Round 1: Christina Bredith Vs Slayer of the Rot

[Silence Sei]

You have 2 weeks to complete this battle. May the best man win!

[Christina Bredith]

For the people of Corone, the Serenti Invitational felt long overdue.

It had been many years since the grand tournament had last been held, drawing its competitors from around the continent and across the three seas to compete for the title of Champion. The only competitions Arron Brand had seen these past few years had been ones of blood and steel, where soldiers were thrown onto the battlefield as carelessly as a gambler’s dice, their lives and freedom the wager. He was only a simple fisherman, himself, like his father before him, and his father’s father. Off the southern shores of Corone, trawling for sea bass and diving for pearls, the horrors of war seemed like a distant nightmare, though not a day passed when news of another local death didn’t follow him back to shore.

It was a breath of fresh air when the heralds arrived in his sleepy little fishing hamlet to announce that the Serenti Invitational would be held a fortnight hence, and brave warriors from across Corone were invited to attend. Well, that was not for Arron, but what harm would there be in grounding the fishing boat and making the trek up the northroad for the festivities?

That was how he found himself here, in the grand Invitational Arena itself, sitting under a clear blue sky. He had not had the coin to pay for the house’s best seats—those were nearest the pit, and he could see the rich silks and velvets of the nobility lining up along that ledge, as well as the sealed-off area where the viceroys of the Corone Empire sat surrounded by guards—but he wagered that he could count more rows behind him than before. That was if he could count them at all: from ringside to outer wall, the arena was filled to the brim with spectators, crawling over each other like ants excited by a whiff of sugar. Some of them wore silks too, while he noted cotton or wool on others, and the vast majority wore simple roughspun clothing like himself. The simple folk needed this escape more than anyone.

The air was crisper than he was used to, a sure sign that summer was getting on. That didn’t matter much to the Brands; the seas did not bow to the seasons, and he would be fishing well after the farmers of the breadbasket had done and filled their bushels with wheat. Whatever sorcery had gone into the design of the arena seemed in honour of that, however: a forest of broad-leafed trees in their autumn finest spread along the walls in an unbroken circle, maple and oak and birch, thickly encircling an open area at the very center of the arena at which the two combatants were now arriving, accompanied by the high thin calls of trumpets.

The man was a tall menacing figure, built like one of the arena’s trees, only with hair of jet black instead of brown, orange, or gold. He was heavily and thoroughly armed; Arron squinted to try and see the weapons arrayed about him, but many were half-hidden, except for the massive great axe strapped to his back.

If he was a tree, then his opponent may as well have been one of their leaves: a tiny thing by comparison, shorter than the man and frailer too. Whatever her choice of armour, it was obscured by the dark jerkin and half-cloak she wore. She pulled down her hood upon entering the clearing, revealing a head of hair as red as fire, as orange as the setting sun. It seemed that she had only a longsword to counter the reach of her foe’s wicked axe. But when she drew that blade, holding it almost casually aloft, a gasp went up through the crowd. Arron could not quite understand why; the sword was an unusual thing, catching the sunlight in a cascade of colours and apparently decorated with precious gems of some kind, but even a fisherman like him knew that pretty stones would not turn an axe blade any better than good steel.

But he was beginning to catch bits of the words rustling through the crowd like wind in those autumn leaves below. “That sword, isn't it…” some of them began, soon drowned out by others; “But how could it possibly…” came from somewhere else; and “She wouldn’t show herself here!” He didn’t understand any of it, but he supposed the woman—or the sword—must be preceded by her reputation. He was just a fisherman. The only things that had ever preceded him were his father and mother.

The woman turned toward where the viceroys were seated, holding the sword across her outstretched hands as if in offering, though they were at least thirty feet above her and a hundred away. “My lords of the Empire,” she called in crystalline notes, “I am sure you recognize this blade. Its name is Rosebite, and I took it from the cold hands of the Lady of Roses, Christina Bredith.” The crowd’s murmurs told Arron he ought to have known that name, and thinking on it, maybe he had heard it somewhere. A Ranger, wasn’t she? Well, no great surprise there; more of them were dying every day, them and imperial soldiers. Arron didn’t care, as long as they all stopped dying sooner rather than later.

“I, Rosalyn de Havlan, will dedicate this blade of your enemies to the Empire,” she said, turning back toward her opponent. “And if the Thaynes favour me with victory, I shall present it to your lordships as a token of my gratitude.” This time the sword was offered to her opponent, her hand firmly clasping the hilt, her body loose in a combat stance, blade angled in his direction—an offering of blood and steel that even Arron had come to know too well since the start of this awful war.

“Come, ser,” Rosalyn said significantly. “Let us give the people what they want.”

He couldn't explain it just then. He had barely even heard her words, but even so, a shiver ran down the length of Arron Brand's spine.

[Slayer of the Rot]

Josef Bird had always been a good man. He had, since his childhood, given his prayers and thanks only to the gods his own parents had raised him to observe. Even as a boy, when his peers were slacking and rebelling, he had ignored the siren call of trouble and mischief, favoring good hard work. Josef believed there was absolutely nothing wrong with getting one's hands dirty, and took joy out of a long day toiling in his fields, bent over the dirt, pulling up the ground with his hands and planting each seed on his own. And when he'd come to the age, he had chosen to serve and protect his country as part of the Coronian Army, like he believed every able bodied man and woman should. It was amongst the ranks of the military he met Sophia Wolf. He had never seen another woman with some clear blue summer sky eyes, such beautiful golden honey colored hair, or such smooth, unblemished skin, the color of heavy cream. Though they were, to the Army, such strategic opposites; he was of the Ranged companies, and she was infantry, those who charged into battle on the front lines, the two of them clicked, the two gears of a clock. They joked at first, of the curious companionship they might have considering their family names, and while she remained distant, hiding behind humor, still he pursued her, wooed her. He and Sophia fell deeply in love, and retired from the military when she became pregnant.

They'd had a beautiful wedding, in a clearing in the woods near his farm. When the birds sung that day, Josef believed they sung for them. And so, Sophia Wolf became Sophia Bird, and three months after the wedding, their family began when their son was born, who they named Aiden. He had stood, wiping the sweat from Sophia's brow as the midwife stepped up to him, and laid his child in his arms. Josef instantly fell in love. Aiden had his dark eyes, his mother's hair and nose. He would be a heartbreaker, certainly. His life was perfect, something from a story book...but a month after Aiden's birth, he began to notice that Sophia would stay awake after the boy had fallen asleep, sitting in front of the fireplace, staring up at the infantry sword that laid upon the mantle. Sometimes, she took it down, drew it from its sheath, and polished it into the th early hours of the morning, when the sky would turn dark blue from purple and the frost grew on the grass outside of their home. Finally, she told him that she wanted to return to the military, that she wanted to march among her countrymen, wanted to protect her small family with her own two hands. He knew he did not want her to go; he wanted her home and safe, wanted her to be waiting for him when he came in from a hot, long day in his fields, the picture of peace and love with their son in her arms.

But Josef Bird was a good man. He would not keep his wife at home, caged like a canary. He let her go, and watched her disappear down the road a week later under the yellow autumn sun on the back of a horse drawn cart. A month later, a messenger told him that he was a widower. Her infantry squad had been on patrol, and had responded to the sighting of a criminal. A man people called The Red Beast, who ripped his wife into peices and killed every other soldier there. Her body was brought back home a week later, and Josef's heart broke into a million peices; she looked as though an animal had attacked her, great peices of her smooth, cream colored skin missing. But her face was not contorted in pain, or terror - it was at peace, as though she were merely sleeping, because she had died protecting her family.

She had died in vain. Josef Bird had always been a good man. A man who feared the gods, a man who worked hard, a man who loved his son, a man who had always been faithful to his wife. Even when that waitress, Coraline, down at the pub, had sat down on his lap after he'd had a few mugs of the good stuff, and had whispered in his ear that she wanted him, all night, wanted to feel him deep. Even though her skin had felt so soft, so hot under his hand, even though Sophia had been gone back to the army and it had been weeks...he had said no, because he was a good man.

And what had that given him in the end? Heartache? The title of widow? A handful of coins from his government, and a son who only had his father left in the whole world? There were nights when Aiden could hear his father sobbing quietly in his bedroom. He had been too young to remember Sophia. He didn't feel the pain of her loss quite as keenly as Josef did. Still, Josef went back to his fields, and raised his son to be a good man, too. The years passed, but the pain stayed.

Then came the day when the heralds came, men galloping by his large farm, outside of the market town he lived near on the backs of strong horses, spreading news from city to town to village. He called out for them to dismount, to rest themselves and their horses at his home. He gave their mounts water to cool their throats, and brought the heralds beer to slake their thirst, and in return they told him of the Serenti Invitational, a tournament he had not seen since he was a child. The heralds were excited; there were many famed warriors and magicians that had been invited, and were rumored to have confirmed their participation. They named some names, many he had heard in rumors and grand tales down at the pub, but one name wiped away his smile and drained the blood from his face. The heralds asked him if he were ill, and he asked them to repeat the name.

The Red Beast had been invited to Serenti.

Any other day, Josef may have said it was nothing special, that the wind smelled no different, and that the sky and the sun and the grass looked no more than gray to him. But this day was much different, it was one of the most important days of his life. The sunlight seemed brighter, clearer, the air itself tasted sweet on his tongue. The sky itself was the same shade as Sophia's eyes had been, and the small sharp chill in the air was invigorating, better at perking a man up than coffee. Josef had sold one of his horses for the money to pay for a good seat, close to the pit, and he carried his son upon his shoulders until he had reached them. He settled in, reaching into the bag he had packed, pulling a wheat roll out for Aiden to snack on before straightening and looking out into the arena. It was quite breathtaking, a marvel; a ring of tall trees, their leaves as wide as his stretched out hand. The leaves themselves were ahead of the season around them, all vivid gold, dark oranges, warm reds and earthy browns. His eyes swept across the trees, down to the clearing - and finally, spotted him.

He stood with an air of confidence, sneering at his opponent. Tangled black hair fell all around his face. His thin lips were spread in a mocking smile, revealing the inhuman, jagged teeth within. He was not dressed for battle in the slightest, even with the array of weapons scattered about his body; he wore a suit, black and white, which would not have looked out of place on some fast-talking two bit rotten-to-the-core merchant, or some greasy swindler greeting you with one hand and putting the other in your pocket. Out of all the deadly metal on his body, Josef's eyes were drawn to the massive axe, with the glassy black haft and the wide, cleaver-like gray blade. Was that what he'd used to kill Sophia? Had he chopped her in half, then bit her up like a starved beast as she'd died?

He was not the only one that hated the pale man, he could hear people all around him hissing, whispering. "He called himself Kross and stood with that necromancer-" He heard from behind him, "A monster, a demon, the gods should have never permitted his existence-" he heard from his left.

"That poor woman, she looks so young too...they say he can tear down buildings with only his hands, that his real body is a terror to-" The murmurings stopped as everything but the axe vanished from the tall man's body, which he reached over his shoulder and drew, resting the haft in the crook of his elbow and the blade on the door. Like magic, a cigarette and a match appeared in his hand. He scraped it across something green and reflective half hidden beneath his shirt on his chest, and drew in a deep drag, two thick plumes of gray smoke curling from his nostrils.

"This is why I fucking hate fighting women. You bitches are all pomp and circumstance and don't know how to shut that man-pleaser and just fight." Dan Lagh'ratham took another long draw on his cigarette. Josef squinted - he could just make out something gold, glinting on the back of his hand.

"Let me show you how." Josef blinked, and suddenly, the Red Beast had crossed the eight feet between himself and Rosalyn in the blink of an eye, the large axe lifted over his head with only one arm. He swung it downward, like it was merely some child's wooden toy in a great cleave, his lips spread wide in a lunatic grin.

Josef wrapped his arm around his son's shoulders, pulling the boy up against him. "Watch, Aiden. That's the man who killed your mother. And we are going to watch him die today."

[Christina Bredith]

All bunnying from here on out is, of course, approved.

The Lady of Roses could only smile. Pomp and circumstance? Yes, “Rosalyn” certainly was full of that. And she supposed even the woman beneath the mask had been, once.

But as the Red Beast’s axe came thrumming down in its vicious arc, every fiber of her being reminded her that she was that girl no longer. He’s fast, she thought as he crossed the space between them in a blink. Faster than I’d have thought, as he drove its crescent hungrily toward the ground. It might have weighed nothing for the ease with which he wielded the mighty weapon. A man of such bulk would not be expected to move with that kind of grace.

But not fast enough.

When the Slayer’s bitter mythril moon kissed the earth, it sank unsatisfied into the soil, kicking up only dirt where it had hoped for blood. Christina had already pushed away, pivoting on her left leg and spinning away from the blow like a dancer engaged in her craft. She had escaped a blow of immense strength, that much was plain: the ground had trembled at that impact, as if he had reduced the trees and the soil to a quivering mass of terror.

Her momentum carried her fully around and she dragged Rosebite through the air behind her. The sunlight flashed off of its runic gems in a coloruful cascade that masked the cruel glint of hungry damascus. It nipped at the air where Dan had been standing, a quick peck to taste the air, the kiss of a spurned lover, but its target too had moved out of range.

A roar went up from the crowd, immense and incomprehensible. Were they cheering the start of the battle, or bellowing their impatience for the drawing of first blood? They would get their fill of that soon enough—before this day was done, these parched desert wanderers would find themselves gathered around an oasis of blood. If the Thaynes were good, it would be the Beast’s blood; Christina would have need of hers for a while yet. She had not come to this tournament to feed the earth. Nor had she come here for the mere glory of victory. Her purpose was larger still.

Dan hefted his weapon again and brought it around for a second blow, and again Christina made to step aside. This time, however, he changed the angle of the blade’s descent in mid-fall: she had to turn it aside with Rosebite’s flat as she moved away. A glancing blow only, but one that set her sword arm shuddering from the strength of the blow. She only hoped his skin was not so tough!

His next two blows easily avoided, including a vicious sideswipe that could easily have sliced her through neatly beneath the breasts had she not melted beneath it like flowing water. But it was clear now that each step she took was one closer to the choked terrain of the autumnal forest, driven back by the torrent of mighty blows. That brought a cheer from the crowd, for what would she do then?

She would begin the fight in earnest, of course.

In the brief moment after that massive swing, Christina lifted her blade and aimed it straight at his heart. “Scream, Rosebite!” she commanded, and a silver gemstone near the blade’s tip flared to life before a burst of blue energy lanced through the air, so deafening in its scream that it drowned out even the cheers of the crowd.

If her Sonic Sable crushed his chest or one of his arms, then that would be to the good; but the counter-pressure of the blast had pushed Christina through the air, too, backwards into the forest. She melted into the trees, their shade embracing her dark cloak like an old lover, to await his next move. Now they shall see how a Ranger fights.

[Slayer of the Rot]

Dan Lagh'ratham would have shivered with excitement if he'd had time. The muscles groaned, yawning from their slumber, and the ancient killing instinct flexed, never sleeping, only waiting. Cigarette smoke spiralled and whipped around him, stinging his eyes, but he did not wince. Oh, it was beautiful, the smells of hot metal and cracking stone and ashes, and soon the smell of fresh blood would join them. The first cleave was dodged, but he would have been disappointed if he had split her from hair to crotch. Her sharp reflexes had saved her this time, but he could keep the fight going for hours, days even, before he grew tired. There would come a time when those reflexes weren't quite as sharp as the runed sword she held, and she would break, and then he would wiggle his greedy fingers down into her ribcage and tear her wide open, and have his beating, bloody prize.

His manic grin grew only wider and wider as they traded strokes, neither drawing that coveted first blood, until finally it seemed like his lips would pull back to those final inches and his head would split, revealing more and more of those terrible teeth. Josef could not help but fixate on them, instead of the action, his enmity growing, remembering in terrible detail each bite taken from Sophia's soft skin. The other gathered mongrels, poor and noble alike, cried out in excitement for the blood to come, but Josef could only see those teeth...those awful, shining, sharp teeth.

Though Christina's fascinating strokes flowed and ebbed like the wind, terrifying in its wrath yet nearly entrancing in its beauty, Dan's violent strikes were like a beast in a starved frenzy, fast and inhumanly strong, snapping its jaws furiously at its prey. Each time the thick axe blade passed her face, it was like the air was torn away, as though she had just narrowly escaped the passing of a dragon's toothy, hungry maw. Each time her blade came close, the strange runes on its face flashing and glistening in the fading summer sunlight, he jerked backwards, refusing to step back, or ducked, long trained, quick and simple movements that kept his ground. He drove her back beneath the brunt of his wild strength, pushing harder and harder, grinning all the while back to the leaves and the clutching wooden fingers of the forest...and she let him. He would have laughed, if he had the time, to spin it around her, mocking and arrogant, all the while leaving smoke and broken stone in his wake.

Finally, she raised her incredible blade to his chest. Josef's eyes went wide with excitement, his fingers clutching his son's thin shoulders tightly. He knew the beast's time would come, and that with righteousness watching over, it would be swift. He wished it would be cruel and slow instead, that the beast would struggle and bleed for hours screaming, but he wanted the man's death so badly he could taste it, like the sweet wheat bread in Aiden's hands. He nearly stood from his seat as his mouth shot open. "Kill him! Hold up this devil's severed head before us!" The son looked up at his father. He had been told this was only a contest, like the races in the forest he ran with his friends. He felt for a moment, confused and frightened, unsure whether to seek comfort from his father's fingers gripping him so tightly, or to pull away, horrified by the face Josef displayed now, twisted in rage.

The woman cried out as the the weapon came up, and one of the runes burst with light. In that scant instant, he could feel the magic swell to a bursting point, power flowing through each inch of the fine blade. He only had a moment to react, and as magic tore from the sword in a brilloiant flash of light, Dan opened his mouth, wider and wider, until his lower jaw nearly touched the middle of his chest, his tongue long, thin and pointed, the strange black mark on it emblazoned in the light. The blast struck his unnaturally stretched mouth, then seemed to compress, as though it were being sucked in. Another heartbeat later, and it was only a pinpoint in the back of his throat. He devoured every bit of the Sonic Sable, and swallowed, wincing a bit; not all of his meals agreed with him, but he did not burst. Christina sailed into the forest, and he practically howled with excitement. Dan hurled his axe after her, and the enormous weapon tore through the air, buzzsawing through brush and branches, and vanishing deep inside. If it ever struck, no one would know until he dragged her corpse out, mauled and dismembered. Chasing the weapon, he paused at the edge of the forest, curled his arm at his side - then thrust it at the tree beside him, burrowing his fingers inside. The splinters peircing his fingers, digging into the flesh, and blood dribbled out between wood and skin.

Christina was wrong; she had come to the tournament to feed the earth, and the beast it had birthed. Since he had suffocated beneath the dirt and let go off the remaining human blood inside of him, he had found communion with the dirt and the stone - though it was not all he could shape. He felt it all in a few seconds. The trees were all nearly connected underground by hundreds and hundreds of tangled, intertwined roots, and as she walked as a Ranger walked, silent and trained, he felt her footsteps press down on the dirt and the roots. Like curling his fingers, he pulled them up out of the ground, and they burst up all around her, spraying her with dirt, and lashed out, trying to wrap themselves tightly around her, to constrict and hold her. Dan ripped his hand out of the tree and sprinted into the woods, branches pulling up out of his path in reverence of the monster that stalked among them now. He summoned to his hand his sword-mace, and the sunlight that broke through the canopy and tattooed him with abstract designs of light shone brightly on the pale blue studded metal. He burst through the leafy growth as the vines began to lose their vitality and abandon their attack, and he paused, slightly hunched over but no less menacing.

"Peek a boo. I see you." A laugh flooded from his lips, excited and hungry, and he rushed her, swinging the sword-mace with all his strength at her chest, hoping to crush ribs and and injure her. Not kill her yet...he wanted her screaming when he took the first bite.

[Silence Sei]

Christina Bredith advances to Round 2!