The Citadel. The stone ziggurat loomed, cold and imposing, above the strands of morning mist that had lingered into the afternoon. Armored warrior monks walked its parapets, sigils and pole-arms gleaming. The rolling noise that seemed awash all over Radasanth met its shores here—the grounds of the Citadel were silent out of superstition and sacred respect.

The climb up the steps seemed easier this time. Perhaps the memories of his last battle—he had been defeated by that conniving little thief in the shadows of a decrepit Aleran factory—had given him adrenalin. He scaled the temple like a breeze.

As he slid inside the doors, an armored monk nodded his head and opened his mouth to greet him. Ashiakin waved his hand dismissively, saying, “I assure you introductions are not necessary. I’m quite familiar with this place. May I have a room?”

The monk scribbled something down a sheet of paper and smiled cordially. “Why, of course,” he said. “Why don’t you try room one-oh-eight, sir? I’m sure there’s a lot there that you will find to your liking.”

Ashiakin nodded curtly and strode down the hall, eyes searching the placards inscribed with numbers in five different languages. He stopped in front of 108, hesitated, then pushed open the door and entered. I can defeat the thieves and brigands that frequent this place, he thought. My last match was a fluke. I am above them.

He stood in the midst of a narrow dirt road that wove through a forest of dead, wizened trees. The forest itself was situated on a series of rolling hills, leaving no flat terrain. It was a cool evening and the sky was cloudless, stars spotting the night like distant fireflies. It was quiet and there seemed to be no one else around, but Ashiakin knew better. He was tense, ready to draw a weapon at a moment’s notice.

The monk’s words annoyed him, however. So far he found nothing to his liking.

[Dissinger]

"So when should we leave for Otaria?" She had asked. It was something Seth wasn't sure of, Darith hadn't replied to his letter, and without his Guild Master's blessing he wasn't going to risk her through that damned city again. So they sat in Radasanth, waiting for a reply that could come, or might never be received. He did however try to reply, if only to give her some food for thought.

"I don't know, I'm waiting on Darith right now. Depending on what he says, we might not go," The reply was hollow, almost rote at this point, and they both knew it. As they walked the streets of Radasanth hand in hand Seth felt an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia. Not for the city streets being so narrow, for he was more than accustomed to back streets and alleys. He just felt stifled being next to Liliana. The silence itself was suffocating as they walked together, just trying to relax and wait for that reply.

Liliana looked just as beautiful as ever her long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail to keep it from whipping in her face. She no longer wore her clerical robes, and hadn't since they had decided their path. Instead she had donned her normal clothing, simple commoner's garb, but still she carried the sword of her station. It still was awkward for the Thief to have her by his side constantly. He had been used to traveling with people, but this was so much more. Bordering on marriage their relationship had taken a far more serious twist.

He needed to get away for a bit to clear his head.

As he sighed he kissed her cheek, a light sign of affection he hoped would buy him that time as he began the request, "Why don't you go back to the inn? I need to walk around a bit and have some time to myself."

She stopped as she looked into his eyes, if anyone could have understood those depths it would have been her, and as she scrutinized him, looking for any act of betrayal she replied softly, "Don't do something rash, alright Seth?"

"You know me-" He had begun.

"I do, so don't do something rash, alright?" She had cut him off, stopping any form of comical reply to the serious accusation. Sighing he nodded his assent as he hugged her close. As much as her always being around stifled him, he had to admit one thing. He wouldn't trade that suffocation for the freedom he had a few months ago. A tender kiss followed before she walked off, leaving him alone in the street.

As he looked around the area he sighed as he said, "Sorry to break my promise..." He knew exactly where he was going, things only seemed clear when his life was on the line in some way. As he turned, assured the priestess could not see his destination, he walked towards the citadel.

~*~

Entering the stone ziggurat for what seemed like the thousandth time he sighed. The comfortable fire, the monks in waiting, everything seemed normal. The only difference was everyone seemed slightly more alert since the scare that had prompted the monks to bear arms for the first time the thief could remember. Still as he walked in he waited until one of the armored monks walked forward and spoke up, "Do you wish for a fight?"

"Yes, I need to clear my head, and I need one that will test me," Seth replied.

The monk nodded sagely as he opened the parchment his finger going down the list of room numbers. His mind going through the various areas until finally, he found what he was looking for. Looking up at the thief he looked down at the number again before he smiled, "Yes, this will do nicely."

"What, if I may ask?" Seth inquired.

"Oh, nothing, nothing, Room one oh eight. You should find your challenge there," The monk replied.

Seth nodded his acceptance as he moved down the hallways, looking at each door. The numbers flew by until he finally reached the one in question. The door was closed, and as he reached his hand down he closed his eyes. Turning the knob he said, "Let’s see what Fate has in store for me now."

Walking into the room he sighed as he saw the twilight world. His first steps thankfully silent as he made it onto the road that went through the dead trees. He gazed about the area trying to take in everything as he saw the kills, the starlit sky, felt the chill of the evening breeze. He took all this in as he moved about the area, his daggers clinking together with each deliberate step, sending out a warning to his opponent, that he was there. He didn't care for subterfuge today. He needed something more barbaric and traditional. A true contest of force and will, that was what he craved.

As he walked down the road he thought he spied the figure of a man, doing much the same as he was. Sighing he drew Ebony, the weapon blacked dagger failing to glint in the light as he hid it in his cloak, just in case. Waiting up the road from the man, he watched and waited for a reaction.

[Ashiakin]

A cool wind swept through the forest, flinging scree down the arcing slope of the path. Ashiakin watched the pebbles skitter down the road, tumbling over larger rocks and tufts of grass, until they came to a halt in the midst of a small valley. When the breeze and the scattered rocks had fallen silent, another sound persisted: the clinking scrape of metal on metal. Ashiakin looked up.

Where the hilly road before him curved down toward the earth, there was a small bowl of flatter land—an inverted plateau. Beyond that the path curved upward again. On the slope opposite his was his opponent, a small man, determined and lithe. The night was clear and his view of the man was unimpeded. There was something familiar about the figure to him, but he could not place exactly what it was.

A chill slid down his spine. It was strange. The wind had already passed.

Ashiakin began to walk toward his opponent, moving gracefully, the bottoms of his aristocrat’s shoes carefully avoiding potholes and rocks. He knew that the two of them would make an odd sight to anyone watching. A fair-skinned man with stark white hair, dressed in noble silks that shimmered beneath the moonlit night, walking down a forest path to meet some mysterious figure. We must look so strange this night, thought Ashiakin. Some ghostly nobleman meeting a living man—a worshiper, some stranger come to offer a sacrifice.

It was a ridiculous thought. He pushed it out of his head.

When he was yet several feet from the bowl where their two sloping paths met, Ashiakin paused. He let his cool blue eyes settle on the man, and startled recognition lit them. When he had last met this man, it had been dark and he had rarely gotten a full glimpse of him, but the truth was a clear as the night of their meeting. “It’s you!” he called out, unable to mask all of his surprise. “You’re the man from the factory.”

It was not a question. Ashiakin’s voice was sure, but not overeager. He spoke with an odd accent—there was something Salvic about it, but there was something else… Something far older and deeper, more unknown. There was a love of words in his voice, too. Everything was spoken as if he was reciting poetry. As he spoke, he stood poised and confident, pale fingers traipsing about the hilt of his long sword. His blue lips smiled in such a way that one would have never known the gloom he had felt moments before.

“I must know who you are,” he said. His voice made it plain that the other man owed him this. It was not a request, but a demand that suggested refusal would be blasphemous. “It is important to me, who you are. Are you some brigand or highway man? Or are you something more respectable? An acrobat? You have the size for it. A servant, perhaps? A jockey?”

As he asked his questions, there was no mockery in his voice. It was not that he was interested in the man’s life—it was that he wanted to know what he was. Ashiakin was prodding, trying to find the man’s class. This was the man that had defeated him in the Citadel, that had caused dreary malaise to grip him. He needed to know the man’s lot in life. Thieves did not duel with noblemen and come out on top. Ever.

[Dissinger]

His eyes fell upon the man as he moved in the waxing moonlight. The shirt, the jangling jewelry, it spoke volumes about the man, his status and station in life. As Seth eyed him he could feel some older instincts kick in as he felt the burning and bitter hatred grow in his chest, he knew exactly who this man was, for he had loathed them all his life, he as the most unforgivable of people. They truly were the lowest of scum.

The man was a noble.

However, as Fate had her cruel hand in the battle, she offered a twist, one that threatened to carry the thief away in shock, as he realized, he had met this man before;

“It’s you!” he called out. “You’re the man from the factory.”

The factory was a distant memory in his mind, a reminder he could do this, that not all fighting had to be a guilty pleasure. However, as it came back he realized he too had some thoughts about that man. The freezing blood, the cold demeanor, it all belied a deadly secret. He had to find out just who this man really was. The accent and tone were rather haughty, the man reeked of culture. However, it was the way the words were said, and those that followed that made him believe the man had been driven insane.

“I must know who you are. It is important to me, who you are. Are you some brigand or highway man? Or are you something more respectable? An acrobat? You have the size for it. A servant, perhaps? A jockey?”

The words hung in the air as he remained silent. Each request rang out in the darkness of his heart, and between them in the room, long dissociated with the Ziggurat to which it belonged. As he considered remaining silent and killing the man, he realized he needed answers as well. If he was to figure out the mystery of the freezing blood, that had engulfed his hand when he had jammed one of his daggers into the skull of the stranger, he would need to exchange information.

Raising a hand up he let a solitary finger form the peak as he made it clear he woudl answer, in due time. As he opened his mouth his words were careful, concise, and held none of the seething anger that heated him despite the chilly night, "If I answer your questions, you must answer mine."

Slowly he lowered the hand letting it rest on the pommel of Ivory the dagger glinting menacingly in the light, as it longed to join its brother, Ebony, out of its sheath. Remaining on guard he continued to speak in the practiced tone, "I am Seth Dahlios of Lavinya. Though, I have other names, some of which I'm sure you've heard in relation to that name. I am a thief by trade, but became more, a quasi-magus. I answered your question, now it's time for my own. I need to know what you are, when I killed you last time, your blood froze on my hand, it was shocking to say the least. So, you must understand my curiosity."

His words spoken he carefully he waited, unsure if the man would strike without answer, or if he would respond in kind to the Mage's demand of trade. Still he waited, knowing that there was a slowly enclosing battle ahead of him, sure to end in a chilly end for one of the two combatants. As a nightly breeze wafted between the two of them, it whipped and played with the thief's hair, causing his hand resting on Ivory to rise up and brush the obstructing hair from his eyes.

[Ashiakin]

When the man suggested a trade of information, it was all Ashiakin could do to contain a scolding laugh. Men such as this could not bandy facts with him—such creatures had so little to trade. Still, he decided to humor him and forced himself to keep quiet. His silence could not be taken as acquiescence. His foe had scored no victory yet.

Ashiakin watched the man carefully as he spoke, eyes never drifting from the dagger that he seemed to favor. He had heard the man’s name, admittedly, and knew some of his reputation, but gave no indication of this. No recognition flashed in his eyes and his lips remained gently curved, condescending. So a thief learns a few magic tricks and he thinks he’s my equal, he thought. He’s rather less interesting than I hoped. At least I’ve heard of him. It’s better than being slain by some simple thug.

As the man fell silent, Ashiakin drew his hand up to his face, rubbing his jaw. He seemed genuinely amused. He opened his mouth to chide the man, but then drew his hand away and waved it dismissively. His fingernails glistened in the moonlight. It seemed, for whatever reason, he had decided to answer his adversary’s questions.

“My name is Ashiakin Xan-ris Azzarak,” he said. “What I am… Well, that’s more difficult to answer.” He laughed, the richness of his mirth marking an eerie contrast with the grasping limbs and the empty sky that surrounded him. “I was a mortal man once, a very long time ago. A noble of minor importance in what you today call Salvar. My city is no longer there, but you can see its ruins.”

He hesitated, but only for a moment, as if he had been lost in memory. “During the Wars of the Tap—you are familiar with these, yes?” he asked, but did not pause to see if the man was or not. “I grew to know a woman of extraordinary power named Denebriel… When people today speak of magic, they do not know what it is. Their knowledge of it is trifling. Denebriel and her companions could raze cities, tear holes in the fabric of time and space. In short, she used her power to make me what I am.”

Ashiakin spread out his arms as if to display himself, white hair and silky clothes tugged by the wind. “And this, you could say, is the result of some grand experiment,” he said, indicating himself. He seemed so out of place—a finely dressed nobleman standing in the midst of a lifeless forest at night. There was something otherworldly about it.

The words he had spoken were true, but he doubted Seth would believe them. In all likelihood, they would only serve to make him angry and attack, thinking that he was trying to deceive him with some charlatan’s tale. As such, Ashiakin knew that he would have to act, and had begun to cast a spell as soon as he had spread out his arms.

Quietly, a sheet of ice formed on the path behind his adversary. The wind kicked up and several larger rocks were jolted loose from the road, sliding easily down the icy road toward the man’s legs. Ashiakin needed to get him off of the road and onto the flat land where their paths met. It would be neutral ground—neither would have the advantage of height from standing on the path.

Ashiakin whipped his long sword from his sheath and brandished it. The mythril glimmered in the dead night. He leapt down onto the flat valley, sword flicking carefully around, slicing the chill air with a hiss. His eyes were ever on Seth, ready to strike or defend himself no matter the outcome of his spell.

He would not let this thief steal his victory again.

[Dissinger]

Seth had heard little of the War of the Tap. In fact if anything he had heard only the name and a few choice passages glossing over the text during his time of darkness, when he had sought the darkest secrets Althanas had to offer. However he knew one thing, the War was far too long ago for the man's story to be completely credible. There was always a bit of truth in a lie, the good ones at least. He would have to discern the truth later, for even as the man spread his arms, he could sense something was amiss.

The wind kicked up, and it was this that alerted him, as the rocks skidded across the sheet of ice that had not been there before. He had only two options, and as loathe as he was to fall into an opponent's trap he jumped, landing onto the inverted plateau, a dueling arena of sorts in this twisted forest. As the wind finished and the rocks came to a rest, the thief was no longer in touch with the earth, but was airborne, his descent into the trap his only option that he could control.

Landing heavily he spied his opponent with weapon brandished. Jumping down after the thief he growled lowly as he kept Ebony hidden in the folds of his cloak, before he threaded his finger through the ring of the blackened kunai. Pulling the knife he threw it, knowing the weapon could reflect no light, taking concentration to follow the path as he move, not for a vital location. No, he needed more information. The man had fallen once due to underestimating Seth, he would not, could not fall for the same trap again. The kunai went straight for a leg, hoping to embed into the flesh of a thigh if at all possible.

With that done he rose up and once again rested his idle hand on the pommel of his dagger as he waited, his eyes scanning his foe for any sign of the treachery he knew to be there. Ashiakin was a name he knew all to well. One of the enigmatic leaders of Malice, he was the other half of that damned group who had attacked the Grey Braves, and cost so many lives for no reason other than to dominate yet another foe with their brutality.

If Seth was one thing, he was determined to bring him down again and again, until it stuck.

[Ashiakin]

Ashiakin did not remember Seth Dahlios from the war with the Grey Braves—that day when their tower crumbled and he helped slaughter their soldiers under an unforgiving Salvic sun, watched their lifeblood paint the snow like a transient monument. But that day was fresh in his mind all the same. There was a thrill surging through his body, an adrenalin rush that he had not felt since then. His gloom was gone. This was a battle that mattered to him, as that one had been. The stakes were high and loss inconceivable.

As the wind died down and the rocks crashed into the pit in which he stood, Ashiakin watched with alert satisfaction as Seth leapt down to meet him. He was uninjured, but where he wanted him all the same. When his foe reached inside his cloak, Ashiakin was prepared. He remembered the blackened knives that the man had used in the factory. In an instant, his eyes flashing from a nearby rock to the hand of his adversary, he formed a plan. Let’s see how sly this thief really is, he thought. If he's not beyond reform, he'll learn something.

The kunai sailed through the air toward his thigh, but Ashiakin skirted to the side to avoid it. But his foot struck a rock and his began to stumble forward—a feint, but a carefully disguised one. He hoped that his foe would not pause and consider the situation, but rather attack in an attempt to capitalize on an apparent mishap.

But as he stumbled forth, Ashiakin quickly brought his other foot forward and steadied himself. He used the momentum of his feint to swing his sword, a cruel slash with the aim of opening his foe’s stomach. It caught little of the moonlight at this angle and the mythril blade, flashing on a straight path, was now silent in the forest’s chill air.

It would not be enough to kill Seth, but it would be enough to secure his victory and allow him the opportunity to question him while he died. There were certain things you could only learn from a man when he was dying. That, Ashiakn was sure, was something thieves and lords knew equally well. It was only a matter of who struck flesh first.

[Dissinger]

As Seth watched his knife be evaded he saw Ashiakin stumble. While he was eager to capitalize on such a mistake the distance covered would have to be quick. With an artistic flair only known to the Lavinian he rushed forward drawing Ivory, allowing that one to gleam once again in the light. As he rushed the still stumbling man he thought he caught a glimpse of something, but it was already too late, He felt cold metal slicing through his stomach as he jerked and clenched his teeth not even hissing out in the pain of being split open.

As he stumbled a couple of steps as he tripped and fell, rolling with the fall so he could at least face his opponent. Ivory flew from his grasp, but he still clung stubbornly to Ebony as he carefully tucked the blade under his cloak. The hand that had held ivory immediately went to his stomach as he checked what he already knew to be the case; he was bleeding, and probably worse. As he held that hand to his stomach he contemplated using Gift of the Magi, if only to stop the blood flow. However, he realized one thing; the blow was by no means a mortal wound. You could survive several days from a gut wound, if the gangrene didn't eat you alive first.

As he sat there in the open ground his hidden hand supporting him he lulled his head forward. He knew damn well that he had been foolish, acting no better than the average predator. Darith would be tearing into him for his recklessness, after Liliana got done chewing him out. The thoughts of his lover and mentor faded as he waited to see what the member of Malice would do. He could only hope the man knew less of his powers, and more of the legends. If that was possible, he could redeem this mistake, and trade it for the victory.

The hunter was the hunted, and with a bit of patience, he could turn the tables again.

[Ashiakin]

Ashiakin’s pale fingers tightened their grip on the hilt of his sword, guiding the blade across Seth’s stomach with a jerk. Warm blood hit the cool steel, several drops splattering across the ground below. Ashiakin withdrew the blade quickly and retreated several paces, opting not to attempt a finishing move. A look of curious satisfaction occupied his face—eyes clear and inquisitive, blue lips curled into a haughty half-smile. His sword was held in a lax position pointing towards his fallen enemy, the dark blood around its edges deadening the moon’s reflection on the metal.

I could have killed him then, he thought, watching the man as he rolled into a sitting position on the ground, wounded. It would have been the smart thing to do. But I’ve things to learn. But he’s dangerous yet, I must remember. He claims to know magic.

He began to circle slowly around his fallen adversary, keeping his distance with the point of his sword carefully pointed at the man’s chest. There was nothing spectacular, although he had heard spectacular tales about him. Now he just seemed some thief slowly dying in the dirt. Perhaps that was all he was, but somewhere in his mind, Ashiakin doubted that. He could not allow himself to believe that he had been beaten by a man who was not larger than life. There had to be something he was not seeing.

“Seth Dahlios,” he said, assured, poetic. “You admit to thievery. You call it your profession. But what is it that you steal?” As he continued his circle around the thief, blood dripped from the tip of his blade like venom from a snake’s tongue. It dotted the ground in an odd semi-circle. “Thievery is a strange thing to so readily admit to. Even stranger to name it your life’s work. Why is that you did so?”

Ashiakin was finding it difficult to remind himself not to be reckless. There was a certain thrill to this, a rush warming his veins. He had in his near captivity someone who had wronged him and he had the chance to set things aright. He was not going to torture this man. He was going to dissect him.