Of Scientists and Saints (Open to One)

[FeanBough]

He’d been putting off coming to the Citadel as long as possible. The boy wasn’t a fighter, he was a scientist, and the thought of hurting someone without reason made his stomach churn. But, after a few weeks on Althanas his reason made itself known. On a trip outside the city limits Fean had the ‘pleasure’ of a surprise meeting with a few local ruffians. The introduction left the Biomancer with a black eye, bloodied lip, and the realization that at his current level he was basically just waiting around for the guillotine to drop. Whether the blade took the shape of a giant spider, opportunistic thief, or pissed-off ogre, only one thing was certain – it would chop off his head like a pickled fetal pig in basic biology class.

Thusly motivated, Fean made the long walk to the Citadel, a journey made even longer by the fact that he stopped to inspect about ten species of cricket along the way. One had an unusually large number of stridulitrum and Fean considered abandoning his quest to study it in more detail. But then the thing bit him (which sparked a whole new world of curiosity because crickets don’t normally bite), and it actually hurt, which made him think of his black eye, which made him even more determined to reach the Citadel.

Thusly re-motivated, Fean completed the short part of the long walk to the Citadel, a journey made even quicker by the fact that he wanted to find a band-aid. The sign at the gates read: Fight in any arena imaginable!, which Fean also found devastatingly intriguing. Getting knocked on his rump didn’t sound so bad if it meant he could see how that particular feat was accomplished.

Inside a cloaked and hooded monk showed him down a candle-lit hallway. Fean wondered idly if it was a man or woman, but resisted the urge to touch it and find out. At the end of the passageway was what he could only describe as a portal, elliptical in shape, and shimmering like the surface of a pond in mid-summer. The monk stepped aside, motioning with a silent hand for Fean to enter.

Summoning his courage, Fean closed his eyes and stepped across the threshold. In his mind he conjured a picture of a laboratory, complete with specimen jars full of preserved two-headed goats, baby black dragons, and other, stranger creatures. Burners and beakers lined the tables, some bubbling in the midst of experiments while other sat ready to be used in great scientific breakthroughs. Bioluminescent orbs lit the room, casting red, green, and blue light across stacks of papers and measurement tools. He would feel at home in such a setting, and maybe his training would allow him to use the environment to his advantage.

When Fean opened his eyes things were not at all what he expected and the sight caused his knees to weaken and his heart race. Instead of a laboratory he stood in a great cathedral, awash in the light of two-dozen stained-glass windows. Vaulted ceilings grasped covetously at the sky and rows upon rows of polished wood benches lined the floor. Carvings of saints and martyrs looked coldly down on him from rococo niches in the walls. At the head of the cathedral was a great, raised platform adorned with an altar of polished gold. On the altar rested a golden bowl, knife, and star – all symbols of The Church in his homeworld.

Above the altar lay the greatest affront of all – an enormous and intricately designed stained-glass window of a dying man. The man, grasping feebly at the air, was his former mentor and friend, Halstryn. Halstryn was surrounded by a nimbus of green and blue energy that was being ripped from his body by some unseen force. It was how Fean pictured his mentor’s death when he lay awake at night.

Saddened, but somehow also strengthened, Fean stepped forward into the light from that window, the garish and cruel colors burning away his insecurities and lighting a fire in his breast.

Perhaps the monks knew how to get the boy to fight after all…

[A Nony Mouse]

The Citadel: a place of untold mystery and a battleground for the strongest in all Althanas. And here stood Travis Kiltias in front of it. The architecture alone was breath-taking; so much time and energy had gone into its creation. The adventurer walked through the main doors and into the battle hall. He strolled up to the desk and leaned against it, waiting for a monk to attend him. Soon a hooded cleric walked over and asked Travis about the type of fight he was looking for.

"Something unpredictable," he answered. "But perhaps against a newcomer like myself?" The monk merely nodded and started off down the hall. Despite the quiet cleric's small stature, Travis almost broke into a jog to keep up. Finally they stopped in front of a portal bearing the name Fean Bough. "Here goes nothing," he said as he stepped through.

The world swirled around him and when Travis was finally able to focus again, he was sitting on a wooden bench of some sort. Before him there were rows and rows of the seats, but behind him loomed a great oaken door. The walls seemed to go on forever, reaching up and finally coming together in a great vaulted ceiling. The sight nearly nauseated the traveler and he gripped the sides of the bench to keep from toppling over. Stained glass colored the light that flooded through the windows and shafts of red and blue cut through the still air. Travis sensed a somber mood in the air around him and he rose from the bench to explore his surroundings.

As he walked slowly down the wide aisle between the rows of wooden benches, Travis saw the glimmer of gold from the front of the room. Squinting against the sunlight in his eyes, he tried to make out what he was seeing. A man about Travis' age stood gaping at the altar and its stained glass window. Apparently they held some meaning for him, for Travis couldn't understand the significance of anything on the raised platform.

"Warrior," Travis called in greeting from his place in the center of the cathedral. "Are we to do battle?" Travis took up a fighting stance with his cypress pole as the young man turned to face him. Here goes...

[FeanBough]

The newcomer’s greeting broke Fean from his reverie, shattering the parade of rage-tinted memories playing out in his mind. He offered one last, hard look at the stained glass window and pivoted to face the challenger. His eyes were steeled but the slight quiver in his voice betrayed the nervousness he could not fully banish.

“We are,” he said simply as he dropped into a stance that loosely resembled the fighting position of his adversary. “My name is Fean.”

The time for words was over and Fean replaced conversation with movement, taking measured steps to his left in an effort to circle his opponent. He would have preferred to allow the warrior to make the first move, but plans had a way of making themselves during a battle. For a moment he only circled, tying to take stock of the warrior and formulate some strategy that wouldn’t result in the man decorating his weapon with the Biomancer’s grey matter. As he moved he thought of Halstryn, his former mentor, and of his own father, dead from the Plague. Both men had a habit of quoting proverbs and one seemed particularly apt in the current situation: sometimes the straightest path is best.

His right hand darted to the thick leather belt around his waist, freeing a glass vial from a pocket near his hip. Three quick steps took him closer to his opponent and he launched the vial at the pole-wielding man’s chest. Fean had always been a good aim and over the years it had become better from days and nights of netting small animals for study. But today, whether because of nerves or just plain inexperience, the vial sailed off to the right, missing the fighter by nearly six inches. Still, fate was kind and the vial struck the wooden bench next to the warrior and exploded into blinding white and blue light.

Praying the flash bomb was enough to temporarily disorient his opponent, Fean closed the distance between the two with a powerful sprint. As he ran he leaned his head and right shoulder down and forward, tucking his arm near his chest, his weight and the momentum of his charge turning his body into a battering ram. Clenching his teeth in anticipation of the collision, Fean punched his shoulder forward at the last moment, hoping to catch the man in his solar plexus with the blow.

It wasn’t a pretty move, nor was it an attack any fighter would recommend, but Fean’s arsenal was small and his battle experience very limited. It was just going to have to work.

[A Nony Mouse]

“We are,” answered the strangely garbed man standing before the altar. He added, “My name is Fean,” before beginning to circle to his left. Then, his adversary changed tactics, walking straight toward Travis instead. What is this guy’s deal? And what’s his weapon? Travis held his ground uneasily as the mysterious man closed in. Almost as if in answer to his silent questioning, the man hurled a small glass vial at Travis. Luckily it sailed wide of its intended target, because the action had been too fast for Travis to block. He’s quick, Travis conceded. I’ll give him that. A split second later, however, a blinding flash dazed the fighter. Lights erupted across his vision, already obscured by the colored sunlight shining in through the stained glass windows. Travis reached out with his pole, using it to steady himself. Just as he began to regain his vision, his foe was upon him.

Shoulder lowered in the hope of body-slamming Travis to the floor, Fean smashed full-on with his opponent. Still not fully aware of what was happening, Travis stumbled back. As he lost his balance, his hands grasped the man’s collar and jerkin in a desperate plea for stability. But it was no use; Fean simply crashed down on top of Travis as both men fell to the floor of the cathedral. The combination between the blow and the weight of his opponent left Travis momentarily unable to breath. As new lights erupted in the corners of his vision, he struck out blindly with his feet, hoping to get the man off him. This isn't what you bargained for! his mind screamed. What he needed to do was get some distance between himself and his adversary, but how?

Gasping for air, Travis tried to collect his wits. It was no use, Fean had him pinned.

[FeanBough]

Fean’s plan worked just as he had hoped. His shoulder smashed into Travis’ midsection, sending both the warrior and the scientist to the ground in a tangle of limbs. Fean even managed to somehow stay on top of his opponent, but there was still one tiny problem – his plan worked just as he had hoped. Now Fean realized why fighters didn’t go around tackling each other every time someone threw down the proverbial gauntlet.

What am I supposed to do now?

His only real option was to press the advantage and try to score a quick knockout before his opponent regained composure. But how, Fean thought. Maybe if I break his clavicle. It heals fast and most fractures severely limit movement in the attached… Much to Fean’s annoyance his brainstorming session was cut short when one of Travis’ kicks landed squarely on his kneecap. Pain shot up and down his leg and the Biomancer pulled sharply away from Travis, his hands instinctively moving toward his knee.

Unfortunately his body was in an odd position and the sudden movement of his hands, which had until now had been holding onto Travis’ arms and supporting much of his own weight, caused the Biomancer to loose balance. In order to keep his footing Fean had to shift all his weight back onto his legs, freeing Travis’ arms and upper body.

Letting go of a pinned opponent in the middle of a fight wasn’t a great tactic, but it did have the fortunate side effect of freeing up Fean’s hands. He reached for a scalpel on his Kit. Speed would determine the course of this round.

[A Nony Mouse]

Finally, a frantic kick connected with the strange man pinning Travis to the ground. He grunted in pain and let go of Travis to instinctively grasp his knee. And that was all Travis needed. As the man reached for something on his belt, Travis set his pole on the wooden benches to either side of him so that it spanned the aisle. With his heaving lungs still gasping for air, he quickly pulled himself back out of the man’s range and into a crouching position. It was awkward, but Travis had given himself nearly five feet of room between himself and his adversary. Both men locked eyes, Fean wielding a small knife of some kind and Travis rising slowly to his feet while brandishing his cypress pole. Not wanting the crazed fighter to attack him as he had earlier, Travis decided to go on the offensive. His pole thrust toward the man’s face; effectively maintaining the distance between the two fighters while attempting to incapacitate his opponent. If only I could figure out his weapon! Travis silently chastised himself as the pole closed in on Fean.

[FeanBough]

Speed decided this portion of the battle and Travis was clearly the winner. Fean watched with bewilderment as the young warrior vaulted himself to a standing position with an ingenious use of his polearm. For a split second they stood across from each other, each gauging the other’s actions and weighing possible courses of action. Fean could almost hear the ivory saints laughing at him as they measured his puny scalpel against the more dangerous weapon of his adversary. The light in the room, though bright and colorful, cast a sharp and deadly pall over the battling men. Something in Fean’s gut told him the battle may already be lost as he had wasted his opportunity to land the deciding blow.

All these thoughts and observations swirled madly in Fean’s mind, blurring his eyes and clenching his muscles. Travis, sensing an opening, thrust the butt of his pole at Fean’s face. Fean’s reaction was a moment too slow. He managed to tilt his head to the side, but the pole glanced his cheek bone, sending a wave of pain through his body. The pole followed the ridge of his bone and struck his ear, tearing the fragile cartilage and releasing a flow of hot blood.

Fean stumbled back, as much from shock as from his desire to put some distance between himself and the pole-wielding devil. The scalpel fell from his fingers as he reeled. Blood ran down his face, collecting in a tiny pool around the side of his neck where the Living Cloak was attached and staining the top of his shirt and jerkin. Violent red drops also decorated the ground. His face was already beginning to swell from the blow to his cheekbone, though the Biomancer instinctively sensed that nothing was broken.

The vision in left eye would become more and more compromised as the swelling increased and Fean knew he needed to act before it became too much of a liability. He drew another scalpel and a second vial from his Kit and launched them both in succession. The vial, while identical to the first in appearance, had a much different effect. It struck the ground in front of Travis and erupted in a cloud of green, acrid smoke. The smoke billowed around Travis, the stinging vapors reaching hungrily for his eyes, nose and mouth. The scalpel sailed into the cloud, the wicked point aiming straight for Travis’ chest.

Fean knew the small weapon wouldn’t pierce the warrior’s armor, even if it somehow managed to strike blade-first, but it wasn’t meant to kill, only to distract. Again Fean rushed forward. He didn’t fear the chemical cloud as he’d built immunity to its effects by exposing himself to it in small increments. It would still hamper his vision, but he could deal with that. All he needed to do was get close enough to use his only true weapon, though at this level his aspect manifestation was more suited to defense than attack. Still, if he found the right opening some of his more creative maneuvers could prove useful.

[A Nony Mouse]

The pole connected, glancing off bone and slicing into Fean’s ear. Travis recovered quickly, pulling his weapon back to himself and readying for a counter-attack. But none came. Travis’ attack had caught the man by surprise and now it seemed that the sight of his own blood drove Fean to reassess his strategy. Travis saw the man’s eyes snap from shock to steeled determination, a look that he knew well. Using the brief respite to quickly take stock of his surroundings in his peripherals, the adventurer made a mental catalog of the parts of the landscape he could use to his advantage. The battle was becoming very hit-and-miss; one of them landed a blow and then they took a few precious seconds to recover. Travis knew that if he could press any advantage, he might have a better chance at winning.

A flash of light from a projectile caught his attention as Fean launched a few more small objects at him. He stepped back as a glass vial shattered on the floor and green smoke billowed forth. It effectively created a wall between the two warriors, making Travis all the more on edge. At any moment, he expected the crazed fighter to come plunging through for another body slam. So when Travis sensed movement in the roiling mist, he swung his pole out to meet the threat. The next few moments passed as if they were hours; the gleaming scalpel blade sliced through the green smoke like the bow of a ship through fog. The cypress pole, expecting a larger target, missed the scalpel by a considerable margin. The blade continued through the air and connected with flesh, slicing through the tendons of Travis’ right wrist.

The world snapped sharply into focus as he screamed with the agony, releasing his grip on the pole. It clattered to the floor and Travis fell to his knees, his left hand clasping his right wrist. Don’t anticipate, Travis remembered one of his tutors telling him. Act in the moment and act out of the moment. Never anticipate. While that advice would have served him well a few seconds earlier, it now echoed in his mind as a cruel mockery of his plight.

[FeanBough]

Fean couldn’t see the scalpel cut Travis’ wrist but he heard the man’s yell followed closely by the sound of wood striking the flagstone floor. Truthfully, Fean was surprised. The scalpels weren’t balanced for throwing and he hadn’t really expected to do any damage with the attack. Taking the fortunate turn of events as a sign, Fean continued his forward charge, barreling through the wall of green smoke.

As he passed through the smoke he called on the oak vita interphased with his cloak. In response to his silent call the cloak shivered and changed form, two thin tendrils of living tissue extending from the sides of the garment to wrap around his arms. Like some alien parasite the tendrils melted into his flesh, sparking a change in his basic biological structure. His clenched fists and forearms took on the appearance of gnarled, ancient wood, hardening to look like limb-shaped branches. In order to retain his range of movement he stopped the manifestation short of his elbows, choosing to retain the muscle and bone in that part of his body.

When he was within range he lashed out with two brutal punches, first with his left hand then his right, aiming for Travis’ jaw and gut. The punches, while swift and strong, were clumsy and predictable to one practiced in reading body language. If they connected they would do so with the strength of an oaken cudgel; if they missed Fean would be open to a counterattack.

[A Nony Mouse]

The pain was nearly unbearable, but Travis couldn’t let his opponent win so easily. Fortune had been conspiring against him the entire battle; it was time he took his fate into his own hands. As a mutated Fean leapt from the smoke, Travis reached down to pick up his pole. The man’s punches were aimed high; he had apparently expected Travis to still be standing. The cypress pole rose to meet the oncoming fist and deflected the blow at the last second. Carried by his momentum, Fean flew past Travis. The cloak on his back seemed to have become a part of him; meshing with his arms and lending him the incredible strength he had just showed. That’s his weapon? Travis thought. Mutation?

The open back of his opponent was the perfect opportunity to strike and Travis wasted no time. He wrapped his left arm around the pole in order to grip it properly and leapt after his opponent. His target was Fean’s spine and he brought his entire body weight to bear behind the pole. Such force spread over such a small impact on such a sensitive part of the body was sure to do some damage. Unless he’s got more tricks in that cloak…

[FeanBough]

Fean swung madly at the red-hired warrior, his club-like arms barreling through the air like battering rams. He was expecting resistance but when he met none the forward momentum of his attack carried him past Travis into the rows of mahogany benches. From the corner of his eye he saw Travis reach for his staff and tried to pivot to place himself in a position to defend. Again he was too slow and pain, like a hundred thousand fire ants warring in his veins, erupted from a point just below his shoulder blades. He screamed. The choked, agonizing cry echoed madly through the cathedral, the building’s natural acoustics amplifying the sound so that it seemed to grow and rush back upon him with the strength of an army, the pain and sound combining to force him to his knees and then fully to the ground.

Feebly he tried to stand but could not. Each weak attempt left him exhausted and prostrate. The laughing saints now jeered and heckled. Stay down, they said in his mind. This is where you belong – laid out before our God. A sacrifice. Fean could feel Travis closing in to deliver the final blow, his vitasense telling him that the warrior was only a few feet away. His hands, now flesh and bone, grasped the prayer benches and he willed his arms to pull. He slid forward in slow inches but it was not enough. He could not run; he could not escape. Pain clouded his mind and any thoughts of strategy and attack fell prey to the savage onslaught. His only clear intention was to stop the agony spreading through his body.

Something in his mind reacted to that most basic desire. The magic infusing his soul flared to life, bringing with it sharp smells of blood and sweat. As vita flooded into his olfactory organs the life essence that supported his nerves waned, resulting in a cool blanket of numbness that spread through his limbs like a miraculous balm. The pain stopped, deadened by his reactive use of the evolutionary technique.

Fean gulped down air in thankful breaths, reveling in momentary respite. The joy was short-lived though, as Travis closed the last few inches between them. Hoping the movement would catch the warrior off-guard, Fean flipped onto his back and grabbed the lip of the bench on his right. He quickly pulled himself into a sitting position and rolled forward onto his knees. Both is hands shot out and grabbed onto Travis’ legs. Again the Cloak shivered and melted into his skin. This time his fingers grew and twisted, elongating into green and brown roots that snaked around Travis’ legs, rushing upward to his torso and reaching for his arms. For the first few moments the roots were mere filaments, easily breakable, but as seconds passed they would thicken and tighten, threatening to crush the warrior in their earthen embrace.

[A Nony Mouse]

Caught by surprise on account of his opponent’s sudden actions, Travis could only watch as small tendrils began running up his body, threatening to encapsulate him. Instinct spurred his actions; he began pulling at the roots, tearing them off his body. But no matter how fast he ripped them off, more grew in their place. He began to panic, his actions spurred by the realization that he was going to die. The seconds ticked by and the roots continued to wind their way toward Travis’ chest, thickening as they did. Struck by the realization that he had to act, Travis twisted his body to run away from the mage and put some distance between him and the tenacious roots.

But as he tried to command his legs to act, he saw that they were firmly anchored to the floor. It was as if he were a Halfling; part tree and part human. Chuckling in despair at the hopeless thought, the red-haired warrior felt sweat pouring from him. Try as he might, there was nothing he could do against the barrage of nature that his enemy threw at him.

Screaming in agony, Travis felt a small tendril snake its way down his throat. Biting at the green wood of the freshly formed root, he desperately tried to stop its progress. But to no avail. In seconds, his body was immobilized on the outside and oaken roots had pierced every major organ and virtually shut him down from the inside. Only his mind remained intact, every pain receptor firing simultaneously as his body went into shock.

Then, blissfully, there was white.

~~

When he woke, Travis felt phantom pain as his mind continued to fight off the overwhelming tide of insidious roots. But when his eyes snapped open, he realized that they were gone. He was free of their wooden prison and back in a room of the Citadel. Coughing violently as he tried to sit up, the red-haired adventurer rubbed his eyes and groaned. Although his body felt as though nothing had happened to it, the vestiges of the battle were fresh in his mind. Mentally, he felt as though he had just been thrown from a tree and smacked into every branch on the way down.

It would be awhile before he visited the Citadel again.

The door to the room opened and an Ai’Bron monk stepped through. “Greetings, Mister Kiltias. I trust that you found the arena and opponent to your liking?”

“Yes,” Travis muttered as best he could. “It was fine… what happens next?”

The robed man chuckled lightly and strode across the room. “We will review your battle and determine a winner. Then you will both be notified on the outcome of this judgment. Please do not leave the Citadel before we contact you.”

After a few more brief explanations, the man turned to leave. “Oh,” he said with his hand on the doorknob and his back to Travis. “We were unable to remove one of the roots from your body without causing further damage. Please accept our apologies.” And before Travis could react, the man was gone.

Running his hands over his body, the red-haired adventurer searched frantically for the stray root. It came from his underneath his sternum and snaked its way against his chest before disappearing into the base of his neck. Fean had left his mark forever.

[AdventWings]

"Greetings, warriors who seek contest within the Citadel. We have determined the victor of this match and we are pleased to announce it to both of you at this moment.

The results are as follow:

Feanbough

Story
Continuity - 7
Setting - 5
Pacing - 7

Writing Style
Mechanics - 7
Technique - 6
Clarity - 7

Character
Dialogue - 7
Action - 7
Persona - 8

Misc
Wild Card - 7

FINAL SCORE – 68!

A Nony Mouse

Story
Continuity - 5
Setting - 5
Pacing - 4

Writing Style
Mechanics - 7
Technique - 5
Clarity - 6

Character
Dialogue - 5
Action - 6
Persona - 7

Misc
Wild Card - 5

FINAL SCORE – 55!

"We are pleased to announce that Feanbough has won this match.

"We thank you both for participate in worshipping within this sacred arena. We hope to see you with us again in the future."

((Feanbough receives 575 EXP and 690 GP. However, the Ai'Bron monks were unable to recover two of his scalpels used in the combat arena.Feanbough also loses two of his chemical vials (Flash Compounds and Weak Acid) in battle.

A Nony Mouse receives 200 EXP and 173 GP. He also receives the wound... How permanent the damage would be is the person's own decision.))

[Witchblade]

EXP and GP added!