How Do Gods Do Battle?

[Mathias]

(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.

[Melancor]

An arched figure, bent by the toil of the years or the unstoppable hand of time walked just before him, dressed in modest long garments, leading to the room where he would fight like vile mortal races.

What other thing was there to do? He was now one of them. Living in exile from the realms of the gods by no means did give him peace of mind. In this world he could be killed, with a dagger, a sword, alchemy, or by the bare fists and brute force of any creature who would see his holy flesh eatable. He now lived under the protection of the moon goddess, who dispelled the lesser gods, the brothers of the Aegean, whenever they saw his assassination plausible. To think his own blood would act against him.

An instinct had lured him into the citadel. Had it been boredom, morbid curiosity, or the sole desire to test the limit of his mortal body, he could not tell. It would be a taste of the old days, here he could fight without the shame of fear, like a god, here he could not die.

"Tell me then, what would you be looking for?" said the monk, his steps slow though steady, and his voice broken by a dry tone.

Melancor payed no attention to this question, yet the man kept walking and he followed. The way in which they where so devout, their wise nature and even temper, always living a modest existance and yet keepers of the secrets of healing the worst of wounds. Melancor had always admired the Ai'bron monks, however...

The monk stopped just before a large wooden door, and with a gentle gesture indicated him to enter.

"...I've always detested the monk's sneaky ways." This, and a hot-kniving pain that cut through the elder's head was Melancor's answer.

In his hand, a ring glowed bright in fury. Neletia, Melancor's companion had detected the monk's daring intrusion, and had readied herself to retaliate like any hound against a thief. Melancor's hand drew to his guide's cheek, releasing whichever naught of spirit this had caused him, in a sting blow that filled both eyes with water.

He glanced one last time at the confused man before entering the room.

"For a man to stare into my soul," Melancor sighed, "may your Ai'bron have pitty on you."

The door closed silently behind him, leading him into and empty room that soon began to morph. Slowly light illuminated the dark space, and the walls disappeared to place no limits. Below him the ground thawed into a white and soft surface, and slowly the room turned into a scene of heaven.

It felt almost like home, the place where the father, and Haskara, the wind goddess lived to reign over the skies. Although unlike that place, this was hollow, he could not feel the strong presence of the gods, but that one one sole warm body.

[Mathias]

Mathias had lost track of how much time he had spent staring down into the endless abyss of blue air below him, and the only thing that had brought him back to attention was the immediate presence of another person. Snapping out of his daze, he drew his gaze upwards and met the eyes of the man who had been arranged to fight him. The youth's flickering green eyes only superficially looked him over, taking careful note of the expressions upon the face and eyes of the new arrival.

Taking a step forward, Math brought his hands together, curling his fist and cupping over it with the other hand. He took a deep bow, and drew himself to his full height. "My name is Mathias, my friend. I'd like to ask yours, as well, so I may wish you good luck and a good fight before we begin," he said, offering a smiling.

He took in a deep breath to calm him down, to get the blood flowing through him at an even pace. He unbuttoned his overcoat and slid it off his shoulders, tossing it to the far side of the cloud that the two would-be combatants stood upon. As he did so, a gust of artificial wind picked up and turned the jacket over, and caressed the bare shoulders of the planeswalker, who stood clad in the sleeveless black vest, baggy white pants and black boots of his normal apparel - clothes so comfortably worn that they almost seemed a part of him, rather than cloth hanging off of him.

The man standing across from him, with silver hair and a tall, regal build. An aura of composed confidence exuded from his body, and Mathias made a personal oath to not underestimate him as he had done to his opponents before.