Round 2: Dissinger vs. Ashiakin

[Ashiakin]

Ashiakin’s pale fingers tightened their grip on the hilt of his sword, guiding the blade across Seth’s stomach with a jerk. Warm blood hit the cool steel, several drops splattering across the ground below. Ashiakin withdrew the blade quickly and retreated several paces, opting not to attempt a finishing move. A look of curious satisfaction occupied his face—eyes clear and inquisitive, blue lips curled into a haughty half-smile. His sword was held in a lax position pointing towards his fallen enemy, the dark blood around its edges deadening the moon’s reflection on the metal.

I could have killed him then, he thought, watching the man as he rolled into a sitting position on the ground, wounded. It would have been the smart thing to do. But I’ve things to learn. But he’s dangerous yet, I must remember. He claims to know magic.

He began to circle slowly around his fallen adversary, keeping his distance with the point of his sword carefully pointed at the man’s chest. There was nothing spectacular, although he had heard spectacular tales about him. Now he just seemed some thief slowly dying in the dirt. Perhaps that was all he was, but somewhere in his mind, Ashiakin doubted that. He could not allow himself to believe that he had been beaten by a man who was not larger than life. There had to be something he was not seeing.

“Seth Dahlios,” he said, assured, poetic. “You admit to thievery. You call it your profession. But what is it that you steal?” As he continued his circle around the thief, blood dripped from the tip of his blade like venom from a snake’s tongue. It dotted the ground in an odd semi-circle. “Thievery is a strange thing to so readily admit to. Even stranger to name it your life’s work. Why is that you did so?”

Ashiakin was finding it difficult to remind himself not to be reckless. There was a certain thrill to this, a rush warming his veins. He had in his near captivity someone who had wronged him and he had the chance to set things aright. He was not going to torture this man. He was going to dissect him.

[Dissinger]

A question, that was the problem, the man wanted answers to his question. As he clutched his stomach trying to keep it shut against the cold air he closed his eyes as he let the questions roll over him. The wind whipped at the waning branches of the trees. He pondered how to answer, as he decided he would answer, if it drew Ashiakin ever closer. He was the trap, the ticking bomb; he had to wait for the right moment to explode, to catch his opponent off guard.

"In Lavinya," He began before he remained silent a bit as if trying to gather his words, or battle the pain he couldn't feel, "A thief is more than a job, it’s a title. It means we aren't going to sell our soul for a few paltry bits of precious metal a day to men who would sacrifice us to further their gains..."

This time he winced as his words actually caused a bit of pain. It had been awhile since he had been forced to feel his pain, as he tried to coax it through the barrier, to play his part well. As he remained silent a bit more he decided to finish his words, "I named it as my calling, to not bow or bend knee before any form of royalty. So that one day I might wield their power, and shatter their chains to free those I cared about from their unwanted rule."

He left the words out there. He did not however relinquish his hold on ebony. The dagger was hidden under his cloak as he waited, ever patient. The murderer knew one thing about Patience, it was a hunter’s best friend, for eventually the wolf, unaware of its situation, would snap at the wrong moment, and the trap would be sprung.

When that occurred, the wolf would be destroyed.

[Ashiakin]

Ashiakin frowned at the thief's answer, but still he furrowed his pale eyebrows—his interest in the man was not entirely lost. His gait became more measured in his circle around his opponent and he let the tip of his sword drop. There was an odd stillness in the chill around them. Even the gnarled limbs of the trees, which had seemed to grasp at the combatants in the blowing wind, now seemed transfixed on the confrontation below them.

“I think you're misguided,” he said, disappointed, curiosity fading. “The day you wield such power—which I doubt you ever will, mind you—will be the day that you forget about all others but yourself. You can't diffuse such concentrated power without disaster. You can't break a king's crown into a thousand pieces and hand one to every commoner without destroying what it stands for.”

He once again smiled and used his free hand to tuck a lock of white hair behind his ear. “You're naive, but I admire you determination,” he said. “You're the kind of person who could be useful if you weren't so dogmatic.” Finally he stopped walking, pausing off to the side of the thief. He stood quietly for a moment. “We're both thieves, you know, Seth?” he said. “We both want power. I just don't happen to consider taking power theft. And you've not taken anything grand enough to be savvy about what to do with it. I think, maybe, you forget how much progress slavery and subjugation have brought the world.”

He spread his arms out, one hand empty, the other still grasping the hilt of his sword. “This place where we fight, the Citadel, was likely built on the backs of slaves. How else could something so spectacular be accomplished? Would you have the rabble administer this place, bring it down stone by stone with their idiocy and corruption? The world is lucky to have those who lead the incapable. Without us, it would have nothing. It would not have this temple we stand in.”

As he spoke, he had been casting a spell, calling tendrils of ice up out of the dead ground. They wound their way toward Seth's feet, trying to grab hold of him and latch him to the dirt. And as he cast the spell, Ashiakin glided forward, smooth and balletic. His sword swept down on an arc that aimed to separate his adversary’s head from his shoulders. He had nothing more to say to the man. Words could only do so much to demonstrate power. Lectures did not speak like steel.

[Dissinger]

He was losing him. The demeanor changed, the mirth gone. He was unable to fascinate this man, to goad him into something stupid. As soon as he realized that, as soon as he began talking about thievery he gripped the gift of the magi. There was no sense in pursuing the charade. He needed to be a thief of more than power today; he needed to return to that Year of Damnation, to that time of pettiness and vulgarity.

He forced himself to remain calm as the wound on his stomach sealed up, the blade dip[ping as he waited, ever watching ever waiting. Ivory was still out of reach and so he would have to do this with a Lung Popper. He couldn't afford to try this with one blade. His maneuver had to be precise, and calculated. He couldn't see him go for another disabling blow. He would end the fight quickly, the cat being bored with his prey, and Seth knew the opening when he saw one, the blade raised and the deathblow coming.

The reaction was simplistic as it was graceful.

As his arm rose up to block the blow, using the length of ebony so shield his arm with help of his bracer he saw a flash of light as the two metals clashed in the night. Trying to move his foot to an attacking position he cursed when he felt something gripping it. Realizing he had been rooted his next move was to push and shove the sword as far out of position as possible, he would only have one shot with his last defiant act.

Plucking a lung popper from his belt he threw it efficiently with every ounce of strength and skill, sending it point first towards the man of Ice. As he released his attack he spoke his voice cold as he retorted, "Power? You thought I stole power? No, I stole lives, that is my true calling."

[Ashiakin]

Ashiakin grimaced as the edge of his blade shrieked against Seth's bracer, sending a shockwave of pain rippling up both his arms. The tip of his sword slammed into the earth, deflected, but he quickly removed it and retreated back. As he moved, he caught his opponent's words. He cocked a white eyebrow and was about to respond when the dagger struck him in the side of the neck.

He screamed. Pain blossomed around the wound, thick blue blood seeping out of it to stain his silk shirt. His pale, thin fingers clawed at the hilt of the weapon and wrenched it out of his flesh, letting it drop to the ground quietly. More blood oozed out of the wound and Ashiakin choked, little blue droplets sliding down his lips. His eyes rolled with painful delirium and he fell to his knees. Both of his hands were pressed hard against his throat, trying to stop the bleed. His strange blood still oozed through his white fingers, slowly and deliberately, determined.

“It seems you're rather good at that,” he choked out, wheezing, but still managing to curl his blue lips into something that resembled a smile. “But lives are... so easy to steal. Our bodies are fragile... Kings themselves may die like other men, but... Their countries, their legacies, their power... They're not so easily slain.”

He gasped harshly and fell forward, palms pressing against the dead earth before him, larger drops of blue cascading from his lips. Somehow he managed to tilt his head up enough to look his foe in the eye. “You've not killed me, Seth Dahlios... In the only world that matters, the real one, I yet live... Your sacrifice here only makes the Citadel and its power stronger. You don't... You've enriched its masters, you've set no one free, certainly not yourself. Your ideals chain you, Seth. Someday they'll kill you... And you'll die enriching kings.”

Ashiakin choked again, painfully, spraying the ground with blue blood. As he collapsed into the earth, he gathered his last reserves of energy, fueled by the malice of a dying man, and cast his final spell. The ice that tethered his adversary to the battleground grew upward, vicious frozen spikes shooting up from the earth, in a final attempt to eviscerate the man and shame him into submission.

But he would not live to see if it works. He could no longer lift his head. His body, clad in bloodstained regal clothes, collapsed against the drab ground, and the forest around him faded. The path and the hills seemed to blow away like dust in the wind, the dead trees collapsed and melted into nothingness. To him, only Seth remained, transfixed in that fading realm, some question in the dark.

***

Later, when Ashiakin had recovered, he sat underneath an aging sun on the highest of the Citadel's steps. The pain in his neck had subsided, but he had been unable to purge his mind of thoughts of the battle. It seemed as if it were to be something he would carry with him for a long time. There's no shame in that, he thought. We all have our scars. They remind us of our mistakes.

Two familiar figures were walking down the main boulevard toward the Citadel. Ashiakin raised a hand to his eyebrows and looked down at them, recognizing them instantly: Edwin, his squire, and Vissal, his bodyguard. He smiled. Upset with him as they had been, they came back. It was obvious why. If they did not work for Ashiakin, then they had no power. He couldn't help but laugh. If Seth could have been here on these steps, he could have proven his point gleefully.

Ashiakin stood and stretched, eyes moving away from his companions to the rest of the city. It still bustled in the dying twilight, merchants pulling their wares home, guards stepping out of their barracks for the night shift. There was even a thief robbing a nobleman in a distant alley. Ashiakin smiled, ignoring the robbery, setting his sight on the horizon and the rest of Radasanth. It would have been foolish to dwell on such an insignificant mugging when the whole city was gathered before him, like a crowd around a mountebank's cart.

[Dissinger]

Seth looked down at his boots as he saw the ice. Pulling roughly they came free as the crack of the Ice breaking resounded through the arena. He looked on upon Ashiakin as he spoke, speaking of how he was nothing, would amount to nothing in the grand scheme. His pride flared up at those words, for while he had not permanently killed the man he had made his stance known.

As Ashiakin died, speaking of how Seth would die, he shook his head. As he sighed he walked over and began to clean and sheath his blades before he spoke, "My path is paved with corpses, for another step, you sure were an annoyance. Too bad that’s all you were."

As he turned and walked out of the citadel he sighed closing the door. He leaned against it as he sighed relaxing. When his eyes opened however, he saw two brown ones staring right back into his own. Steeling himself for the tirade he knew was coming, he didn't know just how vicious, "Nothing rash eh?"

"I'd say this doesn't count as something rash. If anything-"

"Don't give me your excuses. You knew how I feel about you fighting like this. It worries me sick!" Liliana's voice was far from stable. As she looked on Seth raised a hand to try and placate her. Her hand however shoved it harshly out of the way.

"Lili-"

"Don't you dare Lili me. If you want to talk at all this you won't dare dodge this one buster. You're going to have to come up with some really good excuse if you even want to share a bed with me!"

Seth cringed before he sighed. Carefully leading her away he began to take the Tirade as he knew there was nothing he could say. It was odd, when he thought about it. Of all the things he was afraid of, death was below angering Liliana. As he mentally filed it away he sighed wondering when his next return to the Citadel would be.