Finals: Storm Veritas v Letho

[Max Dirks]

The finals will begin tomorrow at 12 AM EST. Good luck.

[Letho]

[Evening before the battle...]


“So, we have an agreement?” a sullen figure spoke in an overwrought tone. His impressive physique was leaning on a random chintzy wall of a random chintzy alley lost in a Serenti night, failing to hide the obvious fatigue behind a thick shield of shadows that nearly consumed him like a splash of dye. Even his eyes – the tawny embers that always stood halfway between a frolicky flame and a pulsating ember – seemed to be murdered by the sticky darkness of the damp night. His wide shoulders lost their prideful position, slouching under the invisible burden.

“You do understand that there is no way out of this once you go through with it?” the man before the dark phantasm asked with anxiety clearly reflected in his precarious voice. He didn’t seem worthy to serve as a shadow of his collaborator, five-feet-something of sallow skin and dry bones wrapped in a haggard gray cloak. His black eyes were alert though, trying to find a deviation in the inhumanly emotionless mask of the man before him, trying to find the reason for the ludicrous task that the man paid for with a hefty sum. They failed miserably, crashing against what seemed like adamant resolute. Or just plain insanity.

“That’s the point.” the rugged voice spoke again, the speaker undaunted by the disquiet of his dialogue partner. The frigid definiteness evoked twofold emotions in the inferior of the two – it asked a plethora of questions about the reasons of such decision, and yet it barred all further discussion about it. It wasn’t uncommon that the battlers sometimes searched for some... external intervention in their bouts. And yet, even though the short haggard man witnessed countless duels, he never heard somebody made a request like this one. However, the jingle of the abundant gold pieces that stood in the money pouch in his wrinkly hand reminded him not to pry into the matters that could reflect negatively on his bankroll.

“Fine.” the response finally came, the hand testing the weight of gold as he spoke. “No skin off my back, pal. Though I never thought I’ll live to see somebody asking for that kind of arrangement.”

The imposing dour figure pushed itself from the stony wall behind, stepping away from the concealed scene. “You find out something new every day.” The voice came almost in an indifferent whisper, undirected, a mere drab comment spoken to the theatre of shadows that swallowed the dark man in a matter of seconds.

And the night, mute and damp and viscid, retained the dull idiosyncrasy as if no words were spoken and no agreements were made below its treacherous shroud.


[The day of the Finals...]


Letho’s copious equipment stood splayed before him on a red velvety tablecloth, basked by the weak flames of the low-burnt torches. The sheen was speckless, the arrangement almost godly immaculate, presenting each and every piece honorably, respectfully. They all had histories now, chronicles that spoke of shattered bones and the iron taste of spilled blood, and their narrator was giving them one last inspection. For years they were his bread-makers, his last straws, his pencils, his comrades, his trustees, his last-ditch efforts when the chips were low and the cards were to be revealed. He lived by them so far and everything indicated that he would fall into the archetype epilogue and die by them.

However, despite the obvious sentimental value, he let them rest. He didn’t need their innumerable tales and bathetic recollections of the good old days. He was walking into the fight today with a solitary purpose and the distractions would only hinder his resolute. Only his bastard sword, oiled and sharpened to perfection, stood strapped at his back. Everything else was left behind with a frowned nostalgic glance before Letho left his preparation room.

He knew who his adversary was today and found it harmonious to his ultimate intention. Storm Veritas was a ghost from the past, an accursed voice of eternal accusation that haunted the swordsman’s darkest thoughts ever since Nyd. It was in the wintry land of Nyd that Letho’s rage and madness resulted in a death of an innocent woman named Selena. And an insult to injury was that the destiny set the final reckoning in such manner that Letho’s actions contrived to Storm electrocuting his beloved until her eyes and ears bled. Once the dust settled and his mind regained the obnubilated senses, the caustic knight offered his life to the rogue in exchange for the beauty that perished due to his insanity. But Storm let Letho live. He let him live out of spite, opting not to make a martyr out of somebody who didn’t deserve it. Letho didn’t know whether to thank him for the scorned mercy or to curse him for it. But today the records would be set straight.

A strange contraption made out of pulleys and turning cogs lifted a dusty wooden platform upwards, squealing and creaking and ultimately taking the swordsman to the concluding strife. He could hear the mass above exhorting and applauding, the esurient thirst for blood echoing in their bawls and cheers. The hatch above his head moved sideways, blasting Letho’s coated figure with both the daylight and the raucous overwhelming roar from the stands as he found himself in the middle of a monumental arena.

Thousands upon thousands of faces stood around him, a sea of bodies that isolated the dusty island in the middle where the swordsman emerged moments ago. They raised their arms, stomped their feet, hooted like drunkards in front of an exotic dancer, enamored by the final showdown that stood just around the corner. The circular arena was carved in milky granite, at least five hundred paces in diameter and with enough rows of spectators to create a hypnotizing optical illusion. The first row was elevated some thirty feet from the dust of the arena on a wall smooth enough to cast a reflection of the environment. In the more immediate vicinity, some fifty paces from Letho’s current position, stood ten dominant statues. Carved from what seemed like bronze polished to flawlessness, these titans gazed down on the swordsman with their dead faces and deader eyes, captured in a moment of solemnity, holding their gargantuan weaponry at their side. Once upon a time they might have been heroes. Or gladiators. Or kings. And they all earned their right to be here, to look down on the best of the best.

Letho surveyed all of this with the same tranquility that gazed at him from the motionless bronze eyes. He didn’t come here to be the best. He didn’t come here for the swarming nitwitted cheers of the masses. On this day in the Serenti arena Letho arrived with a sole purpose - to give a definite conclusion to a pitiful tale of a fallen knight.

Letho Ravenheart came to die.

[Storm Veritas]

Let him be faceless. Let him be just another victim. Don’t give him the dignity of your hatred. F*ck him.

Storm’s head was amiss, a swirling maelstrom of devilish and haunting thoughts. The Serenti Tournament had been long, cumbersome, and dangerous, but until today it had also seemed conveniently impersonal. The people that had come to face him were all more powerful than he, all more seasoned, more equipped for combat. Yet of all of these fierce warriors were strangers, simple anonymous enemies he could easily hate and attack and destroy. Today was different - his draw today was certainly the hand of fate. In all of Althanas, there was no man who haunted him like Letho Ravenheart.

He stood lazily, leaning to the cobblestone wall of the lowest corridor of the arena, the opening to the colossal battleground only feet before him. He effortlessly and deftly manipulated his knife, making it dance between his fingertips. Thoughts ceaselessly pummeled him, torturing him. His head down, a simple filthy cloak over his hair and body, he felt his stomach turn over and back on itself. Perhaps it was a yearning for the alcohol he hadn’t needed today; more likely it was the knowledge that he should simply run.

He’s stronger than you. Bigger, faster, with better weapons and more tools. He won’t fall for the tricks, because he knows you better than anyone. Go out there, and meet him, and you give in to him. You grant him closure, some false sense that he could ever give back what he took from you. And for what… money?

The people shuffled by him quickly, some bumping into him as they ushered themselves to their seats. They had come back in hoards to Serenti; full of bloodlust and ire, with healthy amounts of salted meats and beer. They cheered wildly for Letho Ravenheart, and the bedlam that erupted upon his entrance to the arena was no surprise. He was the perfect typical hero. Massive, incredibly strong, gallant… they could cheer for the man they wanted to be. Storm was to erupt next from the underground holding cell, the yang to Letho’s yin. He was the abomination, the sinister, physically weak one, the vile, the corrupt. Every man’s villain.

A thunder roared overhead again, the trumpeted introduction that should have been his moment of glory. Predictably, another round of cheers arose from the people upon the announcement of Storm Veritas; the man they didn’t know but hoped would provide sufficient cannon fodder for the juggernaut Ravenheart.

Not today, you selfish waste of flesh. Not your way. Not now.

From the shadowy corridor, he had a long, lingering view of Ravenheart, as well as the now-empty platform that was intended to bring him to the dusty war grounds. A confusion dissipated through the crowd, the rowdy cheers quickly falling upon themselves and leaving behind merely a steady train of whispers.

He rolled his head to the right, listening for the satisfying pops that relieved endless tension. A deep breath, and then another came with a relaxing sense, although he would have loved to have remembered to bring a few cigarettes with him. It didn’t matter. He had made up his mind and was settled. This was what he had to do. It was the only thing to do. The only way.

With a quick flick of the wrists at his collar, the tattered grey cloak fell behind him, settling and then fast-trampled by those seeking late entrance to the battle. The slicked black hair was out of place in this orpheum of the unemployed, and his entire attire was famously unsuited for combat. With his starched white shirt, long pinstriped herringbone pants and well-shined shoes, he was the aristocrat, the diplomat. Complete with all the details – fine ivory cufflinks, a clean shave and a brand new belt, only the daggers and his small satchel could identify him as the antagonist of the story. One more breath, and his mind was made. Letho owed him this day.

F*ck him. It’s your life; taste revenge. Bring the hate forth, let it eat.

With two strides, the guards before the arena parted, wide eyes and gaping mouths at the bizarre, luminescent glow to his eyes. They knew him. They had heard of combat with Zephyriah, how he was charged with the wire, how he was electrocuted beyond what could possibly be reasonable. They knew no mortal could survive as such, and knew that Storm would not be denied.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, but I believe I’m running a touch late today.”

He was dressed for a formal occasion, be it celebratory parade or funeral. He was prepared either way. He was alive, and the sun licked his face with its welcoming warmth as his heels settled onto the dusty clearing, not so far from Letho that he couldn’t see that the swordsman had grown ever more powerful.

He heard the crowd, and better still felt them. It was time.

[Letho]

When Storm Veritas introduced himself to the circular auditorium of elated spectators, he failed to provoke a notable reaction from the stationary swordsman. Letho’s mind recorded the arrival of his adversary, but presently found no reason to give it priority before the thoughts that irrupted before his mind’s eyes. Because in the epicenter of those ceaseless sentimental detonations was Myrhia. She was the dot at the end of every thought, a root of the tree of emotions that seemed to be waning for an eternity now. In reality, it had been a mere handful of hollow days.

It was at the end of the second round battle that his witless actions injected the plague into their relationship. Her doleful eyes were gazing at him innocently, wishful to find the ultimate ratification of the love that bloomed between them. All he had to do was to step down and Seth would have released the redhead from his vicious clutch. But pride was a bone that simply refused to break. Instead of yielding to the Lavinian demon, Letho offered Myrhia a venom of betrayal, a virus that took all of the things they built up from the ground and altered them until they became nothing but insensate acrimony.

He tried to ameliorate the damage that he had done, tracking the willowy lass down in the mazelike streets of Serenti. But instead of amends that he desperately hoped for, he found nothing but garlic and harsh accusations. Righteous accusations. She wasn’t his Myrhia any more then he was her Letho on that faithful day. Her smiles were erased by his lies, her jocund demeanor vanquished by his lack of fidelity, and what was left pushed him away, for good judging by her last words. “I don’t want to see your lying face ever again, Letho!” she spoke in a bitter dauntless voice. It was enough to cause the final downfall of an already stumbling knight.

Days passed by like droughty years, taxing and slowed to a crawl, providing him with an abundance of time for crapulence and pondering. And when neither of the two managed to provide him with a solution to his misery, he was left with only one way out, one simple equation that simplified, modified and made it all better. If Myrhia equaled everything and she was gone, the only solution was zero. Nothingness. He paid off one of the monks for that nothingness to occur after his death in the arena and he was rather certain that Storm would have more then enough volition to provide the ticket for the ferryman. The masses get their money’s worth of blood sports, Storm gets his revenge, Letho dies in a battle and gets the numbness of oblivion and Myrhia gets her freedom. Everybody wins.

His executor stood before him now, pressed and dressed as if he got lost on his way to the banquet where his chaps waited him for a game of cards. But beside the pristine attire, there was nothing gallant about Storm Veritas. He was a guileful knave, an epitome of what maiden’s were always warned about, a piece of dirt that the midnight wind swept through the city streets. Every bit of the rogue’s mannerism insulted the moral ladder within the Savion prince. And because of that it had to be Storm. Bitter stories deserved an ironic grand finale.

The crowd seemed like a singular schizophrenic entity with one mind set on violence and a myriad of voices uttering the inarticulate hoots. Letho didn’t particularly care that a good portion of them tried to hearten him by tagging him as a hero, their resident Corone star that outshined the rest. It made the swordsman grin mildly, thinking of the well-known bliss of the ignorance. But that was the only sentiment the roaring mass received from Letho before his mind accepted Storm as a focal point.

“They are like vultures, waiting to be feed by the pain and misery of the fallen.” the swordsman uttered distantly, his eyes skimming over a random part of the constantly moving bulk up in the stands. His weary browns finished the quasi-survey as soon as the sentence reached the period, resetting the conflict between the weariness in Letho’s and azure chill in Storm’s irises. Once upon a time, the flame tongues in those tawny eyes would have devoured the wintry glance of his foes. Today they didn’t even make an attempt. Letho’s arms unfolded tardily, loosening at his sides before he spoke again. “I suggest we don’t keep them waiting any longer, Storm Veritas. As you might remember, chitchat was never my kind of game.”

The beast conjured by the concealed desire of each and every human being in the vicinity yauped again in earsplitting volume, failing to disrupt the composure of the swordsman that waited for the initial move with a solid tranquility akin to that of the surrounding sculptures. He would fight Storm today for fight's sake, for the deluding satisfaction of the "glorious" death on the dry dirt of the arena.

[Storm Veritas]

The wild fanfare didn’t shake Letho; it was no surprise to see the steadfast soldier stare him down. That stoic gaze, that emotionless veneer – these were the things that defined him. It was that same hardass act that Storm had respected when he met him, it was that courage under fire that allowed the scoundrel to finally put his trust in a fellow Althanian. This trust had cost Veritas too much; his woman, his future, his morality. His very humanity had been stripped.

He sneered out at Ravenheart as the powerful swordsman spoke, knowing that whatever came would sound a bit too dramatic, a bit too noble. Words were a waste. His thoughts were focused now, for the first time in months, and his life’s motivation was singular, driven, and clear.

He was going to kill Letho Ravenheart, whatever the cost may be.

The crowd grew slightly frustrated at the end of their jubilance at the staredown; the two gunslingers readying their wares. The tension on Storm’s part was tight as razorwire, his arms, shoulders, and back all felt hair-trigger taut. His fingertips flickered frantically, small powder-blue sparks joining a soft sizzling sound as they built up an errant charge. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins now, and each breath came faster, shorter, more hurried. The only apprehension lied in the fear of failure, for any glaring mistake before that titan of a man could easily cost him his life.

But fate has brought me here. Today, right now. My last chance for you, Selena. My last chance to make it right. To show the world.

Range was his friend, and he knew that in any type of melee enterprise he’d be quickly cut down. Through squinted eyes he remained steady for just a few seconds, waiting… growing that hatred which drove him. The roars of the crowd faded into his subconscious, and through his narrow field of self-imposed tunnel vision, there was only one entity. The one he would have to set down. The man he had to destroy.

The motion came quick, without any customary warning or formal commencement. He thrust his right hand from the hip on this accord, loosing a blast of electric heat. His fingertips exploded in a single, concentrated blast of white fire and ozone, the bolt of the hate flying forth from his core.

For a brief instant, there was a collective silence. The fun had finally begun.

[Letho]

Storm taciturnly complied with Letho’s request to cut the dillydallying. But what his silver tongue refused to utter, his eyes let out in an outcry that stood as a placard for all who knew to read between the lines. Wrapped in the arctic chill of his eyes was the abounding desire for retaliation, deftly prepared to be served cold. And as much as the fallen knight wanted to designate this glare as a product of a maniacal murderer out to spill blood by the gallons, he knew it was no such thing. Countless times Letho’s actions were fueled by that same bloodlust, by that righteous retribution against all that dared to stray from the perfect path he plotted in his mind. He never thought the manuscript of destiny would make him change sides before the end of the play.

The opening move was withering. Despite the fact that Letho foresaw the lightning blast due to the quivering crackle of the electric sparks conjured by his opponent, the swordsman persisted in his static posture. The crowd fell silent as the magical projectile went ballistic, scudding through the dry air and covering the ground between the two in less then a blink of an eye. It struck Letho’s husky chest squarely, the collision blast packing enough might to shove his bulk a step backwards. His muscles contracted involuntarily as the electricity surged through the every pore of his organism, bringing his sinews an iota from snapping like an overstrung guitar wire. It was a cold pain, metallic pain that took reign instantly, making his entire body spasm like a marionette whose puppeteer tried to shake it off his fingers. His left leg buckled, made him take another yielding step back before ultimately throwing him down on one knee.

“So this... this is how she felt...”

Even the voice in his head seemed distant, fatigued, thwarted by the sparkling tendrils that ravaged his body. His every breath was a herculean effort, burning and stinging as if he was breathing in razor blades, his every move plagued by uncontrolled shivering. Letho figured only his inhuman physique saved him from becoming a smoldering monument that resembled a roast forgotten in the oven by an unretentive housemaid. His neck craned, moving his head upwards with agonizing slowness to meet the eyes of his attacker. The silence around them as thick enough to be cut with a knife, the spectators at the edge of their seats and biting their nails, disbelieving that their favorite was just checkmated in a single move. But it took a lot more to bring down the beast. Myrhia knew that, Selena knew it back in Nyd and Letho was certain that Storm knew it as well.

“You’ll have to do better then that.” the caustic warrior barely managed to squeeze through his clenched teeth before he pushed himself up. The crowd went berserk, their hollering amplified by the resurrection of their hero. Letho was oblivious towards them. He reassumed his firm footing, his hand reaching for the hilt of his blade and brandishing it serenely. The truth was, he wanted for Storm to do better that that initial aggression because that would be the only way to complete the designated mission. And the only way for his opponent to perform with enough zeal and might was to force him to reach and breach his limit.

With the cheers reflecting his every step, Letho took a pair of probation strides forwards, bringing his muscles and tendons back to their functionality before he retaliated. His sword was held at his right hip, diagonal and nearly scraping the dirt as its wielder went from an amble to a sprint in a heartbeat. Even though still relatively foiled by the electrocution, his vampiric speed was brutal, his trajectory a flat line drawn in the dirt in less then a second. Once Storm was definite in his sights, Letho slid down to his right knee, protruding his hand forwards in an impaling move aimed at the gut. It was a stinger move, deadly, vicious, uplifting a tawny mist as its performer slid over the ground. But in that last handful of inches before the blade was to find the target, Letho’s hand retracted minutely, shifting his aim a bit to the side. Storm was no good to him dead.

[Storm Veritas]

The distinct crackle of his twisting arc was replaced by the sizzle-snap of contact, the lightning hitting Letho square, hard, and full force. The warrior stumbled back a step, faltered a bit, and arose, his eyes as venomous and filled with ire as Storm had seen. He was steadied, balanced, and unwavering. The usual deep squint on the face of the ebony haired mage widened slightly as he fast reconsidered his decision to take on the man-beast Ravenheart.

Well, I never expected it to hit him that square, but shit… Seen some of my bolts half that strength kill a man before. He shrugged it off like a goddamned horsefly! What the hell were you thinking?

There wouldn’t be much time to contemplate his decision to enter battle. Things were picking up fast, and Letho was quickly on the move. Storm drew the twin daggers from his waist, pulling them to his hands in a single smooth maneuver. They wouldn’t offer any protection against the mighty great-sword, but they were certainly more effective in close range than merely his hands would be.

The sultan of power and skillful swordplay bore down on him quickly, and personal motivations gave way to primal instinct. Gone were the things that drew Veritas to battle: memories of Selena, the grudge against this monster, and the lust for fortune (and more importantly fame). The powerful legs of his adversary pistoned across the dirt in a smooth, rhythmic action, abusing the soil and hurtling Ravenheart at Storm with a torrential velocity.

The sword was swinging up quickly, the deft enemy sliding to him on a knee. The entire action held all the grace of a trained killer, and Letho’s strike was nothing short of artistic. The sweep, the slide, the strike; it was as fluid as the cobra snapping forth its fangs upon some hapless prey.

Jump… go!

The retraction was purely a guess; Veritas did not have the time to read the assault and then move in turn from it. He thought to move right, hoping the right-handed Ravenheart would be swinging in that direction. The Gods were with him, and he was correct, although it was not enough. The blade swung high and fast and hard, a bit too quick for Storm to evade. The slice came through his left thigh with such ferocity that it actually pushed his flight path off course, forcing him to land in an awkward, stumbling gait. The blood would take a few seconds to flow, but the pain was instantaneous: his leg yelped in agony as the pressure of landing pushed it beyond its newly restricted capacity. He bit deep into his lip, the salty and cuprous taste of blood on his tongue as he restrained from the admission of pain. Psychological warfare was his only advantage now.

Oh, you motherf*cker

“Just the leg…” he began, a voice full of arrogance and hatred. “The man I once knew could take the head from a fatigued opponent. That’s it? That’s all you have to offer? Your body has aged, Ravenheart. Finally caught up to you, but I guess it’s a long time coming.”

The daggers were small, balanced, and strong, but stepping back into the range of that now blood-tipped blade was the last thing he wanted to do. Gingerly stepping away from the warrior, he continued to run his mouth, showing that limp, showing his injury, and trying to dictate the next action of the opponent.

Come and get the wounded animal. Finish her off.

“The redhead… that whore that I watched the men rape on the ship… she told me all about your age. Those eyes certainly didn’t sit on me coming from a very content woman.”

He hated Letho, and knew that under the selfish persona there was one thing that he would likely sting him. Storm had pushed salt in a wound. He only prayed that it would make the incredible knight foolish, allow a window, and lend the weary, weakened Veritas a chance.

Just open that window a crack, you filthy prick.

[Letho]

The crowd was elated - they had every reason to act thusly. Their champion drew first blood, spread it through the thirsty dirt in a burgundy spray that turned vermillion as the spray hit the dust. Storm waddled away like a dog that just survived a hit-and-run carriage accident, every step a struggle against the ache of his flexing thigh muscle. Letho held him in his peripheral vision, his eyes staring blankly forwards as he stood in the same kneeling position that served as the conclusion of his lunge. His blade was unmoving in its horizontal position, oozing crimson droplets at a weary random pace, as the uplifted cloud started to subside around his black figure.

The wound seemed to be Storm’s trigger and the first cannonade of prods and insults came gushing out of the knave’s foul mouthpiece. Letho expected this sooner. Storm was trying to goad him, trying to own him, using his usual contingency plan that consisted of bitter taunts and cheap shots. The rogue knew quite well that all men had buttons and levers within the essence of their being, and if you pushed and pulled in the right manner, you could subconsciously lead an individual to do your bidding with mere words. Back when they traveled together, Storm managed to sweet-talk a band of buccaneers into a ludicrous mission by tapping into their hidden desires. Here the modus operandi was the same, only the agenda was to instigate to the point of madness. It was a sound plan, a thought that swerved around the corners, but Letho anticipated the tasteless mockery and brushed it away.

And then Storm mentioned Myrhia.

The blade that stood as calm as if it was held by a dead man’s hand quaked minutely at the horrid words, the meaty fingers squeezing the leather of the hilt in a desperate attempt to tame it, to tame the anger that grew at the exponential rate. Letho was always just a heap of dry tinder, oiled up and ready to burn out, and Storm was striking the flint with a malicious grin. The swordsman’s head snapped sideways, his eyes enlivened by a vivid spark as the blade kept trembling like a petal of a dying rose. His blood was boiling, screaming, demanding, arrogating the revenge for the spoken words, providing his muscles with the potency to grow and transform the knight into a behemoth of destruction. Whore. He called her a whore. The leather of the hilt moaned under the iron clutch.

“You will leave her out of this or no monk in Corone will be able to put you back together after I'm done with you.” Letho’s growl was savage and as rough as if it traveled over sandpaper. His legs brought him back to full height, his mind struggling to keep the beast of bloodlust at bay. It was a dreadful battle against the very nature that tried to overrule every single sliver of reason, but it was too late to back out now. Too late to give in. His hand spun the blade deftly once at his side before the swordsman returned it to the scabbards on his back.

“The man you thought you knew is gone, Storm Veritas.” he started with composure still painted with a touch of garlic. His hands unclasped the buckles that held the blade fixated on his back, bringing the sheathed blade before the man, before he started to wrap the leather straps around his hand. “Now, if those flimsy fireworks and the bitter abetments are all that you have in your filthy bag of tricks, I suggest you get the hell out of my face. Otherwise, brace yourself.”

This time, instead of a stampeding move, Letho merely made a step forwards and let the sheathed blade fall at his flank. And even as the black scabbards hit the dirt, the swordsman swung his right hand in a horizontal arc. The heavy sword – that now turned into a peculiar flail – came in tow with a half-second delay, plowing through the dust and uplifting a semi-translucent tawny wall. It was a mere distraction, but it was Letho’s cue. He dashed forwards once again, emerging from the artificial cloud and bringing his flail in another horizontal arc, this time aimed to bludgeon Storm’s right side. The swordsman hoped to hit the open thigh wound, hoping to answer to the mental game of instigation with a physical one of his own, but the makeshift weapon was a maverick and immaculate aiming was downright impossible.

[Storm Veritas]

The words had left their mark; the flared nostrils and widened eyes the logical predecessor to a furious tirade and follow-up assault. Letho’s ire was predictable and understandable, and his taunts fell on the deaf ears of a social deviant who had heard them all and invented half. When the colossus attacked this time, however, Storm was prepared, and all too ready for the challenge.

The massive, sheathed blade was swung at him this time, a large, looping arc that merely scraped the ground before him. The wave of dust was an old timer’s trick, something that Veritas himself had used in his recent battle with Luc Krauss. Taking a presumptuous step back, the wounded veteran crouched in anticipation. As Ravenheart began his charge, Storm could hear the beginnings of a roar from the crowd behind and about him. Hell was coming.

Let’s go, you big, ugly sonofabitch.

The possum pounced. He guessed correctly this time, and pushed hard off his stronger leg. Driving his wounded knee high, he was able to gracefully leap well into the air, an acrobatic half turn accompanying the action. Just as he left the ground in his dazzling leap, the heavy swishing sound of the leather-bound bludgeon came right below him. His timing was perfect, and execution quite sound. It had worked perfectly, as while Letho’s diversion blocked Storm from seeing the behemoth, said behemoth was also ignorant to Storm’s exact whereabouts.

His right hand charged the twisted kriss blade in his hand, that familiar crackle-hiss setting in place ever so quickly. Adroit and malicious, he fired it just as he began his descent from the apex of his jump. His target was between the shoulder blades of the burly beast. Landing would hurt terribly, but that seemed years in the future.

[Letho]

All roads led to the Serenti stadium today. The circular arena was a siphon, imbibing the rich and poor, the interested and the oblivious, the stronger and the prettier gender, and presenting them the historic clash. Myrhia desperately tried to escape this obscure invisible force, tried to escape and erase Letho from her mind. He hurt her. He hurt her more then anybody in her life, her master and his vicious minions included. When somebody hits you, the wound aches and eventually gives in to the natural regenerative process. When somebody betrays you, the words spoken become a thorn in your side, a cold shrapnel that travels with you for the rest of your days. Infectious. Inoperable.

And yet, despite all her desperate efforts to flee, the redhead found herself up in the stands, sitting still in the mass that seemed to go more haywire with every move of the two gladiators. She tried to justify her presence with the fact that the streets bustled with the endless chatter about the finals and the participants, and that one couldn’t get away from it even if he walked with corks in his ears. But one look down at the physically superior of the two combatants broke the mask she tried to use.

Sure, he hurt her. Sure, she didn’t want to see him again. But that didn’t prevent her from remembering his last words. “I love you, Myri. I will always love you. But I can’t make you feel the same and I don’t blame you if you walk away. All of this is my fault.”

And just like that, he gave her a clean slate, a clear consciousness to go out in the world as free as a bird. He broke her physical shackles back in Scara Brae and she loved him for that. Now he broke her mental shackles and she was... Angry? Confused? Lost? Sad? Grateful? All of the above? She still couldn’t give a definite answer to that. That was probably why she was the only tranquil point in the colorful mayhem around her, gazing down at her lover, her betrayer, and searching for an answer in the dirt of the arena.

***

Storm finally started to pick up the pace and perform with his god-given guile and limberness. He leapt vertically like a frightened cat, lacking the uplifted hair but gaining much more height then most felines, and easily avoided the flailing sheathed sword. And then he took it a step further. Even as Letho’s momentum rotated his torso sideways, the black-haired knave lunged one of his daggers while still in midair. It was a blistering effort, combining the speed of a mamba and the cunningness of a human mind, and ultimately too swift for the swordsman. The squiggly blade impaled itself into his upper back, tearing through muscles and tendons alike. But the instantaneous keen pain was only a harbinger of what followed a fraction of a second later. The electrocution seemed a tad weaker then the first time, but combined with the first wave of physical pain, it created a tsunami that spread through Letho’s body with an intention to ravage his body.

The blade made the sullen knight fall to one knee again, the lightning element sweeping the other from beneath him and sending the man on the crash course to the hot dust below. By sheer trained reflex Letho’s right set itself between the collapsing bulk and dampened the impact as the mixture of sizzling tendrils and pulsating pain rippled through his every extremity. Sounds faded away. The brown floor before his eyes was a blurry smudge. Cold sweat mixed with warm blood in a trickle that descended down his aching spine. And once the electricity was finally purged from his system, his lungs forced him to cough blood so dark red it might have been black. It ultimately made Letho’s face curve into a bloody grin.

“There’s a good lad. You chopped one of the legs, now lean on the beast until it breaks.” his mind commented as the right arm did the taxing job, pushing him up a little bit. His left felt genuinely numb, as if he slept on it all night and it woke up in the morning. Storm probably struck a nerve in his back. It was a small matter. He didn’t need two hands in order to die properly anyways.

After what seemed like hours – and it turned up to be mere seconds of uncomfortable silence caused by the nail-biting crowd – Letho managed to bring himself back on his feet. His grin was still on, forming an expression of a man that knew a secret that you didn’t. His right pulled on the straps, bringing the hilt of the titanium blade back in his hand, but still refused to brandish the weapon. His shoulders were mildly slanted, compensating for the wound that incapacitated his left arm, and nearly making the man look like a hunchback.

“Nice move. But you’ll have to work on your aim if you want to defeat me.” Letho spoke in a raspy tone, his blade clicking against his ample chest, pointing to his heart. That was the curse when you were a vampire. Everything sans a heartshot and a decapitation was a mere nuisance, a gash that hurt and bled and failed to leave a scar at the end of the day.

He moved forwards with an exaggerated limp, the sting in his back spreading the ache like a venom, but not powerful enough to affect his basic movement. The charade lasted only for a handful of steps though, before Letho attacked again. His first two steps were a mere preparation, giving him momentum for the fleet leap that followed. The heavy blade – that now served as a mere club – fell from his hand at the last moment, allowing the swordsman to finish his leap with a clobbering punch. The snapping strike brought the sheathed blade as a follow-up though, sweeping downwards in a clumsy diagonal arc. It was a graceless imperfect strike, leaving Letho open for a counterattack. But that was the whole point. To make it look good and to perish with the sound of applause.