Combat Training (Closed)

(Closed to whichever alt Philomel picks)

Glacies looked at the tall building before him. The towering structure cast a long shadow down the rolling hills and forests surrounding it. The only time the surrounding area would be completely well lit would be around noon, when the sun was at its peak. The ice mage tapped the pommel of his shortsword with a single finger.

“So this is the Citadel,” he muttered under his breath as he took in the sight before him. “Though it'd be...” he let the thought hang as he began climbing the hill to the front door. He walked in and was immediately greeted by what appeared to be a large waiting area, tended by a number of monks scattered across the white marble floor.

A monk wandered from close to the door to check on him and said, in a rather amused voice, “First time here?” When Glacies indicated the affirmative, the monk chuckled and asked, “Not quite what you expected, is it?”

“It's... cleaner than I had expected,” he admitted quietly as the monk led him across the room to a small desk, presumably set aside for newcomers.

“We get that surprisingly often. We're the premier safe combat arena in the world. No one ever dies here due to the special magic we employ here,” the man said as he flipped through a ledger. As he arrived at a blank page, he pulled out a quill and asked, “Name?”

“Glacies Frost,” the young man replied. The monk looked up and raised an eyebrow. The name sounded so obviously fake that it instantly raised many eyebrows. Glacies sighed and waved a hand in front of his face like swatting a rather annoying fly for the millionth time. “I came up with it myself. I was never given a proper name.” The monk shrugged and entered it into the ledger.

“Sorry about that. We do get your type here a lot, it's just a rather strange name for a person to pick for himself, you know? Alright, I've got you registered. You'll be able to review your win loss record by asking to see the ledger.”

“Ah, I see. Some people care about that?”

“Indeed, some more than others. Whatever keeps them motivated, I suppose,” the monk said as he waved Glacies down a hall behind him. “Just find an open room and we'll get you set up.”

“To be honest, I'm only here to learn how to handle my weapons better. I know how to use them alright, but I really need to get better so I can lead my projects myself instead of-”

“Yes, yes, that's all very nice. We don't offer training. Just practice against whoever you end up against. Get creative, I guess. Sorry, kid, but I have dozens of other fighters to take care of today on top of you. I'll be around if you need anything specific, but I don't know anyone looking to train a newcomer right now.” With that, the monk was gone, almost as if he'd never been there.

“What a jerk,” Glacies thought as he turned and wandered down the hallway. The monk had a point, though. They couldn't keep on top of trainers on top of the monks. This place was probably expensive enough to run without keeping combat trainers on hand at all times. Sad, but true. He'd just have to hope the person he went up against wasn't so skilled that they beat him within the first few seconds of the fight.

He pushed the door open and walked through. After a moment of disorientation, he saw that he was standing on a clear patch of dirt in the middle of...

He blinked and rubbed his eyes.

“I'm not dreaming, am I?” he asked the air around him. Of course he wasn't dreaming. He was standing at the intersection of four very distinct natural environs. To his right was a bleak, dark swamp full of blackened muck and detritus from rotting trees. Directly ahead of him was a desert. Giant dunes of sand and clouds of dust stretched out for miles in font of him. To his left was a great stretch of emerald grass on the edge of a large lake, on the other side of which stood a number of trees. Behind him...

He turned to see the door he had entered through had disappeared. He frowned as he looked out at the expanse of ice behind him. It looked like a Berevarian tundra he'd seen in a painting back in Scara Brae.

“So we have our choice of arena... A skilled mage would pick the elemental arena they were best at, but...” he turned back to face the desert. “Perhaps staying here between these four would be a better idea... I don't want my opponent figuring me out immediately.”

He sucked on his teeth and drew his shortsword. Whoever came through, he wanted to be ready.

West. North. East. South. Four points of the compass, four environments, each vastly different from the last. A wild, sandy desert, set with winds and dunes. A lucious plain, intersected by a vast lake and a distant forest. A long-cursed marsh, with twisted, blackened trees and a stench that would burn the insides of a nose. A snowy, white wasteland, another desert but this time cold like the deepest winter. And where each one of them met ... A few metres of changeable worlds, with the slow degrading of one atmosphere to the upsurge of the next. Smaller dunes, drier grass, lighter swamp and a warmer land - they were but partners, brought together by the magic of the Citadel.

Naturally, she had chosen the grasses. What self-respecting priestess of the tree goddess Drys would not? Kneeling by the lake Philomel van der Apart intoned prayers to her goddess, wishing for the chance to understand why her and hers had undergone the changes that they had. Why was Delath weaker, why had her mid form vanished to leave her with the pure ability to transform right into a devilish, massive goat? Was was Veridian now so curiously bold, with his unlimited form of standing upright, tall and proud.

There he stood beside her, six foot tall and staring into the world, at the apex where all four environments met and burst into existence. Slowly his chest rose and fell as he waited, clothed in nothing but a simple cloth about his waist. Was it necessary - Philomel had never wanted to ask, for the fox had never told her. Instead he had simply begun to wear it and she had found delight in being female.

Back and forth his white-tipped tail swung, like a steady pendulum. His golden eyes remained vivid, and his paw-like hands flexed fists. Eagerly he remained, ready and willing, patient for their moment ... Yet still she prayed.

Then a doorway appeared in the apex. Breath rushing into his lungs Veridian yapped excitedly; a single dog-like yap. Philomel looked up, brow furrowed as she was so rudely interrupted in her prayers, only to see the humanoid fox passionately prodding the air towards the doorway.

"Look! Person!"

The faun grimaced slightly, still not used to the sound of Veridian's voice being out loud rather than purely in her mind. Nevertheless she looked over, and watched as a young man with brilliant blue hair stepped from the portal.

"Oh," she said, a little disdainfully, "we have company."

"Yes! An opponent," Veridian swished his tail, conveying his excitement.

Philomel grunted, then turned back away to look at the lake again and resume her quest for divine guidance.

But the fox was not satisfied.

"Philomel, we are in the Citadel. Heroes training. Fighting. We came here-"

"We came here because you insisted," she said rudely, "you wanted a fight."

The fox kept his eyes on the apex, where he now saw the door disappearing and the figure there turn to gape at his surroundings.

"Yes. A fight," he grinned, white sharp teeth vivid. "Yes please."

Philomel paused. Pursing her lips she leant back to survey the figure. After a moment of staring she dismissively waved a hand. "Delath could take him in one bite."

"If you do not want to fight, Philomel," Veridian turned to her. "Then I will."

She paused, startled and shocked. "You will ... Wait what?"

His grin remained as he bobbed his long-snouted face. "Yes. I fight. You ... Watch. I want to fight," and he shoved out a hand. "Sword please."

The faun eyed her beloved's paw, with his furred-backed fingers ended by black claws. Gently she bit a lip, surveying the unfamiliar contours of his knuckles, studying how each digit curled and how his thumb was angled. Heart racing she began to panic, hating how much her world was changing, and desperately feeling the need to pray some more.

"Please," he repeated.

She huffed and reached over her long, violet hair into the double sheath at her back. Strapped there, over her drakescale and titanium chest guard were two mighty swords. Carefully she unhooked one - a mythril blade ended with what seemed a dragon's horn for a hilt - and slid it from its holster to hold it out to him. Nameless it was called, and much death had it brought.

"Be careful," she said, quietly.

He nodded, yet he was smiling. Taking the offered hilt he adjusted his grip until it was suitable to hold. Gently he swung it a couple of times, shearing the grass where they stood, before he nodded, satisfied.

"I see you later," he decided as he shouldered the blade. Then he began to march, taking himself over the grassy plain towards their - his - opponent.

Philomel watched with mild amusement, turning around as she continued to pray.

Glacies eyed up the figure approaching him from the grassy area and frowned. An anthropomorphic fox man clad only in what appeared to be a well fashioned if basic loincloth was approaching him. Cast over the being's shoulder was a weapon, seemingly the creature's only real weapon. The young man narrowed his eyes and pulled his sleeve back before he affixed his buckler.

“Absolutely wonderful,” he spat as he walked to meet the other being halfway.

Odds are I'm dealing with some sort of Fae creature, a being of the elements, or some combination of both... Absolutely fucking wonderful, he thought as he drew his sword and held it over his shoulder in a fashion quite similar to that of the being before him, mirroring the fox being's gait. When they were within speaking distance of one another, the mage came to a stop and brought his sword forward into a ready position.

The air between the two combatants was charged with excitement and anxiety. The young man lacked any manner of formal training, but years on the streets of Radasanth had been enough to imbue him with at least some small manner of skill with improvised weapons.

“Heh,” he half laughed under his breath as he looked the creature up and down. If I hadn't got out and joined that priest for his lessons every day, I'd probably still be picking fights with men twice my size over a half loaf of bread and flagon of clean water.

“I don't know how we do this, but I suppose I should at least introduce myself. I am Glacies Frost. I have no house, I hold no rank. May I ask your name?” he said in a voice far more confident than he felt. For the creature before him to go without any kind of protective clothing, it had to be capable of defending the soft flesh from harm through some other means, most likely magical.

Today is going to end one of two ways... Either I'm going to win, or I'm going to learn what I shouldn't do, he thought as he continued to lock eyes with the fox.

"Greetings," Veridian said, flexing his jaw as he experimented with the fact he could talk.

It was a very new thing to be able to do so. It had not been long since their goddess, Drys, who had blessed him with his semi-humanoid form. In it, he could successfully wield a blade, wear clothes, if he so wished, and speak. The longer neck allowed his larynx to vibrate and adjust to the humanoid ways of speaking. His knowledge of language was still limited, but at least he could communicate in more ways than simply just via the mind of his beloved faun.

She who watched with some intrigue.

"My name is Veridian," he grunted, tipping his vulpine head down in a small nod. It was similar to a bow, but not as deep. "I am ... an earth-spirit. That is my friend," he gestured back over his shoulder with a thumb, using the hand that was not holding onto the sword he had borrowed. "Philomel van der Aart. Matriarch of the Gilded Lily."

He let his hand them drop and run through the grasses surrounding them. His head tilted, taking in the person, the being he was here to train or fight, whatever the wills brought him. What Drys decreed as right would be what he would go with. After all he was a creature of her making, as was Philomel. That was what bonded them closely, as well as their souls.

Slowly he lifted down the sword from where it rested on his shoulder. Balancing it in his hand he paused, smiling slightly as he took in the young man before him - or so he presumed he was. Young, that was. Veridian was not entirely certain of what different races looked like in terms of ages. He suspected that this person was a human, but in all the worlds that he had seen he could be fae, part elf or even elemental.

"Shall we begin?" he asked, lowering himself into a crouch.