TDW:CHE - ROUND 1 - Ciato vs Lye

[Lye]

Round one match between Ciato Orlouge & Lichensith Ulroke.

Please see this thread for ROUND 1 setting information.

Match begins November 1st, 2014 at 12:01AM MST and closes November 22, 2014 at 11:59PM MST.

[Ciato Orlouge]

He sat down with his back against the weapons rack as a sigh escaped from his lips. Ciato Orlouge was recently promoted to Master of the Blade by the leader of the Order of the Crimson Hand, Lichensith Ulroke. The alabaster bastard would normally have jumped at the opportunity to slaughter some of the lesser-beings that comprised the other departments in the organization (and even some in his own department), but his joy had quickly evaporated. As he arrived at the specified location, Ciato found that his first round opponent was none other than Lichensith himself.

His hand was stretched outwards, where a small baby chick hopped to and fro in the Mystic’s hand. The little bird, as well as Ciato’s brother Sei, were the only reasons why the alabaster bastard was here today. It seemed like only a night ago that the marble skinned demon was training for the Crimson Hand tournament, only for the murderer to nearly become food for a cockatrice within the forests of Akashima. His shoulder still ached from where his niece’s people were forced to reattach his arm.

Walking made him dizzy, a side effect of the drugs Sei loaded him up with to numb the pain. His right knee throbbed with pain as his stitches rubbed against his tight black pants. The Mystic scowled as he looked to the Grand Hall, where moments ago someone informed him that the ‘great’ Max Dirks would not even bother to appear for this spectacle.

“Your games try my patience, Dirks,” Ciato sneered as he suddenly grasped the baby chicken in his hand. The bird chirped as Ciato stuffed it into his inner breast pocket for protection. “You also try my patience, my Lord.”

Ciato fancied himself one of the most loyal agents to the Crimson Hand cause. The Mystic even went as far as challenging Ashla Icebreaker to stop her vendetta against Lichensith. The sinister leader’s recent decisions, however, managed to cause dissent among soldier, spy, and scientist alike. Lye decided he would have a better time playing grab-ass with the bodyguard of Ciato’s brother than actually participating in the war he started. To further the descent into madness, Lye stated that the group was never meant to be victorious during the Eiskalt affair.

Ciato did not appreciate being a distraction so his commander could play ‘hide the salami’ with Jensen Ambrose.

He stood and as he did so, a small cloud of dust welled up in the air. He could hear the metal racks behind him clank and clang against one another. He rolled his shoulder and scowled at the pain. Lye was wiser and probably quicker than his paler counterpart, but Ciato was confident that if the Crimson Hands leader was so enamored with someone as dirty as Jensen Ambrose, he would no doubt be stunned by the radiance that was his Master of the Blade.

And perhaps, once Lye fell to Asterodeia’s sharp stony edge, Lichensith Ulroke would place Ciato in the position he deserved to be in.

The Mystic's lip turned to a small smile as he played the various scenarios in his mind. Perhaps there was a better way to ensure Lye found his rightful place beneath the boots of those he supposedly led.

[Lye]

The Skavian Wilds in which the Seventh Sanctum resided was known for its biting winters and relentless conditions. Lichensith Ulroke lived in these terrible elements for enough years to lose count. Yet, today, the ache, wear, and stress worked their magic on him. The events of the war, the dissent, the disrespect, and worst of all, the secrecy, left him crouched at his desk with fingers desperately working to remove the headache from his temples. These men he had gathered, the fiendish lot they were, he knew he could only trust a select handful. Even then, he had seen the friendliest smile turn to the sharpest dagger.

Lye looked up from the lacquered oak surface and out through the frosted panes of glass. Motes of pure, untainted white fell in endless wisps. Today, the winds had rested from their usual gale, and permitted the light powder to simply be. It was peaceful. The irony of such murderous intent congregated in the peaceful, snowy fields, forced a weak smile on the tormented leader of the Crimson Hands. Though his goals and motives were in fact paying off, no one saw the results. This was because he did not risk sharing them.

Lye glanced to the woman which lay peacefully in his bed. She was the prize - the trophy for his labors:

Kylana Maria Orlouge, The Leader of the Ixian Knights...

A gentle knock sounded from his door.

"Sir, the first match is ready," a voice muttered from the opposing side. Its rugged tones and raspy notes indicated Wolken stood on the other side.

The assassin stood, careful not to make a ruckus to awake his sleeping guest.

"Coming," he muttered.

As he paced his gloved hand on the door, he glanced once more to the slumbering prize.

"Does he know?" Lye wondered. "No, why would he?" The air hung in silence for a moment.

Then, he turned the knob and stepped into the Grand Hall of the Order. He shut the door and turned to the steps in the center of the room. Atop it, his haunting skeletal throne sat as a quiet reminder of who he was and what he was here for. Lye's chaotic thoughts struggled to still. These fights were to show them that he could reign with an iron first. Such tyranny did not leave room for doubt, and from his mind, he cast it out. As he stepped into the warmth of the Inner Sanctum, he shut his eyes. He took in the mixed sounds of cheers, nervous muttering, and boisterous dissatisfaction.

"I hope Ciato guts your cowardly ass!" he heard above the many similar jeers.

The Crimson Lord opened his eyes, and shot a venomous glare toward the source. Defiantly, the ruffian returned the silent threat and flipped his leader the bird. Though a protective ward separated the two, and preventing the offender for instantaneous justice, it only affirmed one truth.

"The uprising has begun..."

He saw them as pawns, and one stone cast meant little, but Lye understood the gravity should a maelstrom of stones rain down en mass. As though emphasizing the atmosphere from above, the solid oak doors thud tightly shut. The distinguished noise of the large plank slid to a halt and locked him in.

Lye turned his jade glance to the other Orlouge who shared the arena.

"Ciato," Lye began with a voice raised over the spectators and a relaxed pace forward, "You've served this Order well. Your actions have not gone unnoticed, Master of the Blade."

The leader stopped equidistant between an opposing wall and his soon to be opponent. He worked the brass latches of his dark cloak, and let it crumple from him to the floor. Beneath, he wore his combat attire, black leather vest, dark leggings tucked into boots fixed with blades on the heels, and the two weapons of the horsemen fixed to his back.

"However, an example needs to be made. You will be the first, and I can see in your expression that you share the animosity of your fellow hands."

The assassin went about a subtle regime to work the tension from his shoulders, neck, and torso. Minor movements accentuated the sinewy muscle and scarred, pale flesh.

"Do you wish to say anything before we begin?" The assassin stretched his arms out to direct attention to the many eyes that watched above. "We are listening."

[Ciato Orlouge]

“Animosity begets indecision, my lord,” Ciato spoke as he shifted his left foot backwards and leaned forward with sword pointed towards his master, “I am not so foolhardy as to hold any true animosity towards you. I have sired dozens of children, you really think I do not know immaturity when I see it?”

He waves Asterodeia in the air, the stone sword made a loud whistle like sound as the rambunctious crowd grew quiet at the display. His eyes dropped down to Lye’s boots, the simple things that they were. “Did you happen to hear about my latest escapade? How I spent a whole night fighting beasts of every ilk in order to strengthen myself for this bout?”

That’s right, keep him distracted…

“I found myself fishing at first, a simple test to prove my reflexes. Next, I took on a small shark, defeated a beast in his own element, a creature that should have held every advantage over me. Next, I brawled a pack of wolves, they were a bit harder, but I managed to taste their blood that night. Lastly, I took on a bear, the large beast that it was. The accursed thing nearly ended my life, but somehow I survived to arrive where I am today. I’ve beaten speed, numbers, and power to make sure you see where my loyalties lie, my lord.”

Ciato took his free hand and wiped his mouth as though he had something bitter upon his lips. He scanned the crowd searching for those whose decisions about the future had not yet been made. This had to look good. His right hand kept Asterodeia’s tip pointed squarely at the man the Mystic called master. His eyes narrowed at Lye’s shoes before looking back up at him. The alabaster bastard left out the part of the story where he fought a cockatrice, and somehow absorbed some of its powers. With a few moments time, Ciato was able to turn inanimate objects to stone with a simple stare.

His rant bought him enough time, but the pale Master of the Blade did not check to see if he had completely petrified his master’s footwear. He leapt from his position with a force so powerful, the wind sent some of the weapons at his back off the rack and into the ground. He ran towards his commander, his sword a stone blade that continued to twirl through the air.

He came down diagonally with the hopes that Lye’s potentially petrified boots kept the shadow master distracted and open long enough for a diagonal swipe. The nobleman sought to cut Lichensith Ulroke from shoulder to hip with his newly mutated weapon.

[Lye]

The lengthy dribble only irritated Lye further. While Ciato droned on about his personal exploits, the assassin caught increasingly vile murmurs from spectators. The longer the Mystic went on, the more ferocious their calls for blood became. Until, finally, the swordsman made his advance.

An advance at incredible speed, but still not enough to contend with the assassin's own.

Or was it?

Lye spurred himself into motion, but his suddenly heavy boots defied him the agility needed to avoid the blow. Still somewhat able to mitigate the damage, Ciato's Asterodeia sundered the leather of the assassin's vest. Iron rivets posed little resistance and were cast off in various directions. The tip of the blade drew a clean cut over Lye's left pectoral only inhibited by the assassin's iron grade flesh.

He lurched away from his attacker with a scowl on his face and a love cupped on the seeping wound.

Where did he learn that? Lye growled within his thoughts. His sharp, serpentine eyes fell on the Mystic's blade he so lovingly twirled. A stone blade that sundered hide and flesh with the ease of metal. An enchantment?

"Ciato!" shouted a voice from the crowd. "Carve him up bloody!"

Lye seethed through clenched teeth. He placed both dry and bloody hand alike on the hilts of his cursed blades.

"Famine," he muttered as one blade drew from the sheath, then tapped it to his stone boots. Like watching meat thaw in a fire, the grey rock returned to blackened leather from the point of contact.

"War," came the next word from his lips followed by the second blade. This time, he ran the flat over his wounds to but blood on steel. No sooner did the vitae lacquer its surface did the fluid vanish into the steel. Its length took on a menacing, red hue.

Then, he bolted for the mystic.

"It'll take more than thinning the herd to prove your loyalty!" Lye barked as he lashed out with War and Famine. "You'll have to prove it in skill!"

[Ciato Orlouge]

Though Lye’s speed was a trait to be admired, Ciato found himself far more interested in his leader’s blade. With just a tap, the sinister manipulator managed to remove the stone from his shoes. The aristocrat wiped his mouth and began to step back at this display, his eyes ever focused on the dagger labeled ‘Famine’. He shifted his body further and further as Lichensith continued to showboat with his other blade. With each careful movement, more and more dust rose up into the air all while the Order patriarch showed why he earned his title. It was enough time to get the alabaster bastard back towards the weapon rack where he began to match.

When the taller warrior did come after the Orlouge, Ciato’s eyes almost lost sight of the famine blade. Lye was inhumanly fast, but the legacy kept his gaze fixated on the weapon as he slashed through the air. Most of the crowd would see Ciatos random blows as the last vestiges of a desperate man, but in truth it was all part of the evil entrepreneurs plan. Each slash of Asterodeia created an invisible web only the Mystic could see. If Lye continued down this path, he would find himself entangled in the web for several seconds, more than enough time for Ciato to strike a death blow.

Now I’ve got you, the pearl skinned demon thought with his eyes still fixated on his commander’s weapon. Much like the boots before it, Ciato’s strategy was to petrify the famine dagger as well. If that unique weapon were only able to disenchant his gaze with a touch, then he would take it out of the equation altogether. Surely, the dagger would not be able to touch itself and therefore become useless for Lichensith for the rest of the battle.

“No retreat, Ciato!” he heard someone yell in the distance as his free right hand formed a long spear made of what seemed to be shadows. The blackness licked at his arms as though they were ebony flames and Ciato rammed the weapon forward. The final stage of the three pronged attack was to use his shadow weapon to pierce Ulroke’s throat. He grinned as he kept his gaze upon the blade, the back of his foot pressed against the wood of the weapons rack.

He tried to hold back a snicker as he thought of Lye’s future humiliation.

[Lye]

Though the assassin hadn't quite pulled out all the stops, Ciato took his advances and strategically countered. Lye could not help but to let his lips curl in entertainment. The gap continued to close, but by some manner of invisible magic, the assassin slowed. The unseen forces stuck to him and pulled like wires made of steel. He moved to counter with the blade cursed as the embodiment of Famine, not only to find his arm immobile, but the blade itself grayed and dull.

His grin widened. Both a sense of pride and combative frustration welled in the back of his mind.

He had played into the Mystic's trap and stood powerless to watch the plan continue. Ciato's arm shrouded itself in black flames. He extended it forward and Lye watched its honed point sail true. Roars of animosity and cheers for blood erupted from above. The makeshift spear jammed into Lye's neck and ran its length clear through the back.

Ten seconds.

The assassin's suspended form fell lax. His head drooped and platinum hair washed over his features. Drops of blood dripped to the sandy gravel below.

"Fuck yeah, Ciato!" echoed a cheer from above. Whistles and hollering exploded to deafening levels.

"Cocky bastard got what he deserved!" shouted another.

Eight seconds.

Until, a dark chuckle broke the celebration. Cheers shushed in the confusion as they looked down to the scene below. They witnessed Ciato hat not relaxed his stance nor was he responsible for the source of the cackle.

"Well done, Mystic..."

Six seconds.

Lye lifted his verdant gaze, teeth bared from ear to ear. He stood, lowered his arms, and took a step inward. The shadowy spear now clear through his chest where a heart should be. The crowd above hushed to whispers.

Four seconds.

"I'll have to watch out for that move," the assassin continued. His words dripped with venom. "Looks like I underestimated you after all."

Two seconds.

"Shall we get serious, now?" Lye taunted.

1 Second.

The assassin kicked backward with all his might, off and away from Ciato's dark weapon. In movements that now became a blur, the killer slammed both blades to their sheathes. His body passed through a dining table during his ethereal retreat, and both his open palms directed toward Ciato. In the roars of disgruntled onlookers, the assassin formed a total of four words in a whisper.

Zero Seconds.

Dust and debris kicked up around him as he returned to the physical plane. Boots skid and scraped onto the earth and from the haze of dirt, shot ivory projectiles of bone. Four in total shot toward the Mystic on a path for lung, heart, neck, and thigh. Meanwhile, in their trails, an orb of lilac darkness surged forth like an impending omen.

As the volley closed in on its target, the largest of the five burst into trio of smaller, black bolts. Faster, and spanning out wide, these new projectiles turned inward. They aimed to converge on the Mystic and quivered in response to his every moment.

They were ready to give chase.

They were ready to harvest his sins.

((TLDR: Lye used his Shadow Meld when Ciato thrust his spear, used it to fake out the crowd, jumped back using all his agility while whispering the trigger words for Sin Harvest, and shot bone needles from his palms using Bone Manipulation. The dust kicked up when he became tangible again.)))

[Ciato Orlouge]

Ciato Orlouge was far from a fool.

When the marble toned maniac saw Lye’s body crumple onto his weapon, the Mystic continued to keep his defenses up. Even when the crowd went wild with excitement over the apparent deathblow, the aristocrat stood firm. His cautions paid off when Lichensith Ulroke began to cackle and start the most boring and space out monologue in the history of anything. Ciato’s spear vanished as soon as Lye removed the weapon from his sternum and the nobleman slowly made his way behind the weapons rack during his leader’s speech. It was not until the taller of the two mouthed four words that the alabaster bastard’s eyes widened.

Living most of one’s life with a sibling that was mute taught the skilled swordsman some very valuable lessons in his life; reading body language to anticipate the next move, taking physical cues to know ones emotional state, and most importantly, the ability to read lips. Lichensith’s four simple words were easily deciphered by the Mystic as ‘Penance for your sins’. This expression was often used quite successfully by several notable warriors on Althanas, the most famous of which was Seth Dahlios.

“Sin Harvest,” Ciato spoke out loud while what appeared to be bone fragments flew towards him. The nobleman ducked behind the weapons rack, his body prone upon the ground as the sound of four objects slammed against the metal bars of the equipment. He rolled onto his back just in time to see splinters of wood and bits of rust fly past his body. He stood up with a grin, confident that he dodged the attack laid out by his lord. That was when he heard something else hit the weapons rack.

And two of the sin harvest blasts struck him directly in the chest.

The blasts sent Ciato’s body into the wall, his head slammed against the area with a thud. His body collapsed onto the ground and brought up yet another cloud of dust. He coughed as sand and gravel fell into his open mouth, and tried to push himself up only to fall back down. His arms wavered weakly as he continued to try and force himself up, his face hidden from spectators and opponents alike. Asterodeia was within arm’s reach, though the ghostly warrior was much more concerned about his own well-being than that of his blades. His body ached and his face throbbed in sync with his heartbeat, each pulsing sensation filled with a renewed pain.

“Finish it…” Ciato growled as he once again tried and failed to rise, “show them why you’re the one we call Master…”

[Lye]

In the haze of dust and sand, the assassin stood with palms out. The holes from the needles of bone closed like cold molasses over a cast stone. Without hesitation, he spun on his heels toward the weapons rack behind him. On it stood an iron javelin, a kris dagger, and two short swords. He gave a simple wave of his hand and a creeping darkness washed over them all. As the weapons became possessed by shadow, they lifted themselves hauntingly into the air.

Lye snapped his grip to holsters on opposing arms and similarly tossed all ten of his enchanted needles upward. Shadows gripped them and held them in place.

The dust settled.

He could finally see the rest of the room.

Lye stood between table, weapon rack, and Ciato with a menagerie of obsidian weapons above him. The assassin's ivory projectiles lay either scattered around his foe, or lodged in wood and stone. His target, the Mystic, lay upon the ground in apparent agony.

Truth be told, the asssassin rarely used the hex magic stolen from the magi, Seth Dahlios. Every time he gave in to using the dark skills, memories of their bloody conflict bubbled up to the surface. With it, they carried a heavy hate and loathing.

Emotions he drew upon now, at this moment, as a swarm of equally hateful eyes descended on him from spectators above.

"Finish it..." The Mystic muttered a phrase Lye knew too well; a desperate plea for death or a witty act with deadly consequence. The latter of which reminded him of that battle with the "Thief Extraordinaire".

The assassin took a breath. He let the hatred simmer down to a rolling boil.

"Nobility among thieves and killers?" Lye's tone carried thick sarcasm. He gestured to the jeering onlookers above. In almost subconscious response, the orbiting weapons also directed their points upward.

"Do you think they even care any more?" The spectators heckled loudly in response.

Lye took a step forward, his posture relaxed. Then, another.

"Do you think I care anymore?" The assassin chuckled darkly, and those above only spilled hate louder.

"This isn't about honor. This isn't about what's right. And clearly, this isn't about loyalty..." He moved with more of slither as he waited for the effects of the hex magic to take hold. Lye rounded the table and simply sat upon a stool to look down upon Ciato from a distance. Pity almost shone in his eye. Almost.

"All this has been about is revenge, Ciato. You either spill blood with me, for me, or find yourself spilling your own. It matters not."

Lye snatched a brass goblet of miscellaneous drink from behind him and crossed one arm to the fold of the other.

"You want to die?"

He took a sip from the cup. A bittersweet, dry red.

"Then so be it."

Lye lifted a lone finger from the stem of the vessel and pointed it to the Mystic. Then, like rain, the armament of possessed weapons came down upon him.

"There is no honor here..."

[Ciato Orlouge]

Fear.

Fear could drive a sane man into the brink of self-destruction, turn a pious man into a sinner, even turn a loyal soldier into a turncoat. Fear was a motivator that proved itself time and time again to be as effective or ineffective as the man wielding it. Fear could be used as a weapon to scare ones enemies into submission, a defensive tool that gave a confident warrior hesitation, or a simple word that held no power whatsoever. Lichensith Ulroke chose to use fear as the string to bind his marionettes together.

It would be his downfall.

Ciato’s head rose from its tucked in position and the Mystic quickly rolled onto his back. He starred into the tips of the blades that floated above him as though he were already dead. Many men would see the pointy death that lingered over them and quake in fear. Ciato Orlouge showed no emotion, not even as Lye took verbal jabs at his own people and began to enjoy a drink in the middle of the battle. Ciato Orlouge was not a man of controlled by the strings of terror.

When the weapons shot down, the alabaster bastard continued to stare at the ceiling. The javelin struck him in the sternum first and skewered him like a kabob. A pool of blue blood began to form around him as each of the short swords penetrated his pectoral muscles and pinned the Mystic to the ground. The final cloud of dust for the battle rose as finally, the kris dagger found a home in the pearl skin of Ciato’s chest. He coughed as his body forced itself up, the azure blood finally seeping out beneath him as well as now splattered across his chest.

The crowd fell silent as they watched this much as they had when the nobleman tried to give his commander impromptu throat surgery. Once again, the arena filled with a laugh, much to the shock of the audience. A lone member of the Order pointed towards the body of the white skinned warrior, whose eyes now shifted to look at the body of Lichensith Ulroke.

“You should really…” he coughed and allowed even more blood and spittle to leave the orifice.

“Look into what sins...” another coughing fit, his voice growing weaker and slower with each dragged out syllable.

“Your people have done…” his eyes began to weigh heavy on him, and he could feel his heartbeat slow down.

“Before using… Sin Harvest…”

Ciato’s eyes shifted one last time before the life left them completely. He knew Madison Freebird, Master of the Mind for the Order. The strange but intelligent woman was deeply rooted in the crowd, and though she covered herself to remain undetected by most, the middle Orlouge child saw her the second he stepped into the arena. The last efforts made by the ghost like swordsman were spent telling the acidic female that he knew she was there. He would always know.

“Wait a minute…” one of the warriors of the Blade spoke up, the first sound since Ciato’s fall, “Lord Ciato is a Mystic! Why didn’t he use Mystic Protection?!" The man rubbed sweat from his thick mustache as he shouted. "I’ve seen him use it in lesser fights, why wouldn’t he use it?!”

“That’s right…” a female soldier stood up and pushed the blonde bangs out of her face, “Lord Ciato also has that chick! The one that keeps his body moving even after death! The match should still be on!”

The crowd once again fell silent and pushed themselves to the edge of their seats. Several members of the crowd bit their lips as they waited for Ciato’s body to rise up and continue the match in a zombified form. The swordsman’s body remained still, a prone, bleeding mess as dust and gravel settled into his open wounds.

“He set the chick down,” the entire crowd turned to Madison Freebird, who was now standing a few feet over the seated masses, “when he dived behind the weapons rack, he set it down before the last moments.” The girl made from a green thumb stood up and walked away from the fight without another word, a single glance shot at Lye before she returned to whatever it was she did.

Just like that, the crowd realized what happened. The deathly quiet of the arena was filled with boos and profanities shouted at the leader of the Order. Cans, bottles, even garbage was thrown into the arena in protest at the outcome. Ciato Orlouge boasted and gloated, proved himself a worthy opponent to his leader without ever using his some of his best techniques. Even the single bruise marked across Ciato’s cheek was indication that the spectral assassin had not committed any sin for the past two years other than the brutal beating he gave his brother just a few days prior. He had fallen on purpose.

Ciato Orlouge was dead, but in his death he had inspired people, members of Blade, Word, and Mind alike, to turn on the man who dealt the final blow. The protective ward came down and suddenly their fear was overcome with inspiration. If this Mystic could stand up against the ringleader of their group, then surely they could make their voices heard as well. The crowd was now a maelstrom of slurs and opinions that echoed throughout the chamber.

Fear would not guide the Crimson Hand into the next era, but unwavering loyalty from honor.