The Cathedral of Blades

(IRON LEAGUE)
(OPEN)

John heard a voice as he stood looking at a wooden board with the names of available fighters on it. He’d been learning their names by now, and knew which ones could offer him a challenge, and which ones would prove lackluster compared to himself. He looked down to the source of the voice, and heard the old monk speak again.

“Come back to test yourself, giant?”

John stifled a chuckle. He didn’t actually know the man’s name, but they’d spoke during the years he’d been coming to the citadel, he always called John ‘giant’ for reasons he understood. He called the monk ‘old man’ in much a similar fashion. Their conversations, though short, maintained an air of cordiality, though they talked mostly in passing.

“I have, old man. Is the Cathedral free?”

The old monk smiled. “For you, giant, I think they’d build another one. But yes, it’s free. I can take you now and find someone for you, if you like.”

“Actually, that’d be nice, I’ll have a few seconds to get reacquainted with the place.”

A flight of stairs down and into the Citadel led them to a hallway hewn of the same dark stone as the outside, lit with torch and glowing portal alike. John knew the way from here, but the monk accompanied him anyway. A turn and step later and he was in another reality.

The Cathedral of Blades certainly lived up to its name. The hall was filled with weapon racks, row upon row of pews to the bloody god, conquest. The pillars that held up the ceiling of this massive, imaginary structure were dotted with shields and axes, maces and spears and near any other weapon that could be made. Down the aisle stood tables, with more exotic weapons lying upon them or in cases of glass. A raised dais was at the end of the building that the armor racks were ‘facing’, sporting suits of armor large and small. John whistled as he walked by the center tables. Sais and katanas were there, a khophesh under glass further on, several sodegarami and an urumi sat on a rack in the aisle as well. The familiar whoosh of incoming air signified a new arrival to the arena. He turned to see who it was.

There were enough of the damned things that they could have built the Cathedral from them.

Another neater, slightly smaller, shinier, and most definitely sharper Cathedral in the yard next to the one I stood in.

Everywhere I looked, there was weaponry. On the walls and support columns, in the artwork (and framing it, even), lining the pews, in display cases, just literally fucking everywhere. Whoever set up this Iron League was possibly thinking a little too literally. This place wasn't an armory, it was a weaponsmith's wet dream.

Ironic, then, that I get dumped into a fight at the Citadel in a room surrounded by various sharp, spiked, serrated, and smooth implements of spilling some poor sap's blood when I wouldn't be caught dead using a single gods-damned one of them.

Quietly thankful that the anti-nausea tabs I popped seemed to be working, I gave myself one last pat down before the fight. With some casual sweeping motions, I brushed errant motes of dust swirling through the air off the snow-white sleeves of my shirt and obsidian-black legs of my slacks, leaving them as if they were fresh from the ironing board. I gave my vest a quick tug to adjust itself to my curves, and straightened my tie. Giving my hood a final flick, I was satisfied with everything. If I'm going to break some knees and collect some fees in this League thing, then I was going to be the freshest motherfucker on the board.

Footfalls echoed throughout the chamber, catching my attention. Heavy ones, at that. I spun around to look for their source--and there was no way I could miss it.

Standing well over seven feet tall and probably just as wide, his head was crowned with a mop of well-kept blond hair, with a bit of stubble on his jaw to match. He was adorned in the sparring clothes of a seasoned brawler. Just as I remembered him during our last meeting in the Citadel, the bulging muscles of his arms were sheathed in polished metal. I also remembered that he was able to shape the metal and shift it around his body.

John Cromwell. Cigar and whisky aficionado, skilled player of card games, forger of quality arms and armor. Genetic freak. Strongman for a secretive organization of aimless bastards that don't have two shreds of credibility or relevance to rub together.

I cupped my gloved hands up to the mouth hole in my mask. "John," I called out, to get his attention.

John's mouth straightened into a line as he recognized the girl under her finery. Madison Freebird wore a neat dress suit complete with pants, all black trimmed with white in that endlessly classy manner. A mask hid her face. It was a simple thing, made to be of a piece with the suit. It was done all in silver, and free of carving or embellishments. Her hands were gloved, meaning one would have to bare the girl's hands to see that they were not quite hands at all, but vines. A tall order, that. The rest of the girl's body was similar, and just as relentless as the plant nature that made up her form.

He nearly frowned as he sized her up again, but bit it back. The last time he’d met the plant girl in a field of battle, it hadn’t gone very well for him. She tossed him around a giant chessboard like he was nothing more than a nuisance. It had hurt his pride a good bit, and it would have showed on his face, had he not concealed it.

I can’t let my ego get too big, he thought, remembering all the lessons he learned about underestimating opponents. He tried not to be embarrassed, but he still felt a little ashamed that he’d thought too little of the girl.

Come to think of it, she didn’t use any weapons, did she? Well, I guess this arena is just for show then, unless things get interesting. He wouldn’t be making the same mistake twice here.

He raised a hand, greeting the masked woman.

“Madison,” he said flatly. It was as warm a welcome as he’d given anybody in the last few days. “Care to dance?” he continued, letting armor coat his arms, ready to make it cover the rest of his body in titanium.

I eyeballed the near liquid-like metal that slurped up his arms from his gauntlets, vaguely recalling our last meeting in the Citadel. Back then, he was able to cover the entirety of his skin up to his shoulders, encasing his arms in polished armor. It made for a difficult fight for someone like myself, who opted to simply pummel someone to death more often than not. In order to topple the giant, I had to resort to her magic, crushing John's skull with crimson ruilserk vines that grew from out of his mouth.

I had no such tools available to me this time, sadly. What with my soul being snatched and held halfway across Corone in the paws of a manic nekojin and all.

Subconsciously, my lungs started filling with plague, swirling purple clouds of death waiting to be unleashed in the air between us. If I tried a frontal assault, he'd just put his dukes up and absorb my strikes. If I grew thorns on my fingers to focus the point of impact like a pair of knuckle dusters, I wasn't certain that I could pierce his armor to draw blood and disable him. If I exhaled death, he'd just cover his face or get out of the way.

What I needed was the element of surprise. I just didn't like that I had to burn my teleportation stone already. But if it meant weakening Muscles-For-Brains to tip the odds in my favor, so be it.

Beneath my mask, my face twisted in a facsimile of a grin as the azure stone set into my necklace grew warm and glowed softly. I opened my mouth to reply with a witty remark, but before the words could leave my tongue the magic of the stone pulled me from where I stood and dropped me right behind John. In the brief moment it took for me to reorient myself, I reached up with a briar-knit hand and tore away my mythril face mask, tossing it towards one of the pews of this cathedral of blades.

Plague erupted from my lungs and mouth, a thick violet jet of poisonous fumes filling the space between us. With any luck, it would blast against the exposed skin of his neck and shoulders and be absorbed into his pores, where it would soon begin to tear apart the big man from inside.

It seemed Madison was more ready to get underway than he was. She disappeared from sight, and John heard a breath behind him. He turned instinctively, barely catching sight of a form through some kind of smoke. As his shoulders came round, he raised a massive elbow, aiming to plant it on Madison's head. She was deft, and shorter than he, though; she leapt back as John's elbow struck a stone column, with a shield on it. The first clang of battle was of a miss, and nearly crushed the aegis on the column. It caved inward as John drew breath again, and coughed mightily.

He tried to fix Madison with a glare, but only succeeded in holding his head up and looking in her general direction. His head swam in growing pain, and he fought the urge to empty his lunch all over the paving stone floor.

Damn woman and her damn diseases, he thought. It was going to be an uphill battle again it seemed. The half-giant plunged an armored hand into a glass case beside him, pulling a shortsword out, flinging it at the girl with what strength he could muster through this haze. There were probably better strategies than rushing her after the sword, but he couldn't think of them at the moment.