Tvier Valka Seula vs. Penumbra Intersect

[Kryos]

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“Get out of my HEAD!” Kryos raged as he fought back the forced images, of Jericho in the cold, deserted alley. He lunged forward and swung his blade in a wide arc, blood flying into the air at the speed of his attack and face twisting into a vicious snarl. A rush of blue-silver steel, and the flare of sparks blossomed as the two weapons clashed, the screeching of the deadlock grinding on his nerves. He heaved, feeling blood spurt from the gash on his side from the sharp, metal pike.

Had he underestimated the man?

All over his body, new wounds had appeared from the glowing point of his opponent’s weapon. Three on his arms, the one at his right side, and on in his thigh. They all trickled blood, fueled his rage as they soaked and grabbed his garb. Spinning again, he twisted, thrusting past his opponent's weapon only to have his sword glance off the man’s hidden chest guard. The glowing weapon rushed towards his throat, before missing by inches as Kryos blocked with the muandrian’s hilt. The sharp point dragged across the back of his hand, but he lunged again through the pain.

His weapon’s edge slid across flesh and bathed in a stream of blood from his opponents shoulder. Twisting out of the way of another counterattack, he jumped backwards, landing in a feral crouch. He bared his teeth, eyes flashing. Kryos had added another mark of his own to the faceless form before him, for blood ran down his body as well.

A fresh wave of pain burned at the open wounds that covered his body, flaming and biting as if acid had been poured into the wounds.

What is this devilry? he thought as he clenched his teeth against the intense burning. He readied his sword, only then noticing that the pikeman, too, had faltered. Now!

His legs pounded as he rushed, the deadly point of his blade aimed for the heart. He almost had him . . .

A pain so intense, so horrifying and utterly impossible, flared across his eyes, along the scars that lined them, as if the dim, feather-light impressions of flames had split open with molten rock, burning him alive. But this, this was more than a simple wound. Through those obsidian marks, the stream of agony crashed upon his soul, his very essence. He fell to his knees, weapon clattering on the damp floor, and screamed. His hands clutched at his head, clawing invisible flames as he writhed.

A dark carvern, shadows spinning and converging. Glowing, powerful eyes, full of spite and mocking. A hand, wreathed in pure darkness, gripping his face and burning his soul as he died . . .

Footsteps, and Kryos saw the man’s rush, the pike rising higher and higher. Saw the inevitable descent through eyes filled with death. He had to move, to save himself. He couldn’t die! He rolled, and the spear ripped through his shirt. Clawed hands still clutching his forehead, his body spun and his leg extended and slammed into the knee of his attacker. The man fell to his knees, thrusting again even as he fell, though his aim went wide. Fighting for his existence from years past, he screamed again, demonic voice echoing through the caverns. His mind scrambled wildly; he had a few seconds to save himself.

The Bane spell is the complete opposite of Charity. When the two meet with equal strength, they become nothing.

The voice of his teacher of long ago flashed through his mind, and he dug into his being until he grasped his inner self. His hands glowed, brighter and brighter, before the dancing alabaster flames of the Charity spell came into existence. At once, the pain eased, and his mind cleared. A rugged breath clawed up his throat as he rolled to his stomach, grasped his sword, and jumped backwards and away from the recovering foe.

His arms and legs shook as blood streamed from his raw, festering wounds, while adrenaline coursed through his frenzied body. He glared past the dark strands of his hair and the flickering, white flames pressed to his temple by his hand, fighting the resurrected torment. He stepped back into a defensive stance. He would wait for his enemy to come to him.

The man adjusted his hold on his glowing spear. Kryos watched his every movement with his blood-colored eyes and, for the first time, saw Jericho, arcing through the air and into the stream of muck on his right. Another figure jumped after the elk, yelling in triumph, skin glowing with the fires of wrath and damnation, and landed on the poor beast, katar punching deep into the gut of his filth-covered victim. Jericho spasmed once, twice, and fell limp, sludge washing over his defeated body.

He’s gone . . . It’s time to prove my worth! His black and silver clad foe rushed, spear sliding past the air and stench. Kryos flicked his wrist, sending his sword to brush the spear aside. He would kill, and he would be glorious.

“No.”

The word erupted through the tunnels with an almighty clap of power, and Kryos could barely recognize it before the blast hit. It struck with the fury of a hurricane, picking both him and his battle partner up and tossing them backwards. He hit the ground and rolled to his knees, spinning around to face the heart of the blast. Jericho was suspended in the light, the pure energy pouring out from him and swirling in a matrix of riptides. The beams of light and power rushed in all directions as they grew stronger and stronger, pulling and slapping at the frames and clothes of the mortals. The elk, eyes blazing pure white, opened his mouth and spoke, words blasting into their very souls, proclaiming the Truth. The light raced across Jericho’s pelt, endowing it with power, before become lost to Kryos’ sight, so intense was the light. He reached his hand up to see past the wind, and felt the awesome reverberation of Jericho’s power breaching the dams that held it back. Everything went white as the energy flowed through the tunnels, and silence rendered all senses useless. Then, there were cracks.

Kryos saw them, black lines growing in spurts all around him. The light began to fade, and he understood. The power that had flowed out of Jericho had been so strong that the walls and ceiling were breaking, whole chunks falling out in a few places and new cascades of waste falling downwards into the tunnels.

Kryos glanced over his shoulder and saw that the spear man hadn’t recovered from the blast yet either. It was then that he noticed his wounds. They were gone. Not just healed, but were as if they had never existed. He flexed his arm, feeling the strength rush back to him. And his soul, too, felt fine. It was better than he’d remembered it being for since a long time ago. Something was different.

What is this? This . . . this feeling . . .

Warmth bloomed in his chest and flowed outward, erasing his hate and rage and loathing, pushing him to his feet. It took from him his will to fight. It was then, at that moment that he understood.

I am who I am, just as Jericho is who he is. He shook his head in disbelief, at how simple and obvious the Truth was. I have not failed, not ever. I have grown because of what I have lost. He looked to his enemy. Or rather, the person he had been pitted against. The man, also, was on his feet, slim weapon in hand. Perhaps that is what this tournament is all about. Overcoming, and accepting. He stooped to pick up his sword and began to walk slowly, past the falling dust and waste, toward his advancing opponent, eyes clear. Even if it isn’t, well, I don’t care. He stopped just as the man began to run towards him, and the dwiilar settled into a deep stance, calming his eager hands. He closed his eyes once, and when they opened, the power of his ancestry again glowed brightly, crimson shade seeing all.

My name is Kryos, and I will only be myself!

The spear rushed through the air, and Kryos exhaled. For an instant, his eyes flared, and with that glow, he moved. The sword in his hand snapped through the air, dancing at the edge of a person’s ability to track it, flowing from one strike to the next with inhuman speed.

A splash of blood flew into the air and lined the quivering edge of his blade.

[Exspherius]

Bunnies Approved

'We are equal,' the Esper suddenly realized as Coercion was struck aside by his enemy's sword. 'Matched blades, locked together,' The Esper grunted, bringing the pike around to catch a sweeping cut before it could disembowel him. And suddenly their weapons did lock, the hilt of the sword catching on the blazing spike. For an instant, the pair stood at a standstill, panting from their vicious exertion as each tried to force the other aside. Epsilon found himself pierced by the man's fiery glare, for a moment unnerved by the pure, unaltered rage that shone in his foe's crimson eyes. A glow so like the Kounnar...

With a growl so low it was almost subsonic Epsilon shoved forward, driving the point a fraction closer to the swordsman's side. He instantly redoubled, striking out with his mind as his muscles strained again, and his enemy's guard failed. Coercion's glowing tip flew past the sword and came away sizzling, as the psionic energy shed the blood in a flash of energy. It was not the only hit he had scored, blood dripped freely from the man's dark form. And yet, as the Esper spun and thrust again, he found himself once again deflected. Faster than a snake, the dark blade of his enemy's sword flickered out and bit into his shoulder, staining the silver PsiOps insignia a tarnished red. The new flow joined a pair of slices on his left arm, and the long, shallow slash from the first attack on his other arm. His uniform sleeves, already filthy from the collisions with the tunnel walls and splashes of sludge, hung in tatters that flapped in the fetid air as he lunged out in an elegant stab that was just as skillfully evaded, the glowing eyes dropping through the gloom as their owner slid down into a crouch.

It occurred to Epsilon that, as skilled as he was in psychoevocation, most of his wounds could have been prevented. Yet in the wake of the warp-vision's words, it seemed wrong to protect himself with his psionics. He had failed to protect his old identity, would fail to protect Xaul and even himself, should he continue without using his gifts.

Just as he called on his power to defend himself, his mind exploded. Images, memories, slammed into his wards with the force of meteors. Epsilon was staggered by the force of the impact, and his sterling walls began to crumble under Resheph's mental hammer. But he reached deep into himself, and threw everything he had into his defenses. And as Jericho screamed, as Xaul laughed, Epsilon withstood. He opened his eyes, not even realizing that he had closed them, and saw the attack coming. A lethal stab, aimed for his heart. His armor was weakened, and would not hold. He brought Coercion around, but he was too slow...

And Xaul drew his katars, bringing thousands of needles that pierced his skin in remembered pain. It was minor, the injections had been the least of his pains, but there were so many...he was interrupted by a scream. The swordsman fell to his knees, screaming and clutching at his glowing eyes. Epsilon seized his chance: he knew the pain of the Kounnar, and could endure it. As the swordsman's hand blazed with white energy and he pulled himself to his feet, Epsilon made what he intended to be the final lunge. As he moved, he saw Xaul slam Jericho into the river and impale the deer-man on his katar. The swordsman saw it too; he tensed, and lunged to meet Epsilon. Each weapon moved to dislodge the other and score the killing hit, but neither could do so.

The world turned to light, in a roar of denial.

For a second time, a shockwave blasted through the tunnel. Epsilon barely sensed the power before it struck him like the fist of God Himself and slapped him away from the swordsman. The sunlight-glow grew brighter and brighter, streaming outward from Jericho's body as it rose into the air. Epsilon's mask did nothing to shade the holy light as it filled the tunnel, filled it like a physical thing as it suffused him. Instinctively, he tried to repel it, but it overwhelmed him like a minnow swimming against a tsunami. The light overcame him, surrounded him, filled him until it was all he knew. And with it came such a feeling of warmth and fulfillment that tears leaked down his face to drip off the edge of the mask.

And then the light faded, and he was surprised to find himself alive. He was sprawled on the catwalk beside the canal as the stone walls cracked and groaned around him. As he brought himself to his feet, he noticed that the light had not left him as it had taken him. Each cut, each jagged incision carved by the black blade of his enemy was gone. Gone, as if it had never existed. Vanished too was the pain of the hypodermics, every pain in his body had been cleansed by the light of this god. Words echoed in his ears, plain and pure in their truth, and as he faced his enemy for the last time he realized what Vasque had been trying to tell him.

'It doesn't matter,' he thought, 'What I had, what I lost, what I might have...none of that matters. The only thing that matters...is following my path,' He stood, turned, faced his opponent. 'I've been given a gift most would gladly kill for. I can spend no more time regretting that the universe saw fit to give it to me,' He leveled Coercion, found his footing on the treacherous stones. 'I must be worthy of that honor. No more regrets. Only forward!' He charged, moving so quickly his feet barely touched the ground.

'I am Epsilon, Esper! My path is clear, and I shall follow it to the end!'

And that path nearly ended as he came within range of his opponent. As the scintillating spike of Coercion streaked to impale the man, his form suddenly blurred into five blistering cuts that Epsilon could barely track. The first two slashes bit deeply almost before he could react. By the third, he was reacting. Psionic energy flared almost blindingly bright, a blue-silver aura sheathing the Esper's arms and torso in a seamless coat of energy. The next blow struck this barrier and skittered across Epsilon's shoulder in a spray of blue-silver sparks.

And the swordsman shifted his fourth attack, shearing through Epsilon's mask and scoring a burning line across the Esper's cheek.

Cold, cold fire erupted in Epsilon's body. His mask was damaged. The blade might just as well have carved away a part of his soul. The mask was his identity, his life, the symbol for all that he was. And it was damaged. Fury pulsed in his breast, icy cold and lethal in its intent. Epsilon gathered it all in, infused it with every drop of his power that he could draw in, and the temperature plummeted around him. Hoarfrost coated the stones around him, traced fractal patterns on the remainder of his mask. A ball of pure silver energy coalesced in Epsilon's palm, and he forced more and more power into the sphere as it grew brighter and brighter. And yet the swordsman did not back away.

"Goodbye." He murmured, and slammed the sphere into the swordsman's chest. The world went white, and the Esper's ears were filled with the sound of a howling gale. It was the most intense cyrokinetic attack that Epsilon had ever inflicted. Blood poured from his ears and nostrils as he forced power through his hand and into the swordsman. Ice coated the man's clothes, sheathing him in ice that immobilized and agonized. The swordsman screamed as the water in his body began to freeze, rising in a crescendo until it was cut off by ice forming over his face.

Epsilon let his hand drop, slumping forward to lean against the icy statue that remained in place of his opponent. Oddly, he didn't feel cold. Warmth suffused his chest, spreading slowly down into his legs. He looked down and saw the frost-rimed blade of his opponent's sword protruding from the center of his chest, pierced cleanly through his psionic armor. Blood flowed in a scarlet river, soaking his uniform and staining the stones beneath him. He felt no pain, only a sudden sense of complete exhaustion.

Darkness began to close the edges of his vision, and his last thought before it closed over him completely was 'I'm sorry, Xaul.'

[TwinDeath]

Bunnying is approved, and Jericho's dialogue is written by Jericho. TVS and Penumbra Intersect would like to request that this round be unlocked after judging so we can finish it. Also, please consider this and the previous post when judging. apologies for the lateness.

Xaul whooped and giggled as he twisted around Jericho, his blades slashing and twining in a blur of violent beauty. Resheph was merely speaking through him, now; his movements were his own. In full grip of the Kounnar, Xaul laughed and laughed at the promise of blood. He flicked out into he air, laughing harder and harder as Drshil, his left-hand blade, sank deep into Jericho’s gut.

Xaul leaned close to his foe, blood spraying from his lips as he smiled. “Now, antler-man sees what I am.” He inhaled softly, pausing briefly in his madness. His right hand blade traced a soft pattern in the elkin’s stomach; the innocuous scratch it left quickly turning a sickly black, a plague-color. Inside himself, the other Xaul, the sane Xaul was screaming and thrashing, railing at his madness and at Resheph for denying the universe such a bright soul. To kill Jericho, to casually snuff out his potential, was not something he wanted to do.

“I'm the one who takes you there, your only true friend now,” breathed the outer Xaul, his mad whirling eyes clearing slightly. “Birds burning, angels frosted, you're the one who's shamed.” He gloried in the kill, slowly edging the katar Haingre into Jericho’s gut beside its brother. The elkin simply stood there, his eyes far away and fading. Stood there and accepted oblivion.

Then Jericho’s eyes refocused, his brow furrowed and determined. A single word tumbled from his slack lips, its significance bright and beautiful and ever so pure in the middle of the vile black that Resheph brought with him.

“No.”

The word seemed to hang in the air, the light it brought blazing forth brighter and brighter until the world seemed to wash away. This light was physical, mental and spiritual, and everyone in the tunnel (besides Jericho himself) was blasted off their feet. Xaul himself was the worst affected, being closest to Jericho. He was thrown backwards, his blades tearing out of Jericho’s body. Slamming into a wall and sliding down it, Xaul shook his head, watching dazedly as his wounds were healed by the light. Resheph? Resheph? The god’s presence was gone, and Xaul’s Kounnar, his animalistic rage, had faded slightly. He looked up, the sane Xaul now in control.

“Jericho,” he whispered, his voice normal for the first time since he had met the priest. “To have what you have… Run. Run far and fast, for he will come back. I have seen your god’s power, have taken his measure, and I fear for you. Resheph will never leave you alone. He never forgives.” Xaul sobbed slightly. “He’s back. Run. Run!”

Resheph’s voice returned, and with it the Kounnar and the pain from Drshil. “Who you are is not what you show the world, Jericho. And what you are is a ‘beloved’ slave. Who you are is your desires, your wants and needs. These are the causes of your actions, and you cannot deny them forever. In fact, the longer you do, the louder they howl. You can hear them, reminding you of her scent, of her touch, of her sweet soft screams…” Resheph howled with laughter over the voice of the One.

Resheph/Xaul struggled against the light that held them and sank back to the floor. “You hold me now, sibling, but for how long? Your avatar is not a power line, meant to be channeled through at every whim. You hold me, but already you fade. You always did go for flash over effectiveness. Impressive, but I’ve seen it before.” Resheph chuckled ruefully, and then abruptly changed moods, railing at the light that emanated from Jericho.

“You misguided prick, meddling in natures yet again! You say that you are not to be followed, and then lay doctrines at your avatar’s feet! All of us are Truths! All of us are Stories! All of us are Lives! All of us Are!”

Jericho smiled softly as his light began to fade. "You are not Life. You are nothing but death."

Xaul leapt to his feet, diving at Jericho as the light shut off and the elkin dropped lightly to the ground. Resheph spoke through him again. “Xaul is right, though. Run. Run and run and run and run until you drop dead in the mud of the road, and then lift your soul from your worthless body and keep running, Jericho. That is what my sibling would have you do. Run from your desires, from your needs. Deny them as impure, because they make you feel good. Feel alive.”

Xaul’s blades slipped in and out faster and faster as he spun around and around Jericho. “Run run run, Jericho…” Resheph backed off, content to watch his avatar bring him a sacrifice.

Xaul flashed over, under, and around Jericho. His every movement was random, and he left himself many opportunities for counterattacks, which Jericho and the One took. Still, though, he landed hits, and the slight cuts added up. Between the many cuts and the terrible effects of the katars, Jericho was in bad shape. Xaul, however, was no better. The battering he had taken from Jericho’s staff had him stumbling as he moved, his attacks sluggish. Still, he fought on, raising his arms and rushing in.

Jericho stood facing Xaul, bleeding from a dozen minor cuts. Some were rotted, from Haingre, while others held the agony of a mortal wound, thanks to Drshil. A strike from Xaul swept in, and was blocked. The force of the blow sent Jericho staggering back, and he caught up on the edge of the walkway. Xaul advanced on him, opening and closing the blades of his katars slowly.

Shink

Xaul took a small step forward, splashing through the mire of the sewer. A chill wind caught at him from the side, and he heard the screams of either Epsilon or Kryos, but couldn’t be bothered to check.

Shink

Now he was closer still, the awful glow of his Kounnar reflecting off of the muck.

Shink

He was in front of the priest now, his soft giggling almost peaceful and lulling. Jericho tried to raise his staff to fight, and the weapon was batted away.

Shink

Xaul opened and closed Drshil right in front of Jericho’s eye, dragging the tip of it down his muzzle. The elkin stared into his eyes, shuddering at the pain but unafraid of death itself. “Death may be oblivion for you, Xaul. But the One is Light in darkness. He is Life, even in death. You can't frighten me,” he breathed.

Shink

This time, Xaul trimmed off a bit of fur. He pulled his arm back and drove it forward, the point of Haingre blurring towards Jericho’s heart.

Clank

Jericho watched as Xaul forced his arm away, the katar ringing off the stone of the walkway. The possessed man dropped to his knees in the sewer muck and screamed, the sound that of a lost pup or a dying rabbit. He flailed around, clutching at his head and smashing into the walls of the sewer. “RESHEPH! OUT!”

Resheph manifested in Xaul’s mind, smiling cruelly as the tattoos of the Kounnar formed into a cage around him, their presence fading from Xaul’s skin. I’ll never leave, Xaul. You can’t fight forever.

Xaul screamed once more, and latched onto the sensation he had felt while in the maelstrom of light that Jericho had created. Slowly he began to spin this light, weaving it and adding it to Resheph’s cage. “I don’t have to fight forever, Resheph. Not alone, at least.” He left his mind and staggered back to reality, collapsing onto the walkway.

Alone is a state of mind, Xaul. You are always alone. The halls of Xaul’s mind filled with echoing laughter as he faded from consciousness.

[Jericho]

Just a quick note from Penumbra Intersect seconding the We're sorry please count our posts!! part. You should have seen the mad-muse-marathon going on over Gmail between the four of us for the past eight hours. It was hardcore. But yes--please accept TVS's posts. We are prepared to offer pizzas with questionable toppings as payment.