Magic Undone

[The SpellSword]

((Opponent get's to describe arena))


As max neared the familiar double doors of the mighty citadel he noticed there was an unusual emptyness inside of him. The feeling wasn't quite empty but seemed to be more hunger than anything else. "Wow! I just ate i can't believe i am already hungry again." Max thought as he pushed open the big wooden double doors.

"Hello again, i am here to find battle with whatever is still open." Max said to the hairless monk infront of him.

max had looked around the room it was almost identical to the small lobby area where him and Aramil had ate.

The monk had motioned his hand towards a familiar hall way where a different monk then last time had showed up. As Max approached the hallway he felt light headed and unusually queezy towards this battle then last time. He stumbled walking towards the hallway but caught himself just before he hit himself on the stone walls. He then followed the monk down the hallway feeling very uncomfortable.

[The Blademaster]

Obligations called.

As always they were pulling, tugging at the man known to the world as Nemian Troy—well, not really known yet exactly. He felt over his head with responsibility. Before him was Step. It called with every turn, the protection—present and future—was giving to him and very few others. Information was to be sought, gathered, and reported. Nemian had taken only two things from Step upon entering, a blank notebook and a pen. It was notes he would gather for the group, profiles of possible allies and enemies, possible government rivals, and even growing organizations and groups.

The second obligation was to Lord Hector of Brakenn Hold on the coast of Salvar. The man was a tyrant, a true tyrant. But he was not the over-bearing, mad tyrant that people always assumed. His level headed thinking and quick, sharp decisions had brought a military strength to Brakenn Hold that few of the surrounding Lords could compare to. Nemian was an Advisor to the man, the highest ranking official of the port town.
~*~
Profile entry : 1 : Max
My first encounter with someone under the direction of Step was one named Max. I can’t tell you if there was a last name but that is definitely his first. He stands six foot even, and could weigh between one hundred thirty pounds and one hundred forty-five. He has very distinctive red eyes and white hair, but his age could be no more then eighteen years old. He wields an iron longsword and has an iron breastplate of a platemail variety.

My encounter went as follows.
~*~
The Citadel was a place of immense background. It had stood the test of time. When the rest of Teria had fallen during the demon war, during the Age of Darkness, it had remained with its invincible visage. When the city had been rebuilt over a hundred and fifty years later, at the beginning of the Age of Dawn, it was the Citadel that had remained fixed and was the center of the new Radasanth. And during the Age of Resurrection it was the Citadel that drew all warriors of all nations to compete for pride, rewards, and recognition.

It was in the Citadel that I found myself. People often looked at me when I walked, but in the Citadel the looks were different. In the world of Althanas I was somewhat of an outcast, not because of a social problem but because I chose to be that way. The people that had come to compete were looking at me with the eyes of a pack of wolves, looking for their next prey. They were judgmental eyes, cautious eyes, wondering if the man beneath the leather coat and hat would be a prey weaker or something much stronger then they could take.

I shrugged past them, finding my way to the closest doorway to a battle. As soon as my foot passed through the doorway it dropped on a rather fantastic illusion. A light wind rolled over the hills around me. The thick, emerald grass swayed with the wind as if dancing to a beautiful rhythm. It was all I could do to contain my smile, but what would it have mattered? The collar of the coat was high enough to cover up to just below my eyes, and the hat was pulled down to my eyebrows.

An instant coating of sweat began across my body. Overhead the sun was heavy, but the partially cloudy cover would at least bring a little relief, as would the light winds. Unfortunately, however, there was no opponent present at the time of my arrival. If the man was to be late, and hopefully it would be a man, I would only be aggravated with the passing of time.

[The SpellSword]

As Max stepped through a portal he found himself in an amazing arena not the other sandy one he was in. This one was a beutiful hill side arena with thick lucious grass and the sun blaring down on him exactly as usual when at sea.

"Wow! Amazing." Max said as he tried to look around for his opponent. He wasn't even 20 feet infront of max and max didnt know why he didn't see him before. The man was around the 6 foot mark and looked to be no heavier then 250, Which was perfect for his longsword. he was wearing a nice trenchcoat covering most of his body. His hat was pulled down.

"You! Over there come and get some." Max said as he grabbed the hilt of his longsword ready to counter-attack after his opponents first initial strike.

[The Blademaster]

“Come and get some?”

It was as if the man was mad as a loon. He certainly looked the part. Despite the outwardly human visage his hair and eyes displayed a certain otherwordly appearance. A streak of silver hair sat atop his head, his eyes were of a deep crimson color, and his frame spoke of lithe movement. However, when it came to what rested behind his eyes, it was no wonder he spoke so oddly.

He could have been no older then eighteen by human standards, barely a man. His eyes were deep color, but sharply vibrant with life. I could easily see the plain iron longsword at his side. With it was accompanied a rather lack-luster and an incomplete suit of iron platemail as well. All in all it was a rather pathetic and unattractive opponent that the monks had so graciously blessed me with.

“By the Thayne, what are you?” It was the first thing that came to mind actually, and probably the last thing that should have. However, it was not nearly as odd as what followed it. “You are a shabby dresser, a mutant of a human and unimpressive by any means… that’s not even mentioning your weak weapons and armor, as well as your over zealous tone. May you fare better in combat then it seems you do in life.”

I was not a normally harsh person. My tongue had been known to get the better of me quite often though. The occasion was no different. Again it had been loosed, though restrained from the vile language that I had picked up as a marine with the Sid military. Also restrained were the random comments and curt insults. Luckily for me at least.

The steel studded buttons of my leather coat were unattached quickly. It opened to reveal the silky crimson interior, and with it revealed the pistol-grip daggers. The ends of them were plain, protruding just enough for me to grasp but never enough to interfere. My hands worked my finger into the ring at the top of the hilt. It was a perfect grip that I could always find. Also if the cause arose I could spin the blade, fancy and showy normally the only reason. Or I had the option to turn the blade around for a more defensive stance.

My feet slipped across the emerald grass. The wind was picking up, ever so slightly, and carried with it a hint of salt. The ocean was near. The back of my mind wondered where exactly the setting of my little encounter was taking place. Perhaps just inland from the coast of Corone. The grass certainly added the lively flair of the place. Perhaps it was somewhere akin to the island, like Scara Brae or the like.

“If you are so eager how about you start the competition of arms? I see that you have armor and a sword, but don’t think that it gives you any advantages. I am by no means without competence with my daggers, and as such could contain little in the way of apprehension or fear.” It was all big talk. Anything to distract him, make him think a little too much. I had come to realize that people that think too much often make mistakes. Overanalyze your opponent and you’ll quickly find yourself gutted before you analyzed enough to realize he was attacking. “By the way, the names Nemian Troy if you were wondering… probably not though…”

[The SpellSword]

“Well actually I was wondering your name and thanks for telling me Nemian I am Max. You need to know nothing more except I am one of the only two spell swords alive and I would like you to see what one can really do. Oh! And Nemian I know what trick your trying to pull and for your info it doesn’t work I analyze everything except for when the heat of the battle starts then you are dead.” Max said as he grabbed his iron long sword and brought it down straight in front of him ready for a counter attack.

Max decided to sit down on the ground and concentrate on Nemian’s movements so he could counter at the right time with some of his magic.

As max sat and concentrated a flash back occurred of the last time he had done this. It started with him and Aramil practice fighting with wooden swords but they could still of imbued them. Max sat down and tried to concentrate but it was struck hard over the head before he could sense anything. “Heck no!” Max screamed as he got up and charged his foe full force wanting a quick battle knowing that it wouldn’t happen.

[The Blademaster]

A quiet howl gave warning in the background.

I could barely hear it though above the stupidity of my opponent. He was so conceded, so lost in his own confidence. I felt like I should pity. If I had been human I probably would have felt pity towards him. However I was something different, something more then human. Soulless do not express emotions like humans, do not engage themselves with their feelings. Feelings, in general, are pretty non-existent actually. Without a soul there is nothing to base feelings on, except impressions from what I could gather from associates.

“Dear child,” I had started, looking at the boy with a smirk. But something whispered in the back of my mind. Wait. It said, quietly. I listened and was given quite a prize. The boy was not only outrageous, immature, and rather impetuous, he was also insane. I shook my head. “Stand the fuck up! What the hell are you doing you sorry sack of fucking shit?! This is a fucking battle and you sit the fuck down?!”

I’m still not quite sure if he responded to me or to something inside his own head, but he stood. He screamed. And charged rather recklessly. I laughed as I dodged easily to the left, leaving the boy to charge right past me and miss with any attack he may have planned. The meeting had barely started and it was already bordering ridiculous. With a shrug I spun my daggers on my fingers. They produced the affect I was hoping for; a light whirring noise whistled as they went end over end.

“…the hell was that?” My tone was cocky, but I couldn’t help it. “You call that an attack? You didn’t even accomplish anything. I easily stepped out of the way, stepped out of the fucking way! That’s all I had to do!”

I bent my neck to the side and popped all the bones. It was relaxing. Again the blades spun over and over. “Ok, I’ll actually attack this time… how ‘bout that? You can try again and see if you accomplish anything… though I doubt it highly.”

[The SpellSword]

Max knew his hit wouldn’t connect and it was also a relief that it didn’t it meant he was fighting a complete idiot. Max went flying past Nemian Max was no stranger to this Aramil fought a lot like Nemian in some ways. Max put his sword in the ground and sling shot himself away and recovered about forty feet away from Nemian. Nemian turned his neck and popped all the bones in his neck, which looked rather relaxing.

“Ok, I’ll actually attack this time… how ‘bout that? You can try again and see if you accomplish anything… though I doubt it highly.” Nemian said as he looked over at Max

“No Problem go for it although I highly doubt u could hit me even with my eyes closed.” Max said with a big ego. Max figured that he would sit down and retry his concentration move because this guy was nowhere near as stealthy as Aramil. Max sat down and laid his sword down beside him and crossed his arms and legs and relaxed. Before he let Nemian respond again he said.

“Come get me or are you afraid of a little old helpless man?”

[The Blademaster]

A groove had been dug from the sword of my opponent. Under most circumstances I would not have noticed, but it was a thick loam that showed because of it. The ground was soft. The grass was vibrant. And even under the swaying emerald grass was detailed to perfection. The Ai’Bron spared no facet.

But my opponent was a naïve one.

I pushed forward towards him. His response had barely been issued before I was moving. Finish things quickly, or as quickly as possible. The daggers spun on the ends of his fingers in a showy fashion, hopefully giving a rather impressive appearance. As the blades whirred my stride increased. A rhythmic clop followed me as I charged my opponent. Again he sat though, this time I was already in the process of attacking.

“Stand up!” My voice was booming with anger, yet held an undertone of disappointment. My eyes, though a heavy green, were quickly dimming with the lack of entertainment I was receiving. The fight was one sided. Max really possessed little in the way of battle experience, practicing idiotic actions amidst battle. “You are no old man; you’re just a stupid, silly little kid!”

My opponent had only just offered his question, my response coming in a split second, before I was on him. In his crouched position he had a good defensive position, even if he did not mean for it. His sword was resting at his side. I intended to keep it there. A heavy booted foot stomped directly towards it, my momentum allowing me the necessary speed.

Just before I darted past him my daggers halted their rotary motions in a downward position. Usually I only used the low grip as defense, but the situation seemed to call for it. Without slowing I swung the daggers at my seated opponent. In my mind I saw lying down as his only escape. Even then I would just have to push the daggers a little lower. It seemed I had caught the foolish kid easily. It was either shoulder that would pay for his stupidity.

[The SpellSword]

Max’s concentration move was working so far he had dragged the opponent into attacking him. Nemian’s footsteps were noisy as he approached so there wasn’t much concentration in it. When Max heard the whirring noise stop from Nemian Max quickly made a fireball and launched the fireball to where he had last heard the footsteps came from. Max rolled to the side he was planning to grab his sword and attack Nemian, but Max wasn’t fast enough he grabbed his sword, but ended up shoulder rolling farther then he should of. He ended up injuring his shoulder. The one shoulder he usually uses to wield his sword.

“Great! Just great.” Max said loudly as he dropped his sword went on one knee in pain. “Nemian I am sorry but I am going to have to end this right now. You see I just messed up my shoulder so battle’s over for you. You will be on the ground before the night is out.”

"You see you haven't seen any power of a spellsword except for normal mage tricks. I think it is time I show you a true spectacular." Max explained as he charged his sword up with fire.

Max instantly felt weak almost as if he was drunk which was unusual for him cause he almost never drank. Max had to struggle really hard and concentrate as hard as he could to keep balance. Max found this was the hardest thing he had ever done. Max couldn't concentrate hard enough and fell to the ground.

For the first time that Max had been in this arena he actually absorbed his surroundings and how beutiful it actually was. Max was lying in thick darkgreen moist grass, there were some tree's in the distance followed by the beutiful sound of a waterfall hitting a pool of water. The sound was rather relaxing.

"Wow! this place is rather beutiful." Max said while holding his sword which was on fire still and letting the nice cool breeze blow over him.

[Letho]

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