Semi-finals: Christina Bredith Vs. Orphans

[Silence Sei]

You have two weeks to complete your battle. Good luck.

[orphans]

Bunnying and stuff occurring throughout the thread are approved.

“Master Seamus… are you sure this is a good idea?” Two Ai’Brone monks walked quickly side by side. One was a young man – an acolyte at best – with flowing locks that billowed in time with his robes as he moved. The other was an elder whose face was well worn by both weather and experience. Even so, his brisk steps kept his younger fellow at a near jog. “I mean, last time she was here-”

“Miles, I’m well aware of what nearly happened the last time she was here,” Seamus offered in a level voice and yet, it was strained with anxiety. “An old friend of mine has arrived and told me the girl was coming. My friend has also offered to step in to assist if we cannot revive the girl.”

“A friend? What can she do to surpass our healing abilities? What can she do if even we can’t help the child. A child Seamus!”

The elder halted and whirled to confront his pupil. “Miles, we live in a world in which there are many mysteries. While it is true that we of the Ai’Brone are gifted healers and that these coveted Citadel walls have become legendary in their own right, do not turn a blind eye to the skills of others.”

Despite the words, the young man persisted, “Master Seamus – with all due respect – I find it difficult to believe that we wouldn’t have heard of this individual if she could surpass our proficiency in the art of restoration.”

Seamus only shook his head with a wide smile. “My dear boy, your naivety reminds me of my younger self and I can see that it’ll be useless to argue. I’ve said the same things at your age.” He began walking again, slower this time as Miles paced beside him. “My only advice is to travel the world while you are young.”

The look of shock took hold of the young man’s face as he quickly ran in front and stopped his elder. “Master Seamus, you know we aren’t allowed outside the city limits for more than a day!”

A mischievous grin replaced the smile on the elder’s face. “Didn’t you wonder how I knew the orphanage keeper when she came for the girl? Besides, I didn’t get this wise from being cooped up in here. Now come, we have preparations to make before she arrives.” Leaving his stunned pupil still with his jaw agape, Seamus continued on. A few moments later, Miles came to his senses and chased after his master.

-----

Radasanth was one place Azza could never get used to. Perhaps it was because she had been a small town girl growing up. Perhaps it was because the rhythm of life here was so chaotic she didn’t know how anyone could function. Or maybe because it was because no matter where she thought she was going, she would always become lost.

The winding streets and alleys of Radasanth confused the young Dovicarus to no end and it always made her frown when she ended up at a dead end. A few times she had noticed unsavory looking locals following her, but once they noticed her horns they would lose interest. That wasn’t always the case though and during those times, she would have to sprint down more unfamiliar alleys and streets only to end up in a new section of the city.

And yet by some stroke of luck, she would always eventually end up in the center of the Radasanth market. Then again, it might not be luck so much as following random strangers and housewives with empty baskets. Of course, once in a while, the individual Azza followed would turn a quick corner and bolt away: those times were always frustrating.

Still, today was a good day as she had come to town with Old Jacobs. Azza had known the sundries master from Underwood since she could remember and she used to bring flowers daily for his wife when she used to work as a flower girl. It was strange to think how times have changed since then.

“Whooa.” Pulling the reins back, Old Jacobs stopped his cart in front of the usual warehouse he bought his supplies from. “Yus gonna be okay by yourself, Azza?”

With a small hop, Azza landed on her feet and gave the portly merchant a smile. “Of course! Besides, you’ve lost me before here and I was always fine.”

An abashed look crossed Jacob's face as he grumbled slightly with a frown. “Yuh dun have to remind me… Holly does all the time with a broom.”

Azza giggled as she knew well the fiery temper of the Underwood Orphanage den mother, Holly. She had been Azza’s first caretaker for the majority of her life and still keeps a watchful eye on the girl whenever her adoptive parents couldn’t. While a kind woman, she was stern and was never afraid to back down from anyone who challenged her.

“S’not funny young miss. You dun know how hard she hits…” It was a piteous whine from Jacob as he climbed down from his seat. “Ah wells. Wheres yuh off tuh today anyways?”

“I might stop by the library to get a book or two.”

“Humm…” Jacobs stared at Azza with suspicion but when the small girl just blinked at him with confusion, he softened up and relented. “Oh alrught. Jus dun want Holly to thump mah hed again.”

Azza only smiled again as she walked off and merged into the crowds moving to and fro. Guilt crept along with her as she thought back to what she said. While it wasn’t a lie, it wasn’t the truth either. Azza had no plans to stop at the library, but that didn’t mean she might not stop by there later.

No… today, Azza was headed to the Citadel again. It wasn’t completely by choice this time, however. No one was forcing the young girl with threats or a sword at her back, she was compelled to.

Rather, the words of a soothsayer compelled her to.



The day before, Azza had thought it strange for a hooded woman to be sitting in the courtyard of the Ixian Castle and even stranger still that no one questioned her. Instead, everyone was intrigued by her ability of foresight and how accurate it seemed to be. Her looks too were a curiosity as no one had gotten a good look at her face. Those who claimed they did couldn’t remember it. The only features everyone could agree on were a pair of wolfen ears and tail.

“An Akashiman witch,” someone had commented.

Eventually, interest faded and the knights had returned to their individual tasks. Azza too, was about to leave, when the woman had called her by name and offered five simple words: “Destiny waits at the Citadel.”

When Azza tried to ask what she meant, she only received a smile before a gust of wind blinded her. By the time Azza could finally open her eyes, the soothsayer was gone and everyone firmly reassured her that there had been no such person.

What else could a small girl, desperate to know what she was, do in the given circumstances but to follow fate?



Taking a deep breath, Azza pushed the massive doors of the Citadel open. To her great surprise, it was rather packed compared to her first time at the Citadel. Monks hurried about and lead competitors to and from matches while the main registration desk was abuzz with activity. With the exorbitant amount of participants and spectators, Azza doubted there would even be room for her.

“Destiny, huh…?” With a sigh, she plodded a small course between creatures and people and creature-people in search of an empty bench. After ten minutes of fruitless efforts, a hand tapped her shoulders. She turned and was greeted by the friendly face of the elder monk who had taken care of her the last time she was here.

“Miss Azza, correct?” Seamus asked.

Azza hesitated as she looked about nervously before she waved for Seamus to come closer. He did and she whispered, “C-could you call me Sophia?”

A knowing chuckle passed from Seamus as he nodded. “Very well, Miss Sophia. If you would, please follow me. A room has already been prepared for you.”

“It… it has?” A bit dumb founded, she followed the Ai’Brone as he lead her off to another passage, yet again, packed with many contenders and watchers.

“Yes, as a participant in the Serenti Invitational as well.”

“The… what?”

Seamus stopped and furrowed his brows at the young girl. “You mean you don’t know?” Azza shook her head. “Oh my.” Pulling out a long piece of parchment, he gazed at it for a long time while mumbling to himself. “Well… either someone important wants you in the Serenti Invitational or there was some sort of clerical mistake. Semi-finals as well...”

“I… I can come back another time,” Azza offered quickly as her mind began to recall the memory of what happened her first time at the Citadel. “I mean, I’m sure someone can take my place, right?” Seamus didn’t smile. “No?”

Seamus shook his head and let out a labored breath. “I’m afraid not, Sophia. Take heart though, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“Really?”

“No.”

“…?”

[Christina Bredith]

The semi-finals had come at last. Christina’s goal was directly before her now, and she felt somehow sure that nothing remained now to stand in her way. She had come much too far for that.

The people of Corone—indeed, spectators from around the world—cheered the progress of their favourite competitors, and “Rosalyn de Havlan” had her share of those. She had exited her victorious battles so far to choruses of “Slayer” and “Lady Death.” They were celebrating her supposed defeat of Christina Bredith, the Empire’s much-vilified “Lady of Roses,” but they had no idea just how wrong—and yet how right—their monikers were. Would they still be cheering when they learned the truth of her purpose, as bitter as cold steel? This crowd was primarily made of the Empire’s citizens, who might not, but people across the country would. It was for the best.

And it was the only way.

Christina sat in the arena’s undercroft holding Rosebite across her lap. A hard gray whetstone beside her on the bench explained the damascus weapon’s dangerous edge, which gleamed sharply in the flickering light of the wall torches. She was now running a polishing stone across its surface, alternated with the soothing sweeps of a soft silk cloth, and with each motion of her hand she could see herself reflected even more clearly between the gemstones that adorned the weapon’s surface.

It almost shocked her to look upon herself like this. She had not really seen much of herself since the Serenti began. Who was this hooded woman with strawberry hair polishing her sword? And those eyes… silver-blue, like her own, but harder than she remembered. Their pointed stare reminded her of knives worked with extravagant fineries, beautiful to behold but no less dangerous for it. The eyes of Rosalyn de Havlan were the eyes of a different woman entirely. Had she really changed that much?

There was nothing to announce the arrival of the fat, balding tournament herald this time but the slapping of his sandals against the stone floor and the soft whisking of his robes. There were so few competitors left in the tournament that Christina had this section of the undercroft all to herself, so the excitement and anxiety that normally greeted him had all but vanished. She looked up at him as he entered and smiled.

“I guess you’re here for me.” She rose from her seat, sheathed Rosebite, and let her dark half cloak fall around her. The herald waited patiently, but she did not keep him long; Christina had hardly allowed herself a moment’s relaxation since signing her name to the invitational’s register. She was, after all, surrounded by her enemies, even if none of them knew it yet and even if the real threats, the other competitors, had all fallen away before her.

The herald led her down dank corridors she had come to know very well during her time here. The drip-drop of water from the ceilings was as familiar to her as the ticking of a metronome. And yet when she thought about it, the whole thing suggested a state of disrepair that was just unseemly. Surely the Empire had wealth and influence enough to keep the arena for their signature tournament in good condition?

Soon enough the balding man stood aside. Christina pressed onward, by now an old habit, and stood just before the rusty iron gate separating her from the arena. The heavy cranking of gears echoed from behind the walls and the gate began to rise; at the same time, the heavy curtain pulled across the other side of the gate slid open, and the arena became clear.

The first things to assail her senses were the damp scent of salt and the heavy pattering of rain. Then she realized what she was seeing: a series of islands in the middle of a churning sea, some of them flat with decent footing, others jagged and treacherous. There was no large, central island this time, though there were certainly some that were larger than others. Footing would be problematic here, as it had been in her battle with young Prince Zerith.

But there was that chorus of cheers again, the nicknames showered on her like raindrops, and the jeers as well, names as unflattering as they were chauvinist from those who had lost money at her hands. She ignored them universally. There were more important things to focus on now, and her opponent would soon be revealed. Christina drew her hood forward to shield her eyes and she and Rosebite waited, each pulsing with anticipation like the beating of a single heart.

[orphans]

“W-wait!” For every step Seamus took, Azza jogged two to barely keep at his tail.

“There is no time for waiting, Sophia. We need to get you ready for the match,” Seamus rattled off quickly as he pushed open a set of heavy oaken doors. The musty scent of pages long forgotten filled their noses as Seamus pulled a book quickly from a shelf.

“But… you said Serenti Invitational, right?” Taking a distracting glance around the apparent corridor-library, she looked back in time to see Seamus far down the hall pushing open the next set of doors.

“That would be correct, little Sophia. That is why we don’t have much time to waste,” Seamus answered as the slaps of Azza’s sandals on stone closed in. Figuring she was close enough, he pushed opened the next set of doors and led her into another corridor, but this time lined with weapons.

“Serenti is a day and a half journey from Radasanth!” There was more panic in her voice than she would have liked, but at the same time, Azza was glad that it was far away. If she didn’t make it in time, wouldn’t they find someone else?

Seamus paid no attention to Azza as he casually snatched a long sword from its placement and continued on. Azza kept at his heel, hoping for some sort of response. Reaching the next door, Seamus took a hard stare at Azza before shoving open the next entrance. “Can you wear armor?”

The question stunned the small girl. In her momentary lapse of focus, Seamus tossed the sword and scabbard to her. It awoke her quickly as she fumbled with the weapon before ultimately securing it against her bosom.

“Mmm, I suppose not. Still, I don’t think it’s proper for you to fight in something that resembles a spring dress.” Continuing on, Azza chased after the aged monk. “Ever since your arrival, we’ve kept a few extra training garbs that would fit you. Holes for your wings included, of course.”

Casting a glance down at herself, Azza flushed a bit. She realized it would have been a mockery to fight someone else in a dress. Besides, she was fairly certain that the arena her opponent was to meet her in would be anything but the calm room she had trained in with Marcus Book. Furthermore, wasn’t it he who told her to wear something that wouldn’t snag while fighting?

“Ah, here we are.” Azza bumped into the back of the monk as he stopped suddenly. There was no reaction from the contact as he plucked up the set of brown clothing and presented them to Azza. “Change into those and then follow me whenever you’re ready.” Without waiting for her response, he pushed through the next door and continued walking.

However, Azza stood there and glanced about herself. She was supposed to change here? In the middle of a hallway? Granted, it was a long hallway and there were only two entrances: One she was next to and the other a good thirty meters away. Still, what if someone saw her?! Such was the curse of becoming aware of one’s own appearances to others.

Despite her fretting, she changed into the familiar brown training garb of tunic and pants before gathered up her regular clothing and sword all in one big bundle. Running quickly down the hall, she caught up to Seamus easily enough as he stood staring at a solid stone wall. Confused, Azza peeked cautiously around the man to look up at his face and saw only the whites of his eyes. “Uhm, Seamus?”

“One moment, Sophia,” came his quick reply as he suddenly jerked his arms up with palms directed to the heavens.

When nothing happened, Azza began to dart her eyes between the wall and the elder. Quite suddenly, the wall in front of the two erupted in a glaring flash. Azza had just enough time to cover her eyes with an arm and still she could feel a pounding in the back of her head from the experience.

“There.” Seamus then sagged down into a stool that surely wasn’t there a moment ago as he turned a tired face to her. “Now then, when you step in, you’ll be in the arena. You remember your special condition, correct?”

Azza nodded her head. How could she forget that the Ai’Brone couldn’t heal her?

“Good. Now leave your old clothing here. I doubt your opponent would want to wear them if you aren’t.”

Feeling a bit foolish, Azza handed her regular clothing to Seamus.

“Now, one last thing: Do you intend to fight with your hair unbraided? It is rather long.” Seamus looked intently at the girl which compelled her to shake her head in response.

“Fair enough. Come sit and let me braid it for you. It’ll be quick.”

Glancing over to the portal, she could see into it and from the looks of it, her opponent hadn’t arrived yet either. What could a few more minutes of dallying hurt? Having her hair braided had always calmed her too. It was only after a few minutes did a nagging question form and spill from her lips, “Seamus, you know how to braid hair?”

A deep chuckle came from the old man. “Yes. I’m a bit rusty, but I used to braid the very hair of your Den Mother Holly.”

“You… you did?!”

A sudden roar from the other side of the portal made both of them look over. A woman – a real fighter – had appeared on the far end of the field and the crowd seemed to cheer in approval. “That’ll be a story for later,” Seamus said quickly as he finished tying the end of the braid together. “If you feel as though you’re in any mortal danger, don’t be afraid to yield.”

“Really?”

“No.”

“…what? Seamus, can’t you give me a straight answer?”

Another chuckle came from the man. “Sophia, if you don’t fight as if you life depended on it, you will die. If you do fight as your life depended on it, your opponent might show you mercy at the end. It’s the only real hope you can wish for.”

Azza gulped lightly as she looked over to the portal again to see the woman focusing upon the entrance she would enter from. It was as if she could pierce through the portal and see her.

“Sophia, one more thing.” Azza turned to the face the old man with a hopeful look. Maybe he remembered that it was a mistake. Maybe he could cancel the whole thing by waving his arms around. “Good luck.”

A feeble smile darted across Azza’s features. Well… better than nothing I guess. Turning, she took a deep breath and stepped through the portal. A sudden sensation of thrown rolled about in her head as she stumbled into arena on her side.

Immediately, the scent of rain caught her while the splash of an imitated sea roared throughout the stadium. When Azza opened her eyes, she could see platforms of land and planks and rocks drifting upon enraged waters. That alone was enough to sink her hope and heart as she took a few more steps forward.

The noise of the crowd died to a loud murmur as they pointed to the small girl. Speculations of her prowess of combat began to form on the mouths of some. “A demon,” some began to whisper as some sighted her horns.

All notions of respect and fear was swept away as Azza slipped on the rain-slicked boards of a platform and nearly toppled over into the water. Laughter assaulted the small girl at once as she picked herself up. As she did, the laughter turned into a frenzy of jeers. Azza caught wind of one, and one was all she needed to send a shiver down her spine.

“Gut ‘er up good, Lady Death!”

That doesn’t sound like very merciful name…

[Christina Bredith]

Gutting up an opponent was no problem, but this was not the opponent Christina had been expecting.

She’s… just a girl!

There had to have been some mistake. Surely this little youngling had been accidentally pulled from the audience, or the ranks of some other tournament. Some scribe had written her name down by sheer accident. She could not accept that she was going to be asked to fight a—a child! After so many years of war and death, little balked Christina anymore, but this was beyond what any normal person would stoop to consider.

Christina advanced to one of the larger islands in the arena, picking her way carefully along the slick—but mercifully flat—stones that connected them. “I don’t know how you arrived here, little one,” she called out warmly as she made her way across, “but this tournament is a dangerous place to be.” She focused on her passage across the churning water, and more than once the waves, higher than the stones she was standing on, threatened to sweep away her feet. She did reach the island safely, however, and was able to get a better look at the winged girl as she too advanced.

Her opponent certainly was a strange sight to behold: young and pale, like a porcelain doll, and with hair just as white though she could only be newly called a teenager. Of course, that was far from her strangest feature: a pair of soft russet wings extended from her shoulder blades and a pair of blunt horns slithering across her forehead. No wonder the spectators had assumed she was a demon. But with those untested training clothes and those gentle features, how could she possibly have gotten herself wrapped up in this? It was not uncommon for opponents to underestimate Christina herself based on her appearance, and she had to chastise herself for doing the same, but at least she stepped armed and armoured onto the battlefield. The girl's sword may as well have been plucked from the training racks before she stepped onto the field. It begged the question of whether she had ever used the thing before, but she knew enough to remember that an unused sword was simply all the sharper for it.

Christina drew Rosebite, the sound of metal cutting through the pitter-patter of falling rain. The lack of light did little justice to the runic blade, which could only glisten dully beneath the downpour. Christina could feel its anticipation pulsing, however, like the heartbeat of a living thing. It did not seem to balk at the fact that they might soon be fighting a mere child; for a sword, combat was everything, and of course it would not matter against whom. That was an uncomfortable thought, but Christina needed only to remember that the sword, even a sword like Rosebite, was only a tool. It was she who would decide how it was used.

She voiced a command and one of the runic gems on Rosebite’s flat glowed sky-blue, cutting through the gloom. The blade snapped in several places and extended like a whip, the various sword sections connected by crackling blue energy.

“There’s still time,” she told her opponent, still picking her way ever more carefully across the rocks. There was sincerity in the request: she was not taunting the girl, but requesting what was best for her well-being. “Withdraw. No one will think any less of you for it. I do not wish to fight you, but…”

She drew the weapon’s new form around her in a wide arc and snapped it against the muddy, rocky ground.

“If you leave me no choice, you will find no mercy here.”

[orphans]

Azza picked her way across the platforms and muddy rocks with considerably less grace than her opponent. Each wave threatened to depose of the girl before her opponent even had a chance. Every drop of rain reminded Azza just how exposed she was without a scrap of armor. Despite it all, Azza pushed on slowly and cautiously with her sword still sheathed.

Words formed on the lips of the woman warrior before her, but between the gusts of wind, waves, and deafening crowd, Azza heard nothing. If anything the woman seemed to be screaming, giving the woman the very visage of a hellion from stories told to Azza in her more innocent days. The strawberry colored hair became a dire crimson in the view of the small girl while the steely silver-blue eyes held little imagined warmth.

“If you don’t fight as if you life depended on it, you will die…”

Seamus’s words rang clearly in Azza’s head as she watched her opponent turn her sword into that of a serrated whip. More words were cast into the winds as Azza advanced to the final platform before her opponent’s own. Instinctively, Azza’s mind told her to keep her distance: A whip’s reach would be much more than her long sword.

Even so, Azza watched in a mixture of awe and fear of the woman’s demonstration as the warrior before her cracked the whip-sword on the ground. Ever so briefly, the tempest settled into a disquieting calm as a few choice words of the whip-sword wielder ultimately reached Azza, “… you will find no mercy here.”

Oh… fiddlesticks…

Bleak determination forced her fears into a corner and took hold of Azza’s heart. In the face of the odds against her, it was all Azza could do. Her opponent was obviously more experience, better equipped, and had better footing on the muddy terrain. The only advantage Azza could foresee for herself was a quick death, least she fell into the waters.

The very thought coiled her muscles and made her fingers twitch in reflex. Her breathing quickened as her body visibly shivered and for the briefest moment, the world stood still as she imaged herself sprawled in a bloody mess before the warrior. It was as if the manifestations of all her nightmares had come to life and embodied themselves in the woman before her!

Blood pounded past her ears as Azza drew the long sword in a single practiced motion and readied it before herself. There was only one option left as Azza narrowed her maroon eyes in focus with only a single grim thought to comfort her: If I don’t fight, I’ll definitely die…

[Christina Bredith]

Christina sighed, deep and mournful. Stupid child.

She regretted deeply that it had come to this. Even under the monks’ supervision, the Serenti Invitational was no place for a child. Wounds both mortal and minor might be only temporary, but the scars left by battle on the mind were beyond the realm of any healing. That was the price her tiny foe would pay today. Christina comforted herself in that it was at least the only price; after all, there was no physical wound the Monks of Ai’brone could not heal.

Even so, she would do her best not to push it. The thought of bringing her rose’s bite to bear against this frail young sapling was already turning her stomach. And yet it had to be done; the Republic itself depended on it.

Her opponent had taken her position and drawn her blade. There was nothing left for steel to meet steel, and then the waters would run red with blood. That turned her stomach too, so she breathed deeply of the salty air to settle it. And then she began to dance.

Christina kicked across the slick terrain with her heavy boots, and the fluttering of her black cloak scattered a pale aura of silvery raindrops all around her. Her foe had wisely chosen to keep her distance, but that was all she had chosen to do so far. Distance alone might save her from the whip-sword, but only if she kept a very great distance, and what would she do then? Closing in was out of the question unless she was much faster than Christina was willing to give her credit for. She could only guess the girl planned to play at sorcery, but if that was the case, she was wasting precious time.

Near the edge of her little island, Christina spun to her right, turning a full circle and dragging the whip-sword around with her. Rosebite curled like the tail of a great scorpion, carried full around by her momentum. The energy tethers snapped like lightning while the haze of the falling rain gave the damascus blade a quicksilver shine. It clove air and water, and a sort of hunger radiated from it, the sort that only flesh could sate.

Prematurely, unbidden, visions flooded Christina’s mind. She could almost see Rosebite coming around like a guillotine, relieving the girl of her head. It flew, tumbled, fell into the ocean, and from there she could not know. It all seemed so real that she was almost surprised when the girl reappeared before her, directly in the path of Rosebite's silver arc. She had never imagined something so vividly before, nor was she sure it would have bothered her quite so much if she had; the queasiness came again, and the churning of the waves was nothing compared to her stomach at that moment.

Stupid, stupid child.

[orphans]

Jealousy and awe perforated Azza’s focus at the mere fact that her opponent could dance and move with such beauty and grace across terrain that she could barely walk on. It was a strong blow to her confidence. It made her muscles clench tighter and she braced herself for the worst. Meanwhile her mind blazed furiously in an attempt to grasp a plan to overcome a more experienced opponent. Nothing came to her as every scenario Azza imaged only provided a scene of a mangled body. Her mangled body.

Focus! Anger welled inside the girl as her spirit fought to encourage the girl. She is only human and you are so much more!

As the whip-sword wielder neared the edge and lashed out in a brilliant arcing strike, Azza’s coiled muscles snapped and breathed life into her terrified body. Before her mind could comprehend what was happening, she had started to run at her opponent.

It was as if a hand was guiding the girl and somehow, she knew she would have to close the distance and fast. Her memories accelerated and traced back to the fight she had with her father and training session with Marcus in an effort to glean an advantage.

She had been able to lure Marcus with a feint and lock his sword with her own, but the current opponent’s sword was much more agile. Against her father, Jensen, Azza had maneuvered the match into a location that evened the odds and even deployed her own blood as a weapon. However, both cases had terrain she was familiar with and in both cases, the weapons her opponent used lacked an edge. Azza very much doubted she could survive a direct strike from the weapon in front of her as it hummed a lullaby of ever-lasting sleep, severing the very droplets of rain as it closed in.

Then an idea sparked in her mind! How many times had she simply jumped to reach the top of a high cupboard for cookies and drift down softly and safely? In fact, she had even leapt towards her father during their battle to attack and gained good ground in that manner. Moving through the air would be much easier than scrabbling in the mud.

It was as if the very arena heard her desperation: the mud seemed less slippery, the waves quieted to a gentle roar, and the heavy drops of rain felt insubstantial.

Kicking off the ground, a weightlessness sensation took hold as the serrated whip passed beneath Azza a moment later. Joy soared through Azza by being able to preserve her own life for a little longer as she barreled towards the woman with sword at the ready. Then she cleaved at her opponent, hoping with all her might that it would connect with something.

Hindsight might as well have mule kicked Azza after as she realized she had no proper plan for landing…

[Christina Bredith]

Pulled from her unwanted reverie, Christina became aware that Rosebite was sailing through thin air. Her opponent had apparently taken flight, which in her haste she had neglected to even consider as a possibility. It would change the entire dynamic of the battle if the girl didn’t even need to worry about the precarious terrain.

But the girl wasn’t flying. She had taken to the sky well enough, but now she was falling again, her sword poised with the surgical precision of a seamstress’ needle. It was all Christina could do to flick her wrist, snapping Rosebite back into its sword form, and attempt to sidestep her freefalling opponent. Without the use of her sword to deflect the blow, the girl’s weapon shaved Christina’s left shoulder. Pain blossomed and her vision was streaked with red, but not as much as the sleeve of her dark cloak, against which the ruby-red stream could hardly be seen at all.

She had to ignore that. There was almost no chance of healing it in this rain storm, and the battle had only just begun. She turned to see that her opponent had not landed nearly as gracefully as she had taken off. The girl had tumbled painfully to the ground and slid a full five or six feet through the mud, bringing her two thirds of the way across the small island on which they now both stood. It was a wonder she hadn’t broken a limb, or one of those curious wings, now a mixture of white, russet, and dirt-brown.

Christina inhaled sharply to cast aside the pain of her open wound pelted by the rain. Holding Rosebite out in front of her, she focused on her foe and began to advance.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” she said calmly, watching the fragile little bird begin struggling to her feet. “I gave you your chance. But if you desire so greatly to throw it all away, then…”

She could once again feel Rosebite pulsing in time with the beat of her own heart. A honey-coloured gem began to flicker along the flat of the sword as if it was predicting her intentions. Then she cried, “Rumble, Rosebite!” and shoved the tip of her blade into the soft earth.

A rumble shook the small island even as a roar went up from the crowd. A part of Christina almost hoped that her opponent would repeat her previous success, take to the sky and free herself from what awaited her. In just a moment, a spire of hard, thorny vines would blossom from the earth beneath her opponent, each twisting around the others in search of sky and sunlight, but their spear-tip would find only the soft flesh of a girl too young to rightfully be here.

And from the stands, beyond the reach of cloud and rain, the wolves bayed their thirst for blood.

[orphans]

Azza was no stranger to cuts and scrapes. Even large gashes from slipping onto sharp rocks in forest streams had happened once or twice. Never in her short life did she have to face such wounds with a stranger nearby, ready to dice her to pieces.

The brief tumble became an eon as precious seconds were wasted. Dazed, confused, and not entirely sure which direction was the ground and which was sky, Azza struggled pointlessly in the mud for another couple moments more. Her body would certainly be bruised if she survived while her disheveled wings bent in a slightly odd angle. It hurt too. Badly.

Across from her, Azza could see her opponent still standing and muttering something. Deep inside, she was glad that the sword was no longer a whip, but as her vision swam into focus, her spirits lifted. She had managed to wound her opponent. A superficial wound, but an actual wound! All perceptions of her foe changed quickly. She wasn’t pitted against some invincible warrior woman with cold emotionless eyes. Her opponent could be hurt.

And if she could be hurt, then she could be killed…

“Rumble, Rosebite!” The shout caught Azza’s attention as she readied herself to attack again. Looking to her opponent stake her sword into the soil, bewilderment took hold and stalled the child. Had the woman lost her mind and attacked the land on purpose? Azza quickly wished her far-fetched imagination was more accurate as the ground beneath her shook, causing her to slip back and nearly fall again.

Then, the world stood still for but a single second before the mud split asunder in front of her. Bulky vines rose from the fissure and entwined together with malicious intent. Azza got up and raised her blade hurriedly in an attempt to stall the vines. Unfortunately, not only were the vines much stronger, but thick vines against a thin blade in inexperienced hands were a poor match.

It was only by luck that Azza had shifted her form in order to perform her pitiful counter that prevented her from being impaled directly. Instead, the main strike of the vines speared her right shoulder and carried through. Azza’s feet lifted from the muck as more of the tangled mass bulled through her. As they did, razors sharp thorns severed and tore sinew, tendons and bone alike.

By the time Azza’s mind comprehended the need to scream in pain, a falling sensation gripped the pits of her stomach as she watched with horror as what remained of her right arm sailed in another direction away from her.

Water then mercifully muted her shrieks, leaving only her sword and a splatter of blood in the mud on the platform.