Mathias
07-28-08, 07:25 PM
(closed to Melancor)
Mathias had once heard a myth, a long time before he'd ever stepped foot in the Citadel whilst he was a slave to the undead sorcerer, Morian. It was a superstition that, inevitably, all fighters were drawn to the Citadel to do battle with one another - that there was some supernatural gravity, governing every warrior to seek eachother out. Regardless of whether it was true or not, fighting in the Citadel was something of a warrior's rite...
And to be free, as he was, Mathias felt that it was his time to test himself on his own terms. When he was a slave, he'd been here twice, fighting men who now seemed like only small fragments of a hardly memorable past. But, those were tests to determine his worth as an assassin... as a weapon to be used for whatever schemes that the arch-lich had in mind.
Now was a very different time... he needed to gauge his own skills, because he now had an obligation to protect his friends from the Blackhood Syndicate which had become mortal enemies of the Scara Scourge and other crime groups in Scara Brae, and he also had a desire to become stronger, so that one day he could stand toe-to-toe with Morian Fleshbane and come out victorious. And thus, he was drawn back to the Citadel, where other memories from what seemed to have been another life lingered around.
How many times am I going to be struck with amnesia? he thought wryly to himself. Maybe I just have shit for a memory...
A monk approached him and bowed, with Mathias returning the gesture. The scholar of Ai'bron then beckoned him to follow, leading the planeswalker down a series of halls that he knew would lead to the arena. "Do you have any preferences for your battlefield?" the monk asked him. Mathias thought about it for a moment. "Then it shall be prepared for you," said the monk, his emotionless, yet polite voice cutting through Math's imagination.
How they were able to know these things, he couldn't even fathom, but he guessed it mattered very little in the end. As he continued his musings, he found himself before a large double-door. The monk bade him farewell, and Mathias faced the door. It opened before a mere push of his hand, without much force being put into it. Inside was an extremely plain room that suddenly melted away and began to take shape as he walked into it.
The door closed behind him, and before he realized it, the room had changed into a large, open space. Looking down, he saw his feet supporting him atop a fluffy, cotton-like ground, and he surveyed the arena around him. "A battle in the skies," he noted out loud. The planeswalker affirmed that he and his opponent would be fighting on the clouds.
He started to stretch a little bit. Using his body as his sole weapon, he had to be prepared for strenuous activity. He had no blades or anything of the sort - he preferred the intimacy of hand to hand combat - he could see his enemy's eyes, he could hear him breathe... he could savor every emotion that was displayed during battle, and he could grow to respect his adversary much more easily than if they decided to use callous, cold, and unfeeling weaponry. But, was that respect ever returned?
Mathias took in a deep breath. Perhaps not, but in the end, it may not even matter between them. "Then I guess I just wait," he announced to nobody in particular.
Mathias had once heard a myth, a long time before he'd ever stepped foot in the Citadel whilst he was a slave to the undead sorcerer, Morian. It was a superstition that, inevitably, all fighters were drawn to the Citadel to do battle with one another - that there was some supernatural gravity, governing every warrior to seek eachother out. Regardless of whether it was true or not, fighting in the Citadel was something of a warrior's rite...
And to be free, as he was, Mathias felt that it was his time to test himself on his own terms. When he was a slave, he'd been here twice, fighting men who now seemed like only small fragments of a hardly memorable past. But, those were tests to determine his worth as an assassin... as a weapon to be used for whatever schemes that the arch-lich had in mind.
Now was a very different time... he needed to gauge his own skills, because he now had an obligation to protect his friends from the Blackhood Syndicate which had become mortal enemies of the Scara Scourge and other crime groups in Scara Brae, and he also had a desire to become stronger, so that one day he could stand toe-to-toe with Morian Fleshbane and come out victorious. And thus, he was drawn back to the Citadel, where other memories from what seemed to have been another life lingered around.
How many times am I going to be struck with amnesia? he thought wryly to himself. Maybe I just have shit for a memory...
A monk approached him and bowed, with Mathias returning the gesture. The scholar of Ai'bron then beckoned him to follow, leading the planeswalker down a series of halls that he knew would lead to the arena. "Do you have any preferences for your battlefield?" the monk asked him. Mathias thought about it for a moment. "Then it shall be prepared for you," said the monk, his emotionless, yet polite voice cutting through Math's imagination.
How they were able to know these things, he couldn't even fathom, but he guessed it mattered very little in the end. As he continued his musings, he found himself before a large double-door. The monk bade him farewell, and Mathias faced the door. It opened before a mere push of his hand, without much force being put into it. Inside was an extremely plain room that suddenly melted away and began to take shape as he walked into it.
The door closed behind him, and before he realized it, the room had changed into a large, open space. Looking down, he saw his feet supporting him atop a fluffy, cotton-like ground, and he surveyed the arena around him. "A battle in the skies," he noted out loud. The planeswalker affirmed that he and his opponent would be fighting on the clouds.
He started to stretch a little bit. Using his body as his sole weapon, he had to be prepared for strenuous activity. He had no blades or anything of the sort - he preferred the intimacy of hand to hand combat - he could see his enemy's eyes, he could hear him breathe... he could savor every emotion that was displayed during battle, and he could grow to respect his adversary much more easily than if they decided to use callous, cold, and unfeeling weaponry. But, was that respect ever returned?
Mathias took in a deep breath. Perhaps not, but in the end, it may not even matter between them. "Then I guess I just wait," he announced to nobody in particular.