Blue Skies (Open)

[Aeshal ThunderFlight]

Neutral land, open to anyone. I'm just Level Zero.

Flinging back his head, Aeshal ThunderFlight arched his back, a sigh passing through parted lips. His shoulders rotated, moving his arms first up and then down; lithe, slender arms stretched behind him, fists clenching the clean fresh air of Althanas. Golden eyes opened to the vast expanse of the sky, slits scanning the endless blue space.

This was a world he had never before seen. It was beautiful, with its open sky and emerald grass, the land where he stood now, but monstrous as well. In his homeland, there were majestic mountains, looming cliffsides, shadowed ranges that filled the eyes with granite walls. Magic hummed and radiated from them, from the very core of their hearts. There was none of that here. Aeshal wondered how the land sustained itself – surely, it was a miracle.

Long fingers raked through his white, black-speckled hair, brushing the ruff of feathers that sprouted smoothly behind his ears. Nor had he encountered any of his own kind… or anyone else for that matter. Although as a loner it did not disturb him, it was unnerving to see no civilization, no sign as of yet of intelligent life. What was one to do?

He lowered his head, relaxing his rigid posture. I suppose, then, I should walk.

He did not often… walk. Traversing across the ground, even one so gloriously lit by the sun as these fine grasslands, was and always would be beneath him. But perhaps it had something to offer, something more than he saw in the empty sky. And thus as a strong breeze began to blow, ruffling his blue-toned clothes and massaging his face, he strode against it in dignity. His feet crushed the grass underfoot, his eyes swiveling this way and that, seeing nothing but green hills. No trees, no mountains, nothing.

No life.

He frowned to himself, still unperturbed. Interesting…

[Taskmienster]

Like the streets of Radasanth, the sanctity of the famed Citadel was in an uproar of chaos. People were trying to prepare for… whatever the civil war threatened, Lars supposed. There was an influx of warriors, mercenaries preparing to jump towards whatever side paid the most. Ethan “Lars” Calhoun was little different than the common mercenary, looking for whatever the leaders of the broken society were willing to give him for his cooperation. Or even those in charge of the opposite side of the spectrum, those whose determination was forged through the adversity. Lars admired the upstanding citizens that attempted to thwart the tyranny of a government in shambles… but it was a matter of who paid more and who was going to win in the end to Ethan.

Unlike the others common mercenaries though, Lars was a character played by a virtual reality genius (Collin McFerrin) who was on Althanas to hack the server and discover the coding. GramVR, the company Collin worked for, had given him quite a pay upgrade to fiddle with the servers of TechFront, steal their technology, and report back. The end result would be an ability to program his own server, create his own gaming community, and reap the benefits. For Collin the benefits would be grand, the chief Admin of his own site with power to do as he pleased. For GramVR it would be a step into the world of gaming, a means of yearly monetary gains that exceeded that which they received as a learning community.

The Citadel was an intricate part of his exploration.

Lars entered one of many rooms in a flash of light, a code that made him see a completely blank scene before the area the battle was going to take place in was revealed. Suspended in the white light he was given the opportunity to look around, but what he saw made no sense. As soon as the light faded he saw the arena within the room as well as the opponent he was going to fight. It was a plain field, filled with rolling hills and emerald grass. A light breeze danced across the land, making the serene grass sway with the whims of the wind. Overhead the muted light that descended did not seem to be coming from any specific point. There was no sun, but instead a dimmed light that flooded the hills with an even golden glow.

“Well, this is interesting,” he mumbled. His booted feet shifted on the soft grass and supple loam that comprised the ground beneath the sea of emerald. He smiled as the gentle breeze made his fur lined jacket swirl about his neck and tickled the base of his ears. To any that looked at him he would appear little more than a lost punk kid. His spiked black hair was streaked with white, his bottom lip was pierced through the middle, and his newly pierced ears were starting to be gauged. Adding the piercing to his leather jacket, his loose girl jeans, and a heavy steel belt buckle at his side made for a portrait of pure punk ass. “Hey hey,” he called over the breeze, “the names Lars, well Ethan but everyone calls me Lars. You ready?”

The hacker shrugged and nodded to the strange guy. His eyes were a weird golden color, his hair was white with black specks, and his skin was a golden hue. The hacker turned mercenary looked at his opponent with a respectful smile on his face. It would be a fun little battle in the famed Citadel that awaited him. He was, by far, more interested in the ‘magic’ behind the scenes than the battle itself… but that knowledge would come later.

[Aeshal ThunderFlight]

Light.

Not the smooth glow of the moon, nor the harsh radiance of the sun, but an ugly, blinding flash of white. One hand flung up to shield Aeshal’s eyes, lowering hesitantly as a young man appeared, one older than him but young nonetheless.

Aeshal’s piercing, unblinking stare roamed up and down the strange character, studying the odd dress, the strange hair, and the puzzling… objects stuck through the skin, particularly the bottom lip. He saw the fur lining his jacket and wondered for a moment if the man was perhaps a wolf Shapeshifter, but soon saw that it was not attached to his skin. Apparently, this was a simple man, a lowly groundwalker.

A close look revealed how Aeshal’s pupils dilated and thinned, like a cat’s in repeated changes of light. They seemed to flash within as the man spoke his name, laying out a word that, however simple it was, clearly conveyed the man’s intent.

He did not return the smile, but responded politely. “Lars, then.” His voice was naturally harsh; one might mistake it for rudeness – he tried to smooth it out. “Yes, I am ready. My name is Aeshal ThunderFlight PeregrineSon.” He spoke his name like a prince would, with nobility and a subtle pride.

But enough with talk.

Though his arms were naked and he wore no armor to speak of, only blue-toned silk clothes, he was fearless in every motion his actions demanded. His right hand swept to his left side, whipping out a long dirk in a silver arc, holding it slightly behind his back in a ready stance, dropping to his knees in the same, experienced motion. And as he did so, focused undaunted at his opponent, limbs spread from his back.

Fourteen feet long, webbed and lined with dark brown and black feathers, they stretched to frame his slender body. He smiled then as he felt blood rush through them, the breeze rustling the down beneath and the tips of the primaries brushing the earth. Though they ached to carry him through the open sky, he instead folded them tightly against his back, settling neatly against his skin. Codes of conduct and honor forbade him to fly in a fair battle against a groundwalker, but they would still serve a purpose.

His left hand lifted and curled – an invitation. Well, if you are not afraid, I am waiting.

[Taskmienster]

His opponents tone was like that of the Raiaeran elves Ethan had encountered in his short visit to their homelands. They had talked down to the hacker, looked at him over their upturned noses. But it was their way, the only way they knew. Still, cocksure pride was the greatest downfall Lars could see in any person or society of people. It had been the underlying factor that allowed the Forgotten One to ravage the lands. Looking at the creature before him reminded him of the high elves, he could only assume that the things tone and visage would belie a high and mighty personality that would be its downfall too.

“Aeshal,” The named rolled off Lars’ tongue as if tasting a fine wine. Like a wine tasting though, he spat it to the side as soon as the unique flavor was evident, waiting for the next experience. But the awkward taste was a lingering one, and it would take a while to rid himself of it.

His eyes were only momentarily on his opponent. Staccato shifts let him look around and keep his presence of mind on the opponent before him. He could see no obvious advantage to the arena created, could see no external element granted to him that would allow him any form of edge over Aeshal. In all truth, he thought, the grounds were extremely droll. No trees to hide within, not even a mountain looming for the pure aesthetic purpose of making the scenery more appealing.

His eyes darted to his opponent and away, but what they caught forced a double take. From the back of Aeshal wings sprouted into existence, beautiful graceful wings like those of the angelic host from Christian Mythology. What was the thing before him? He could not figure it out, but he quickly assumed that the greatest weakness of any flying animal was the loss of their wings. Lars let his thoughts amble to what he would hate most if he was in his opponents place, or in the place of any bird-like creature.

Freedom was what undoubtedly thrived in the mind of any who had the opportunity to soar through the skies. They were given the privilege by whatever freak accident was afforded them, and that benefit was most likely held closest to heart. To lose that would be degrading, shocking, with no means of retreat or advantage to be had from the cumbersome deadweight of broken wings. It was those monstrosities that sprouted so beautifully from his opponent that the hacker would focus on.

With the cliché invitation given the hacker smirked. He had weapons at the ready, blades that could be called to him at any time. His sleeves were loaded with them, so was a sheath on the outside of either leg. Weapons were not an issue, his skill with them might become one, but keeping the man on the ground would be the worst concern of all. Instead of charging headlong towards Aeshal, giving him the chance to dodge and make a mockery of the hackers meager abilities, Lars decided to move forward with a deliberate and cautious gait.

He bounced a bit like a boxer readying for the clash. His muscles loosened and readied, blood pumping through them as anticipation flooded his body with adrenaline. It fueled the fire, brought the bright smile to his face. In his nonchalant gait he sidled towards his opponent, stopping feet away before lunging forward. His heavy booted foot swung low, aimed at the outside of the things shin. Cursorily the attack was made, a test and a way to force his opponent to retaliate. Lars kept his hands up at chest level, his elbows cocked, and waited to see what would happen.

[Aeshal ThunderFlight]

Let the tale begin.

Born of magic, raised in stone. His heirlooms were the pride and honor of his family; his lineage was the sky. This was the heritage of the elite falcon shapeshifters. Even the fledglings were taught to fight. For food, for survival, and for mates. But most of all, they were trained to fight to prove they were worthy of life. From the point they were born in the nest, they fought to keep from being pushed out.

The youngest of three, Aeshal had fought and survived. He snatched the food his brothers had screeched for, nourishing his young, unhardened body. He had succeeded in catching the winds upon his first flight, the event that drove fire and savage excitement through his veins. The same primal glee that lit his mind even as Lars danced forward.

That was what it was to him – a dance. His golden eyes moved with Lars’ every movement, pupils shifting in size as the groundwalker drew closer and closer, never himself moving; only tensing. Muscles bunched and coiled together; his knuckles paled to white with the vicious grip he kept on his dirk.

When the groundwalker found fit to attack, to finally attack, so did Aeshal react in kind.

The lunge forward was to the falcon a reckless and stupid move, one that deserved no mercy and begged to be punished. Yes, this man, this worm, needed discipline, and so that would be granted. Aeshal was only too pleased to have the pleasure.

Lars’ foot swung outward. Before it reached the apex of its swing, Aeshal acted. A swift jerk manifested in a half-slide half-jump, setting him back just far enough to dodge the strike. Thus that boot would meet nothing but a millimeter of cloth. The falcon’s lithe body twisted in a spin to come up broadside to Lars. The two were parallel to each other, facing opposite directions. His right hand whipped around in half a semicircle. The dirk aimed to bury itself straight in Lars’ left side. Striking, it would sandwich itself between two rib bones, twist and draw blood…

… if Lars was so foolish as to be caught so easily. Aeshal hoped not.

All the while his wings lay flat and tight against his spine, so as to hinder neither movement nor agility, the last of which Aeshal prided himself in.

Whether Lars evaded this or not was of no concern; for the strike was made in full; a quick in-and-out thrust. Once completed in that mere instant of time Aeshal would already be withdrawing, sliding back to a tempting arm’s length from Lars, still broadside to him.

The strike, although clear in intent, was so too a test just as Lars had prepared his own analysis. So far, this was a game. A game that made Aeshal’s heart beat with joyful trepidation. His breath hissed between his teeth as he inhaled deeply. …SssSSsss…

[Taskmienster]

The lackluster kick passed harmlessly by the birdlike man. All of the hacker’s weight was on his opposite foot; leaving him flatfooted and defenseless to move if the man had chosen a different course of action. His recourse was that of a yet curious individual. A single foot dragging dodge cut into the soft loam and put Aeshal just out of range, but effectively and beneficially so for Lars as well. Though he retaliated in kind, the blade and the outstretched arm had little effect. The human angled his outstretched leg to collide with the soft grass, as soon as it did he pushed away to avoid the dagger.

The blade missed, expectantly leaving the sour hint of failure on the strange creature’s thoughts just as he had left them on Lars’ own. He allowed the pallid iron dirk to find no tangible target, leaving it to bite through empty space. His erect form was standing to the birdman’s flank, the profile of either meager targets to be had. The sprouted wings were all to welcoming though, taunting and teasing the hacker like a vile seductress. They were altogether too enticing to be ignored, and Lars took action as quickly as he could.

As soon as the man retreated the hacker allowed the mechanism up his right sleeve to become useful. Five secreted blades waited their turn patiently for their use up either sleeve; the first of the group was released from the tactical sheath. The three inch steel blade found the palm of Ethan’s hand in complete silence, leaving him with the advantage of the surprise… he hoped. In a blur of movement, the hacker dug deep, pulling at the enhanced speed he possessed in comparison to that of a common man.

His left foot remained planted, pivoting off the closer leg as he turned his body. In the same instant his right arm jerked towards his opponent and the dagger in hand glided forward. A second dagger fell to his left hand just slower than his movements, but with enough speed to leave him with a second option. The first of the steel blurs pierced the air with hardly a whisper to report its movement, aimed directly at the regal wings that rested in wait. With the right arm yet falling Lars flicked his left, letting the first daggers twin take a position directly at the man’s chest.

Should Aeshal turn to avoid the first dagger and spare his majestic boon he would only find a second dagger intended for the exposed, unarmored chest. Either of the daggers would please the smirking hacker. The first would remove those beautiful wings from play; taint the deep brown canvas with a splash of crimson. The second would plunge deep into that beating, excited heart or the organs to either side of Aeshal’s toned and nimble frame.

[Aeshal ThunderFlight]

Did the man think him a fool? For it was this that Aeshal was not and hoped never to be. Even as his slide ceased, he turned to face his enemy, tapping the dirk against the air and knowing from his prey’s smooth movement that no flesh had been broken. Truly, this was no mouse that had chosen to defy him. A twitch of a smile befell his terse lips, fading as the man pushed forward.

The blades aimed to take his life were nothing to be taken lightly, nor did Aeshal treat them as anything less than a true threat. Such were obvious lessons too many times ignored. He would make no such mistake; the teachings hardwired into his brain lit his thoughts and drove into his instincts; all his acute senses powered his muscles, his limbs, and heightened his reflexes. His eyes took in the entire form of Lars – and he moved.

His body twisted horribly, a terrible contortion of his form. His spine pulled his chest away from the first knife, so that it pierced not his fast-beating hurt but rather a portion of the skin underneath his raised arm, making a stinging but otherwise harmless cut. In sync to the second blade his head twisted to one side, the endangered wing shifting its shoulder and spreading straight as a spear behind his back, the joints cracking with the sudden strain. The weapon would pass through nothing but a tangled string of speckled hair…

And then it was his turn.

Aeshal’s arm would rotated and plunge downward to snatch the man’s right wrist, giving no mercy to his grip, twisting hard to either break the man’s wrist, to at least make him drop the blade. Likewise, he would bring the dirk upward and back to plunge the keen blade into the skin of the other wrist, hoping to lock it between the bones.

Perhaps, if he was lucky, he would note the weight that signaled the presence of other, hidden blades… but that was fate and future. That is then. This is now.

His foot lifted and slammed into the ground, widening his stance for the sake of balance and force, his head cocking back, hoping to catch the eyes of his opponent as he opened his mouth…

And released the scream.

The shriek of a hunting falcon, perhaps, if need be, even a dying one, tore through his throat, sundering the air in two. It was sharp and loud enough o make any man flinch, and at this close distance Lars would, hopefully, be no exception. It was meant as a distraction, a painful but mostly harmless experience just enough to make falter the man’s movements.

All this came into play. In this time, the cut hair would not have even touched the earth.

[Taskmienster]

The hacker’s attempts were seemingly in vain. His first assault was a test, his second an attempt at procuring an advantage. Neither attack was successful; the hint of failure was budding quickly into the sour taste of probable defeat. He needed to do more, faster, and without a hope of safety allowed for his swift prey. The speed of his opponent and the reaction time he possessed was even quicker than that which Lars could summon forth. The hacker could attack and react at a speed nearly twice that of a normal human. It was a wonder, finding one that could move so quickly as to avoid both daggers thrown, and a disappointing concept. “Fuck me,” the hacker cursed as his opponent danced through the twin knives.

His wings stretched outwards and the blade passed by the flaccid feathers. Sharp as the dagger was, it was granted only the privilege of fraying the tips of the wings. Tendrils of separated plume fell towards the ground, caught by the tender embrace of the delicate draft. The second dagger was granted a stroke against the underside of Aeshal’s arm, but it was still unsatisfactory. A shallow, empty victory was gained by the gentle caress of the blades edge. A crimson line budded against the woven silk tunic, the blood hardly staining the shifting garb. Past the birdman the blades continued, the first remaining straight and piercing the soft soil tip first, the second wavered after the light contact and bounded end over end to land on its side.

But the focus of the hacker was not on the individual daggers or where they had carried onto. His opponent was moving quickly with cruel intentions filling its hauntingly murderous eyes. Lars was forced back onto the defensive, given time to react but if only a split second. Aeshal closed the paltry distance with hand outstretched. The proximity allowed for almost no remedy to the sudden change, leaving the hacker with his only option to withdraw his arm and attempt to fill his empty hand with another blade.

As he moved and shuffled away awkwardly the worn dirk was given the chance to take blood. It would not have been first blood, that prize belonged to Lars, but the intentions of the arching blade would have caused first true damage. Unfortunately for the birdlike man thoughts were only secondary to sharp, subtle reactions. The hacker had pulled away just enough for the blade to miss the precariously difficult target, even with the breadth between the two nearly nonexistent. At the same time though, the thing had let out a terrible cry that pierced through the scattered and chaotic thoughts and shattered the sanctity of Lars’ inner mind.

He could not think, could not bring forth another dagger in the sudden surprise. His empty hands rose to his ears, trying to remove the horrid sound. But it rang through his head, the cry piercing and intrusive. Ethan’s blue-gray eyes squinted as it throbbed through the forefront of his head, his face contorted, and he left himself open for attack. So callous and wicked the shriek was, but its use was evident and did just what it was intended to do.

A purely primordial presence of mind allowed him to keep his awareness and his tear filled eyes on his opponent. He would not let go of the aggressor’s silhouette at the very least, to do so would invite his own downfall. Quick, unsteady steps attempted to pull him away from the conflict for the time being. He needed to regain his footing, regain his state of mind. If the beastly burden before him decided to lunge forward and assume the offensive he would need to be able to discern the attacks that were undoubtedly to come. The upper hand was lost, he knew that, but the battle was far from concluded.

[Aeshal ThunderFlight]

Let us end this tale.

Nearly sadistic glee poured through Aeshal’s mind, straddled between human and animalistic behavior. This man who called himself Lars was truly fun, sincere entertainment. He was not dead yet; he had drawn blood while Aeshal had not, and this was most astonishing, admirable, and exhilarating. Fully enthralled by the battle and ecstasy racing through his bones, Aeshal brought the scream to its peak in a piercing, cutting high. Long after it died it would still echo in the skull and haunt the deadened air.

Now dance!

His arm swung down as the shriek reached its most painful, bringing forward the dirk and releasing it in a smooth throw. All deadly grace and vicious intent, the blade shot down to bury itself in Lar’s leg. At the same time, his wing stretched out. Muscles crunched together, coiling hard as Aeshal bent down, bringing the wrist of his wing to slam into the side of Lars’ ill-fated cranium. Long, dark feathers would block the man’s sight as the limb came around, so that view of the dirk would be obstructed, and Aeshal’s next maneuver would be fatal.

His hands drew close to his chest. The veins on his hands filled with blood. The elegant fingers in his bones stretched and cracked. The tips burned, and the nails grew, their roots pushing through his middle knuckles.

Their translucent color deepened into a pitch black, long and curving as a falcon’s, the natural weapons he was even more adept in using than his dirk. About an inch and a half in length and hard as steel, they would easily shred Lars’ delicate flesh.

The wing, should it strike or not, snapped back and Aeshal would act.

STRIKE. His talons darted forth.

STRIKE. They hissed through the air, all ten of them, coming in different directions.

STRIKE. One came from above, the other set below.

STRIKE. He slashed at his prey – again, again, again and again – moving fast, caught in the thrill of the battle, feeling fulfilled as he could feel in no other way. Step forward and give his target no time to prepare, no time to defend, no time to draw weapons, no time to lower those hands covering those ears, no time but to reminisce on a life cut short.

Another shriek shattered the air. This one a challenge, this one of victory. His eyes were aflame; feathers sprouted and wove themselves down his sides, curling and fading as though underneath a fire as his body demanded to change in reply to the wild fury commandeering his form.

[Taskmienster]

Scream… he thought, let free the wild whims of man’s carnal nature.

Lars’ mouth split, the chapped edges stuck and rubbed against the steel ring protruding from the center of his bottom lip. The feeling went unnoticed. His mind was lost in the screech of his birdlike foe, fully consumed, controlled. It had come to a single, pressing question. Would he be willing to let the cry affect him unfettered by the tight hands that tried to mute the howl? Would he be able to? Even in his broken state he knew that it was a matter of acting rather than being forced to react. His options were limited.

Forcefully he made his arms fall, the naked hilts of a steel dagger finding the soft palms of either hand in a split second. Tear filled eyes blurred his vision. Salty streaks gave report of his slow suffering, falling from the corners of his half opened eyes and down his smooth face. They plunged from the tip of his strong chin. The feeling of the tears, the blur of vision, it did what it was intended but the hacker struggled against the distraction as much as he mentally could. No longer was the battle on a level of material, and tangible. It had evolved into a disgusting aberration of psychological stability against Ethan’s personal will… a test of individual resolve.

Ethan screamed through his open parted lips. Expelled air was finally given what primal nature craved… a voice, a roar. Fear, panic, distress, they were all aspects of the hackers response, but so too was ferocity and rage. He ducked as the wings of his opponent cut through the open air towards his head. They stroked his spiked hair, tickled the sides of his face and neck. The attempt had been close, too close. A curtain of dark brown feathers masked the silhouette of Aeshal, leaving the hacker lost to what would come next.

From the darkness of the winged partition came a dagger, the dirk the man had been wielding since the beginning of the conflict. It appeared as if from thin air. Iron glinting with the ambiguous light, like an assassin leaping from the shadows to claim its prey. Had the dagger been two feet higher it would have plunged into the chest of the hacker. The open leather coat would have done little to protect him. Instead it plunged into his thigh.

The pain was amazingly vivid. Like the powerful scent of a rose in full bloom the metallic tinge of blood suddenly filled his senses. A burning flood of emotions besieged him, absorbed him in a new world of misery. No longer did the shriek tear through his mind, only the lingering echoes of the once horrid sound remained. In their place the warm flood of torn veins, free flowing blood, and muscles tearing ripped through his body. Althanas was startlingly detailed, sparing no expense to give the gaming community not only the boons of society and the elation of success, but too the miserable reality of being stripped of one’s pride and true pain.

Without remorse the assailant lashed out. His talons, little more than clawed fingernails struck with the vigor and veracity of a man consumed by bloodlust. They mauled constantly, time and time again. Lars tried to shift, tried to escape but it was all too fast. The black nails caught the leather and split it open. His chest was wounded. His tight jeans were given multiple gashes. The vital portions of his body were protected for the most part, the dense layers, concealed beneath the leather, of Kevlar wrapped around thin steel plates deflecting the blows as much as possible.

The whispers of the silent winds were all but forgotten. Through the arena the combined bay of man and bird merged into a cacophonous wail. Ethan bellowed and followed the only action that was left to pursue… retaliate in full. His filled fists were balled around the daggers. Amidst the chaos and confusion of the rapid, relentless strikes Lars let reserve be damned and pushed towards Aeshal. The twin daggers were nothing like the natural claws of his adversary; they were longer and would do the work just as well with steel edges seeking vital organs and a true finality to the conflict.

His hands fell with all the speed he could beckon forth. The hands of the birdman continued to lash out, but Lars challenged the pain, ignored it as best he was able in favor of the rush of adrenaline, and push through. As vigorously as he could he tried to thrust inside the reach of his opponent, put Aeshal’s arms around him. Closing the distance, forcing himself into the grasp of the lithe opponent would remove his nails from use and allow the hacker to plunge his daggers into the stomach and chest repeatedly. Like his opponent he pushed with everything, not willing to relent till the last dying breath had escaped his empty lungs.

[Aeshal ThunderFlight]

As his talons tore through flesh as easily as they would through any field mouse, a perverse pleasure filled Aeshal’s bloodthirsty mind. It urged him on to rip, shred, and slice deeper and longer, to open agonizing wounds, to make them leak their hot crimson tongues of blood. Let the human burn and writhe in his death. Let him regret his own existence. Let him fall and let him die.

It is not in a falcon’s nature to be bloodthirsty as a murderer is, but he saw Lars as inferior, something to be killed for food, a natural enemy not to be missed by anything or anyone. So he felt no guilt as his talons raked up and down in an effort to take the fool’s worthless life.

For a moment, Aeshal smelled the coppery scent of blood and felt victory. In the next, he was suddenly pushed to the defensive as Lars retaliated, stepping forward instead of back, countering instead of fleeing. The twin daggers grasped in those ugly hands flickered in Aeshal’s predatory eyes and he realized that the length of those weapons, though merely still daggers, held the advantage of reach. Perhaps, after all, he should have kept hold on his dirk.

Back! Step back!

His body coiled inward, back arched. He pulled his talons back, retreating before Lars. He was lucky enough to evade the first lethal blows. He was not quick enough to escape the knife that plunged directly beneath his collarbone.

Pain crashed through his body. It awakened his mind to hard reality; he was not invincible. One hand flew up reflexively to touch the wound. The respective arm crossing over his chest blocked a second strike. It would have killed him. Instead, the blade sliced cleanly below his wrist. It passed through the bone. A shallow cut was opened in his unarmored chest. The pain…

…was swift in coming.

He screeched, an eerie cry between a falcon’s scream and that of a human. He stumbled backward, narrowly avoiding death. His talons swiped clumsily at Lars twice before pure animal instinct took over. His wings snapped open Feathers scattered and fell. Their muscles flexed, throwing the limbs into frantic motion. A desperate beat forced them back and forward, catching hold of a low wind. His feet left the ground as he flew backwards a scant inch above the ground, skidding to a halt ten feet away.

He fell to one knee, gasping as blood poured from the injuries, his once-focused thoughts scattered. The fine cloth of his tunic grew dark and damp; the skin of one of his bare arms became slick; red beads fell listless to water the grass; his eyes burned with tears. His speckled hair fell across his face as he gasped for air that did nothing to lessen the throbbing, unforgiving pain.

He had never been hurt like this before. For the first time, he didn’t know what to do.

Taking more unsteady steps back, Aeshal thought of how pathetic he must look; he looked like a human boy now, not the proud falcon he was raised to be. Furious shame seared his mind. His wavering eyes squeezed shut and opened again, settling on Lars. Pathetic… pathetic.

Hate smoldered in his stare, nearly palpable in its intensity. Blood continued to slide down his body, dripping from his elbow; he felt this, but he felt the blood on his fingers too, blood that wasn’t his but belonged to the disgusting human locked in his gaze.

“Larsssss…”

[Taskmienster]

The blades bit through the bare, unarmored target with little problem. They etched and tore through the skin and silk as if it was not present. A dagger dug deep below the birdman’s collar bone and Lars could feel the slick muscle give way to the delicate edge of his knife, could feel the tightly wedged blade as it was clenched by unwilling and bleeding muscle. Blood slipped effortlessly from the dire wound, staining the silk black with its flow. The sensation would have made his stomach roll in disgust had his adrenaline not been present. The smell of a metallic tinge, the feel of blade touching bone, the pure unadulterated rage that filled him, it would have been too much to handle. Instead a sly grin slipped across his face despite the well of pain that resided within him. It was just in time for the second blade to swipe across Aeshal’s wrist and issue forth more blood.

A hauntingly discordant combination of human and bird screamed in pain as his wings unfurled. Majestically the power and prestige of the dangerous foe was brought into play. Lars was at an impasse. His world was turned upside down, but what he saw before him made his muted screams still. It was a sight that could inspire the most masterful of artistic endeavors, an idealistic representation of an angel of heavenly breed, the material representation of an envisioned dream. In a different circumstance it would have been a visual foundation for any classically based sculptor to expand upon. In the current state of affairs, however, the display took on the tone of something pathetic and weak. The man’s wings were used for nothing more than a cowardly withdrawal from a clash he was not winning.

The hacker was weary of his brawl, his wounds were growing more and more severe with each pass between the two, and his only means of movement had been effectively halted. The dirk that protruded from his leg sent echoes of bone chilling pain throughout his worn body. He was truly at a loss for what to do. The lithe Aeshal had escaped his grasp, and given himself too much room between the two. Truly he had been wounded and left without a means of retaliation for any extended period of time, or so the hacker assumed. Lars would have rushed after him, but the endeavor would have been fruitless at best, and with the use of one of his legs gone he was able to do nothing but hobble.

His eyes darted to the grounds between the two. The soft loam was streaked and grooved by the jarring clash of opponents. Soft green grass was uprooted and torn apart. Small pools of crimson filled grooves made by weighted feet, being slowly absorbed by the rich soil. There were no obstructions such as rocks or roots to block the path between the two. It was an open field and unfortunately left Ethan with little choice in use for means of security or assault. His head slowly moved upwards to lock with the golden eyes of his hissing adversary. In that second he saw an equal, an inferior, and a victor all at once. Multiple paths that could take place in the final minutes found his thoughts, scattered and unorganized they assailed. He pushed them aside with the notion of goading to his opponent to attack instead.

“Come on then you stupid fuck!” He shouted through pursed lips. “You want to end this? You want to fuckin’ kill me? Then do it, I’m at your mercy.” There was no expectation for the hacker to attack; the dirk had struck too deep. Throwing daggers at Aeshal as he had initially started to do had done little to satisfy him or end the battle. With his opponent so wounded though, and his own mobility unquestionably limited, he had no choice. The daggers in his hands were flung forward towards a regal wing and the injured body of the beast. Immediately after the release two more found his soft palms. Should they strike he would be elated, more likely they would be avoided and leave him with the sour taste of defeat once again though.

[Aeshal ThunderFlight]

With each passing moment the pain intensified. His lungs shook with the effort it took to draw breath after agonizing breath, and the image of Lars wavered slightly in his dulled sight. Without a doubt he knew that the fight would end soon. Without a doubt, he knew his next actions would determine if he lived or died.

It was ironic. When he had entered this land, he did not expect to fight for his life. Then again, was that not the destiny of all living things? To battle forever to survive? Prey and predator.

His eyes narrowed as a vicious thought struck across his mind. He would not be the prey. The very notion of it enraged him, strengthened him, and made him determined to ignore the pain and plow on, on and on until he was either dead or stood victorious over the pathetic being before him. Ideally, the outcome would turn to the latter, and by the gods, he would fight for it.

He did not hesitate, did not wait for Lars to even finish his short monologue. He took a step forward, a quick instant of moment…

And changed.

He let loose the carnal savagery boiling within him, releasing the reins he held it by. He let it run wild through his veins, sending it dashing through his blood. The hair falling down his back seemed to melt into his skin as his clothes seemed to transform into a soft white down. His eyes widened, the golden irises fluxing, dilating, and shifting into pitch black. His body coiled in upon itself, his arms lowered themselves over his knees, the four limbs seeming to melt and join into a single pair that grew armored plates of dull yellow. This same yellow flickered a cross his face too, a protrusion of bone taking the place of his mouth and nose, curving into a menacing hook.

The shift from human to falcon was executed swiftly in the time it took to blink. The speed thus changed the grotesque melting of flesh and limbs into something strangely full of grace. Feathers burst over his body, scattering in the air even as his body diminished from his imposing height to a very small merlin-sized peregrine falcon. The bird’s markings weren’t even fully mature.

This was exactly the point. It made him harder to hit. The daggers flung soon thereafter flitted by him, slicing only air.

The wounds followed him of course, but were scaled to his size, remaining more or less in the same place. One leg hurt, but his wings were still sound. His chest hurt too. It mattered not. He spread wide his wings, catching a thermal, and shot skyward. Even in this situation, he nearly lost himself in the intoxication of flight, blasting through the air as fast as his wings could carry him. He wasn’t at all near the speed his elders could achieve – what did it matter? The sun was bright, and he closed his eyes against it as he measured Lars distance from him and the concealing glare of the sun. It might seem as though Aeshal had chosen to flee.

Not so.

The wind split open before him, embracing him. A pleasurable, low whistle left his beak. His tail flared as he slowed to a near halt…

And fell.

His wings collapsed against his sides and he let the power of gravity do his work for him. A diving falcon could reach a speed of one hundred miles per hour. He did not reach this speed, but the simple act of falling in and of itself would be sufficient. The tips of his wings strafed him easily left and right, small adjustments as he fell upon Lars, hidden by the harsh sunlight. Hopefully, the moment his silhouette would be revealed, it would be much too late for the human.

The instant he would reach Lars, he would blink back from a bird to a much heavier young person.

His arms split from his legs, the feathers over his body raining down, obstructing sight. The wounds followed his change – he ignored it as best he could as he slashed wildly at Lars’ eyes, shrieking as he did so. The knuckles in his fingers cracked as he brought the talons forward and down, slashing at anything, everything, within range. Lars would not only have to deal with the weight of a man over six feet tall on him, but the steel-hard claws as well.

It was possible that this last-ditch attack would claim Aeshal’s life as payment. Lars was no opponent to laugh at. But that was the pride of the falcon race. Never admit defeat. Kill your prey, or become the prey.

[Taskmienster]

The razors edge was sharper, more honed, and digging in deep. Egos were heated, the conflict between the two had reached a pinnacle, and Lars had cast aside conscious thought. His face was flush with pure crimson rage. Veins throbbed in his forehead; they stood out against his thin neck as he screamed at his opponent. But what use was it? The daggers were streaking through the air intent on the kill, but caught only the whipping winds. The hacker clenched his teeth and ground them as he growled his discontent at his shifting opponent. There was nothing left but to give in to the failure that had consumed him.

The asshole was gone before Lars could think.

“Flee you fuckin’, weak piece of shit!” He screamed after the bird, his eyes strained against the light of the sun. Following the creature’s ascent was near impossible, but he did his best until the small black blur was lost in an overpowering brilliance of the artificial sunlight. The sweat that beaded on his brow slipped down his strained face. It was scorching. His jacket was torn and tattered, but remained firmly in place and uncomfortably so. His wounds were throbbing and in the complete entropy of the twisted battle he had become intricately trapped in he had all but forgotten that it was all a simulation. Mind consumed, thoughts engulfed, he waited for the end with ragged breath and all hope lost.

When the man fell, and dropped mid-shift towards the unenthused and broken hacker, Ethan released all whims of victory. Quivering, white-knuckled hands rose to the already defeated man. The blades glimmered with the light, as if hope still lingered for the hacker, but reality had taken its toll. The growing blur of the half man, half bird grew and Lars did the only thing that he could… his arms stretched out as if to embrace the falling foe. Instead the daggers plunged into the pectoral muscles of Aeshal, just as the man crashed violently together with his rival.

The two dropped to the ground together in a mix of feathers, silk, blood, and sweat.

Lars’ arms buckled, but would not bend. His will was pushed into the last pulsing and worn muscles in his outstretched arms, even as his body fell. The bones popped and cracked, his elbows began to push the wrong way and the world began to fade. He closed his eyes and let the reality of Althanas slip away in a sheet of white, a miasma of lost senses. By the time his arms turn inwards, his elbows snapped and pain was so powerful he could not feel anything, he was already dying. His back smashed into the ground with the full weight of his opponent atop him. His head thudded against the soft loam, but it was not soft enough to stop his skull from cracking with the impact.

It did not matter anyway.

His life had escaped him, whether he had taken his opponent with him could neither be a thought nor a concern.

((Since my opponent is mysteriously absent and I wanted to submit this battle, I went ahead and threw up a final post to get it all done…))

[Witchblade]

There was no specific judging asked for this battle and seeing as how one of the opponents dropped out; I felt it deserved only numbers. Taskmienster, I will say a few things though in case you wanted some criticism. Sometimes when you are describing what your character is doing during the battle, you get lost in an all to easy description that leaves the reader slightly confused and not knowing where exactly he is or how he got there. Your setting tends to get lost as you describe the motions of your character and neither of you even tried to use the setting to your advantage or disadvantage. I realize it was rather bland, but even so, dirt is dirt and grass is grass. Trip on it, fling it at each other, do something with it instead of just occasionally reminding the reader it’s there with another brief description of how green it is.

Aeshal

Storyline

Continuity: - 5

Setting: - 6.5

Pacing: - 5

Character

Dialogue: - 6.5

Action: - 6

Persona: - 6

Writing Style

Mechanics: - 6

Technique: - 6

Clarity: - 6

Wild Card: - 4

Total: 57



Taskmienster

Storyline

Continuity: - 6.5

Setting: - 6.5

Pacing: - 6

Character

Dialogue: - 7

Action: - 6

Persona: - 7

Writing Style

Mechanics: - 7

Technique: - 6

Clarity: - 6.5

Wild Card: - 5

Total: 63.5

Taskmienster wins!

Rewards:

Tasmienster receives 1000 experience and 400 GP!
Aeshal receives 300 experience and 140 GP!

[Witchblade]

EXP and GP added!