Unreal...?

[Lord Anglekos]

Closed to Olivan.

She ran into him before he could even shout out a warning; one second Eric was walking along, minding his own business, the next he felt like he'd been hit by a giant feather pillow and toppled over. Looking down at his assailant, he was about to snarl in irritation when he saw that it was a young girl, barely twelve years old by his reckoning. He was still irritated, but kept his composure as both and the girl picked themselves up, she stuttering and blubbering in panic.

"Oh no oh no, I'm so sorry my lord, I didn't mean to, I'm just in a rush to get to the bakery my grandma needs me to deliver some bread for her and I'm late I'm late I"m--"

"Whoa, slow down there, kid." Eric chuckled as he brushed himself off. "You don't have to apologize. See?" He opened his arms wide to show he was unharmed. "I'm fine."

But the girl still looked panicked and upset, and he noticed that in her rush she'd dropped a basket full of warm bread on the ground, spilling it on the dirty cobblestones. "This bread?" He asked, gesturing to the loaves casually.

She looked down and gasped in horror, covering her mouth with one hand before she kneeled down and started picking them up with a speed born from desperation. "Oh no, my grandma's going to kill me..." She was nearly crying from her panic, as Eric could hear the throbbing in her voice and the tears threatening her composure in her eyes.

Eric's heart broke at the sight. "Here, let me." He said, and even though the girl started to protest he ignored her and helped put the loaves back in the basket. Within less than a minute, the two of them managed to collect all of it back together and the girl regained her composure.

"Thank you so much..." The girl said, bowing to Eric in her humble clothing. "...and I'm sorry about this. You must have much more important things to do than dealing with little old me."

Actually, he did, but he didn't want to agree with the girl and crush her spirit, so he lied. "Eh, not really." The girl still looked nervous, and inspiration struck him. Reaching into his pouch, he pulled out a couple of gold coins and handed them to the girl, who looked at them in confusion and wonder. "Here. I don't want you to get in trouble with your grandma, so if she makes a big deal of the bread just give her these."

The girl just blinked at him before breaking into a wide smile and bowing again, over and over. "Thank you, my lord, thank you!" Before he could tell the girl he wasn't a lord, however, she ran off, clutching the coins and the basket full of bread in her arms.

Looking around, Eric saw that several people were staring at him with either disdain or amusement upon their faces. "What?" He demanded of them, but at his question most turned away with a faint sneer or shook their heads laughing. One, however, a young man with a cap on his head and a tan coat, walked over to him with a smile.

"Man..." He began with a laugh. "You just fell for the oldest trick in the book. Well, maybe not the oldest, but still pretty old."

Eric frowned with confusion before his eyes widened in comprehension and he groaned; "Oh hell. I'm betting she's not as young as she looks, either?"

The younger man grinned wider. "Nope. You just got conned by Alecia Selile, the youngest thief we have these parts." Eric shook his head with a small laugh of pity for himself and hit his head. "Don't take it too hard, man. She usually only targets newcomers, like yourself."

Eric sighed. "Well, its a good thing I only gave her a couple gold pieces then. Did she ever get you?"

"Unfortunately. Robbed me of my dagger, the bitch." Eric was unnerved by the way the other man said this without any venom at all. "By the way, my name's Derk." He extended a hand.

The swordsman took it, and found it to be surprisingly wiry and strong. "Eric here."

"Cool." Derk grinned. "Now, excuse me for saying, but you looked lost."

Eric laughed. He had been lost, and up until the thief had tackled him he'd been looking for the quickest route to the Citadel. Too proud to ask for directions, he'd been hoping Lady Luck would favor him and guide him eventually to the place. "I am, I'm afraid." He admitted to his new companion. "I'm looking for the Citadel."

"Of course you are." The man grinned wider, and Eric wondered just what he was thinking in that mind of his. "Well, its best if you keep going straight down this road until you pass a large place called the Scarlet Lady. After that, take a left at the next main road and you should reach a gaggle of merchants, and by that time you should see the Citadel. Its a big, white building. Believe me, ya can't miss it."

Eric stored Derk's directions in his head as best he could. "Thanks."

"No problem." The man jerked his thumb behind him where Eric could see through glass windows some kind of exotic dancing class. "This is where I work. If you want some real entertainment, go ahead and come in. Ask for Lady Eris." He leaned forward and winked. "She's my girl."

Eric chuckled, but doubted he ever would. Strippers just weren't his thing. "Maybe I will sometime." And with that he walked away, down the road, increasingly disturbed by the fact that Derk was staring at his back and grinning.

What a strange man.


~~~~~~~~~~~


He followed Derk's vague directions as best he could, and ended up at the footsteps to the Citadel eventually. Finally, he'd reached his destination. He'd come to Radasanth after hearing about this place, wanting to find out just what it was like. To be able to fight without dying was a very tempting idea indeed.


The entire place was made of marble, and glimmered in the bright sunlight above. Eric had to shield his eyes from the glare as he approached the double doors that would lead him inside, and nearly slipped once or twice from the sheer smoothness of the steps.


Once inside, he was assaulted by a commotion of sound and sight. Here and there, warriors of every size, race, and gender hung about, talking, sharpening their weapons, or just waiting for...well, Eric didn't know. Doors of almost endless variety circled endlessly around the room, a spinning effect that the swordsman found dizzying. He blinked his eyes twice to regain his sense of self and stepped forward to a desk.


The woman behind it was (apparently, as Eric had learned now not to judge by appearences) middle-aged, with slight wrinkles upon her scowling face. Her hair, a dull rust-colored nest of curls and tangles, framed a pair of owlish eyes, made even more owlish by the large circular glasses perched upon a hookish nose. Upon seeing Eric approach, she glared up at him from her seat and snapped; "Yes?"


He cleared his throat before speaking, and hated that he felt so nervous. "Um...I'd like a room, please." He said lamely, and inside winced at how new he sounded.


The owl-eyed woman glared up at him for a couple of moments more, as if seeing if he was for real, then spun around to a strange box-like machine and began typing on a rectangular board before it with buttons. "Whatever." She muttered. "Your name?"


At this, he blinked. He hadn't been expecting her to ask his name. "Ah..."


"Your name, please."


At her condescending tone a faint rush of anger went through his veins, and remembering what the thief had called him before, his voice came out stronger and harsher than intended. "Lord Anglekos."


She raised an eyebrow at him, but before either of them could speak further a door zoomed down from its place upon the wall and opened before Eric, revealing a swirling black void. Eric looked at the woman for confirmation, but she'd went back to typing on that strange board again. With a shrug, Eric stepped through the void and into his first Citadel arena.

[Olivan]

Some time ago in the recent past, Olivan had read the ramblings of Sir Lothan D. Grass, an extremely wealthy and influential Coronian banker, philosopher, and journalist who stated in several periodicals across the world that the beauty of the Citadel rested solely in the eyes of the beholder. The initial release of material on such a concept fell in large part on deaf ears and blind eyes, as many found the philosopher’s insights to be insignificant,intangible nonsense that was anything but profound. Denizens across the planet that were familiar with Lothan Grass’ body of written work weren’t in the least bit surprised, considering that he was infamous for spewing verbal and literary sewage like this with the utmost air of aplomb and authority. When soundly locked on an idea, Grass could not be moved nor did any major media outlet challenge him. It also didn’t help his adversaries that his pockets were as deep as the hatred that the drows of Alerar and elves of Raiaera had for one another, for whatever thought took up root in his mind, he could share it with the world in the best publications that Althanas had to offer if he so desired. Most of his theories though, could not be backed by substantial research or analytical data, and were often discarded, biodegraded, and recycled in the form of another half baseless proposition. However, the Citadel issue was different.

Lothan, despite the initial rejection had persisted in vehemently sounding the trumpet on this issue, even providing a deeper level of research than he’d normally been known to do on other topics. Yet the powerful banker had cried wolf too many times. Sir Grass was mentally blacklisted in many population clusters, leaving only a small remnant of open minded people still willing to hear or read what he had to say or present. One of those minds was Olivan. When others cared not to, the Salvarian studied the research that Grass provided on his ideas regarding the Citadel, and much too the serf's own surprise, the journalist’s hypothesis was more involved than he could’ve imagined. “The Citadel’s beauty is in the eye of the beholder?” The depth of this statement boggled St. Donomar’s mind. In no way was such a concept “blue sky” or groundless, but very real and very down to earth, at least based on the research and interviews supplied.

According to Philosopher Grass, every individual that ever came across the Citadel had physically viewed the building in a different way than another, whether the renderings were minor or significant. But due to the masses having experienced a similar visual interpretation, there opinions fanned out the fire of alternative thought and intellectual contribution that could’ve been offered by others with an unorthodox view. Olivan didn’t know for sure if what Lothan proposed was actual fact or wild speculation, but it was apparent to him that the only way he would ever find out would be to visit the mountainous structure and simply see for himself, hence the reason for his presence in the city of Radasanth.

St. Donomar had found his way off the island of Scara Brae with the monetary aid of his eldest sister some several months back. The life of a temporary vagabond was his current occupation, seeing how the only other options he had were to either stay with his sibling or return to the Salvic fiefdoms. Residing with Orchid would’ve been a practical choice, but her life was in ruins and being the strong willed person that she was, she best handled personal issues on her own. As for the latter option, Olivan didn’t even consider it. “I’ll go broke and die of starvation before I ever go back there.” The teenage serf thought, as he finished gathering his belongings, preparing to check out of one of the many inns of Radasanth.

When he exited the resting facility, his physical frame was pelted with raindrops dive-bombing from a gray sky. Life in the heavily congested marketplace adjusted, as awnings were stretched over storefronts in order to keep the shopping environment as comfortable and convenient as possible. The scene to him was oddly reminiscent of his life back on the slave grounds of Tyraxen Ein’s fiefdom, for no matter the weather conditions, the work of the serfs did not cease. The shovel still dug, the scythe still cleaved, and the whip still struck.

“To do the same things over and over……..”

Olivan made haste through the cobblestone streets of the city, wishing to escape the sight of the crowded ambiance that nourished thoughts of slave life over the last 3 years and the long toiling hours spent doing the work of his masters. He’d etched the directions to the Citadel in his mind, having rehearsed them the previous night after acquiring them from the lady at the receptionist desk. Normally, the boy would’ve been cautious of receiving directions from people, knowing of countless horror stories in which tourists were taken advantage of. Yet the woman was highly anal-retentive and beyond helpful to the point where her assistance was seen as too helpful at times.

Olivan arrived at a large four-way intersection in a certain part of the city. “Look north when you reach Harthworth intersection. Afterward, walk 837 steps exactly in that direction and you will have reached your destination.” The boy chuckled when recalling those instructions. “I’m going to actually count.”

Upon reaching roughly the 300th step, Olivan lost count. However, the cause of this mishap lied in the ominous stench that permeated throughout the air. “Ugh….is there a….factory around here?” Immediately, he pulled the collar of his coat over the lower half of his face. Radasanthian inhabitants observed the peculiar antics of the tourist with bafflement, but Olivan gazed at them in the same way. “Am I the only one who smells this?”

The foul odor was soon trailed by a billowing mass with a hue that was darker than the rain clouds above. “Smoke of that size? Must be something pretty large burning.……..oh no….” Puddle water splashed up as the scuffed leather boots of the slave slammed down on drenched concrete amidst a full sprint. All that consumed his mind was the horrid possibility of the Citadel being torched to the ground. To him, great Althanian landmarks were to be respected and treasured, especially ones that stood the harsh test of time. Olivan didn’t consider himself a man of religion, but strangely, he found himself praying to every Thayne he was familiar with, hoping that his supplications would be heard and received. But as he rounded the corner, the Salvic boy was confronted with a sight far worse and far more terrifying than what his limited imagination could’ve concocted.

The Citadel was not on fire. In fact the Citadel still displayed its pride, erecting from ancient and reliable soil. But what he witnessed before him was not what the masses described. What he observed was not the image of the majestic structure he’d seen littered throughout Coronian history books. Rather a dark and menacing edifice stood tall over him, looking down on his shorter, negligible stature. The building had bronze piping intertwined with the onyx colored stones that comprised its structure. The black smoke that dispersed from it seemed to converge at the apex of the Citadel, almost seeming to create a beastly face within the gaseous form. Clamorous sounds of conveyor belts, machinery, and metal crashing against metal could be heard deep within, lending even further similarities to that of an Alerarian factory. And it was because of this eerie comparison that Olivan was petrified.

“Sir Lothan…….he was…right.”

What his eyes optically absorbed was the very same edifice that he’d came across when he’d fled to Alerar to save…….her. No other event in his life was as demoralizing and gut wrenching as that time. He’d worked so diligently in preparing his mind for the day that he’d reach into his gallantry reserves and do something to help, save, or strengthen those that he cared about. Countless hours spent reading about the lives of Althanian legends and sopping up every heroic characteristic that he could glean from any bit of text was all supposed to prepare him for a moment when someone would be relying on him to persist and pull through. However, his unsuccessful attempt at saving her greedily sapped all courage and will right from him. Olivan’s unspoken dream of becoming a hero seemed like nothing more than a tall tale, a mere fable fit only for novels.

The Salvarian gazed in terror at the edifice to the point where his body began to shake before the power of his own Citadel rendition. The involuntary actions were so obvious that local civilians, Citadel spectators, and even a handful of combatants asked the boy if he needed any assistance. Embarrassed, Olivan kindly declined and quickly got himself together. He’d gone through similar experiences with his upward and downward emotional scale, but this time he felt himself tipping the weights over in a favorable direction mainly warranted by the very place he stood before. “Since….since I’m here at the Citadel….I..I can change things. It’s not too late!”

There was certainly something else fueling the boy as he confidently walked up the black steps and entered the building. Having read as much as he did about the Citadel, he understood how its system worked, whether pertaining to the Ai’Brone monks, or the numerous rooms that acted somewhat like gateways to different dimensions. He followed standard procedure and brazenly stated that he’d take whatever was available without even considering gathering additional information on the individuals that he would be combating with. Nevertheless, without carrying concern for any of that, he followed the direction that the owl-eyed woman’s finger pointed in, ready and willing to commence battle.

[Lord Anglekos]

It was Saleria.

Standing in the middle of a dirt road, Eric's eyes widened and his mouth dropped as he saw the all-too familiar burnt houses, the rotted bodies and skeletons, the melted swords and armor. He looked to his right, and saw there with gut wrenching certainty the skeletal form of his old teacher, lying prone in his smithy with his hammer still clutched in the bones of his hand. To his left, the remains of Mrs. Tolgark's bakery lay crumbled almost to dust, and the mixed stench of both burnt bread and flesh assaulted his nose, making him both hungry and retch simultaneously.

How...how did they send him here? Was he truly in Saleria? Was any of this even real? Needing to prove to himself he wasn't just dreaming, he walked over to a headless skeleton and gently grazed it with the tip of his finger. Almost immediately it crumbled into dust, and Eric backed up, one armored hand covering his mouth in horror and disbelief. It was Saleria. He didn't know how, but he was home.

Or rather, what was left of it.

He looked down the road to where his home lay burnt to the ground, and past that to the graveyard. He'd buried his fiance' there. Amalia. He touched the blond hair tied to the hilt of the blade at his side and closed his eyes as he summoned her face to his mind, recalling the way her beautiful hair seemed to almost shine in the morning sunlight. Something wet and small slid down his face, and he touched his face with one armored hand and saw one small tear there.

How long had it been since he'd left his village? A year? Two years? He didn't know. Too long, it seemed, now that he was back. He'd sworn back then that he would come back, after it was all said and done...but he never had. He had to escape from here, from all these memories...the screams...the crying...the blood.

Why had they sent him back? He looked once more to the spot where Amalia was buried, and took one step in that direction when he heard a sound behind him, like a giant piece of skin being ripped in two. Spinning around with one hand one the hilt of his sword, he was about to draw it when he saw a boy step through a giant rip in the air, like a gaping void in the essence of the universe.

No, not a boy...a young man. Though dressed almost pitifully in clothing barely enough to cover his skin, and his body looking weak from hunger and weariness, Eric saw in his opponent's earthen eyes the same spark that he himself had felt so long ago, when he'd awoken to find everyone he'd ever known lying dead before his feet. And yet...this was his opponent? No, no-- Eric shook himself mentally as he reassessed the young man before him. Never underestimate your opponent. Even though he may not look like much at first glance, who knew what this boy had up his sleeve?

Eric took the initiative, but instead of attacking, released his hand from the hilt of his blade. "Hello there." He tried to greet his opponent, and held one armored hand forward in invitation for a handshake. "My name is Eric. Yours?"

[Olivan]

The thin frame of the fugitive serf had been discarded from a microcosm of blinding light with violent intensity. The jaws of the dimensional rift treated its morsel of flesh, bones, and blood like foul tasting food. Twisting, somersaulting, and tumbling motions were the precursor of a soon coming purge, a passionate rejection of odious sustenance that had ultimately led to his unpleasant rendezvous with the earth of an unfamiliar world. Dirt, grass, and gravel swept up in an alarming wind, only to be cast down toward the spewed figure almost in quarantine fashion. Was he unwelcome? Stray thoughts of this nature scampered about until a hand reached through the dust wall. Olivan hadn’t seen it at first, yet only took notice of it when said hand came equipped with a voice.

“Huh?” St. Donomar hadn’t even entirely heard what was said, seeing as disorientation had usurped his mind, making sounds muffled, and sights obscured. However, disorientation’s rule was short lived for visual obscurity had been conquered, succumbing to clarity, and dulled sounds were vanquished, ushering in fine tuned and sharper hearing. “Ahhhhhh!!!!!!” Olivan rolled back through the dust cloud, which seemingly prompted its dissipation. His eyes remained locked on the being that stood before him, for he was suited in armor pieces, and possessed the garb of nightmarish men, the attire of ruffians that’d relished in the suffering of others and the spilling of their blood.

It took but a quick glance at his surroundings to mentally document the work of this barbarian. An amalgamation of chaos, anxiety, and death acted as the tale that the charred and decaying cadavers told through their panicked gestures, frozen indefinitely in time until the land in which they perished saw it fit to mercifully reduce their rotting frames to nothing but fertilizer. How could someone do something so cruel? Olivan had not the answers, yet found it extremely challenging to extract one from the murderer via an inquiry. He’d seen a few deaths on the grounds of the Salvic fiefdom in which he was enslaved, but nothing even close to this scale. St. Donomar had not witnessed firsthand the atrocities of Tyraxen Ein systematically eradicating slaves of his own fief that'd dwelled on land that he wanted to cultivate and utilize for commercial value. Such events were horror stories, but with the picture of death painted before him now oozing of free flowing and unrestrained wrath, he had a firmer grasp on what serfs of his fiefdom might’ve experienced.

Olivan in no wise closed the distance between him and the murderer. Genocide was birthed from his appendages, which in all probability was carried out to appease an uncontrollable blood lust that required such a sacrifice.

“How can you stand there and smile?” The thin teenager asked with an air of disgust. Though he didn’t show it, he was astonished that his query came off as strong as it did, seeing how several moments ago he sought not say a word to this warrior, let alone potentially arouse the same spirit of malice that’d consumed the deceased denizens around him. However, what was done had been etched in history. Retracting that statement was a matter of impossibility, for his words and tone could never be forgotten. He was simply at the mercy of how the slaughterer would respond. The overwhelming fear that Olivan harbored rattled his innards to the point where breaths incrementally grew shorter, and nausea disrupted his stomach. Yet he did not cave in.

“I have to get a hold of myself! If I’m going to save her, then this is the road that I have to travel!”

Seeing that there was a sword sticking out of the rib of one of the nearby corpses, the serf sought to take it up and prepare for the ensuing skirmish. But what transpired in his head did not translate outwardly. Instead, his feet remained grounded in the dirt as if entangled in a cluster of vines. Trepidation surely still reigned supreme over him, never desiring to release the shackles that it bound Olivan with.

“Even though I’m off the fief, I’m still a slave. What am I going to do……..”

[Lord Anglekos]

Eric blinked as the boy spat at him with almost violent animosity, and at the ridiculous presumption in his voice. The boy thought that he had killed all these people? To the swordsman it was almost humorous. He, slaughter his own village? Now what kind of person would think he would do that? But, regaining his composure, he remembered that this boy knew as much about him as he knew about the boy; little, if nothing at all. "You're right." He dropped the false smile upon his face and looked over his shoulder, where the smoldering ruins of the smithy lay. "Kind of hard to truly smile when you're standing in the remains of your hometown." The boy's eyes grew a little wider at the words and Eric allowed a small smirk to cross his face. "Yes, this is my home. Welcome to Saleria, kid."

He saw the boy's eyes flicker to a single-edge blade sticking out of the rib bones of a skeletal corpse, and as Eric recognized the scraps of clothing clinging to it horror flooded every muscle and bone in his body. It was his stepmother's body. He closed his eyes as pain filled him, and the memories of that day came flooding back in. Taking a deep breath, he spoke again. "Take it. I will not fight an unarmed opponent." Without waiting for the boy to do so he drew his own blade, Amalia, and stuck it point-first into the ground before him, leaning on it with both hands. He narrowed his eyes at the unmoving figure before him. "Unless, that is, you are carrying some sort of weapon upon you that I cannot see, mister...?"

Sorry, Olivan. I hope you don't mind that I bunnied your character a little bit. Feel free to do so as well.

[Olivan]

Saleria……

It was the one word that served as the anchor for all of the mixed emotions that flooded Olivan’s system, as well as the warrior standing in front of him. Was all of this true? Had every jaw clenching, muscle tightening reaction from the warrior Eric been a direct link to the ruinous milieu that surrounded them like an invading garrison? Having witnessed despondency and anxiety in the eyes of a myriad of individuals back in Salvar, he wanted to associate Eric’s despair with those that’d been seized by the same distress back on the fiefdom in which he came from. But there was a final barrier that stood in the way, one last obstruction internally that mentally prohibited the young serf from unlocking the gates of his caution.

St. Donomar gazed at the catastrophe around him, still harboring the initial scorn he held toward Eric. His eyes retreated back to the blade lodged in the corpse, which did nothing but imbue him with further indignation. “Playing the chivalry role…..how typical of a psychopath,” Olivan shook his head as thoughts circulated around Althanian villains in times past that’d deployed this same tactic in order to appear as good natured individuals, thus shaving the edge off of their enemies. “Wolves in sheep clothing……he is cut from the same cloth as the rest of them.”

Approaching the sword, the Salvic teenager’s thin fingers wrapped around the grip. The peculiar sensation that coursed through his being induced nervousness, yet excitement at the same time. Though it was his first battle, it was also the first step in becoming a hero. “Alright….here we go.”

And with no further delay, the boy lunged toward the enemy, swiping at his neck. His mind was clear, for the action that he’d just taken expelled any doubt or apprehensiveness that dwelled in him. The battle had truly commenced and he was now on a road where there would be no turning back.

[Lord Anglekos]

The swordsman watched as this unknown boy, without speaking another word, wrapped long and wiry fingers around the hilt of the blade before pulling it out of the body that served as a makeshift sheath. His eyes still held that same nervous hostility that Eric had first seen upon his face, and he knew that this boy, driven by anger and recklessness, would make a decent opponent. He knew firsthand what it was like to be fueled by nothing more than your own hatred, and it was frightening to reflect upon. However, all other thoughts fled as the youth sprang into action, leaping at Eric and swinging the single-edged sword with all his might at the older man's throat. As he dodged it, however, he sensed a change within the youth; the nervous apprehension that had first appeared there was gone, replaced by a deep-set grim determination. Given enough training, this boy could be formidable, he thought to himself as he leaned his body back slightly, the sword singing by his throat by just a precious few inches. There was an opening there he could have taken, ending this battle immediately, but for the first time in his life Eric did not take that opening. He'd rather see just how much potential the lad had.

Drawing his own sword from the earth he retreated, holding the long sword before him in two gauntleted hands as he spoke. "Fine then, no name." When the boy didn't respond but instead held his own weapon before him, Eric allowed a small smile to cross his face. "You remind me of a friend I once had. He was timid and shy, but when the moment came he was as deadly as a cougar." He let go of his sword, holding it now with one hand out to the side as he beckoned the youth forward with two fingers, his stance shifting slightly. "Come then, cougar. Let's dance."

[Olivan]

The lightness of the follow through and whipping sound of a dull blade slashing through the wind left the young man in disbelief. “Everything went so wrong,” With his peripheral sights locked in on the foe, Olivan thought back to his first move. “It should’ve connected! His head should’ve rolled by my feet!” The proper distance was calculated, the correct amount of power was transferred to his legs, and finally the appropriate force was relinquished through arm and blade to deliver an accurate and deadly swing. Yet with all of that prepared, the Salvarian came up empty. How was this possible? The fighting novice contemplated all of this, but the smug remarks of the enemy provided him with the answers he desired.

Experience.

Though not mentioned directly, Eric’s postured and demeanor alone spoke of that factor. Olivan was bright enough to quickly realize that the murderer had spilled the blood of others and crossed blades with warriors in abundance. His frame was rich in combat maturity while the wiry serf was affluent in combat poverty. Olivan had read extensively of the many battles and wars that’d transpired throughout the history of Althanas, and came to the conclusion that he had a firm grasp on the inner workings of various types of engagements. Yet the mind was not entirely in sync with the body, for to mentally ingest battle literature was in no way the same as ingesting the experience of battle through one’s own figure. Still, such realizations did not deter the teenager, for he knew that his opponent persisted in taking him lightly and therein dwelled his chance at victory.

“A friend you say? Well, I guess if he became a cougar, then you couldn’t possibly have him running around any more. Ugh, you villains are all the same, killing young hawks before they learn to fly!” Olivan took another look at the corpses surrounding him and pointed in their direction. “How many of these people could’ve soared before you clipped their wings?”

The Salvarian didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, in blind rage he once again charged toward the enemy swinging his sword with all of his strength, yet this time at Eric’s legs. With his boundless determination, it would only be a matter of time before he avenged the deceased around him.

[Lord Anglekos]

The boy still thought that Eric had slaughtered these people. He didn't bother to correct him. If by chance they both were still standing at the time this fight was over he would explain himself to the younger man before him, but at the moment no reason or logic would drive itself into that thick head without the help of the swordsman's fist behind it. His speech was far more elegant than his appearance, but even as the first words escaped the boy's tongue Eric realized that in order for him to approach his opponent as a rational, thinking human being he would have to subdue him first. Grim at the inevitable thought, he was surprised when the boy struck not at his body again but at his unarmored feet.

Perhaps he IS starting to use his head, The swordsman thought to himself wryly. Ironic that he should be glad that his opponent was growing stronger by the moment; outside of the Citadel, such a feat would have scared him to death. Well, that was one of the perks of this place, he supposed, even though he was still angry and frightened that they'd sent him back to his hometown; it was too coincidental to be coincidence. He didn't think that the monks would explain themselves, however. They seemed to be like the shadows themselves, always there but never fully explained. Before he could contemplate any farther, however, the boy's blade almost reached him, and instinct made him jump back. It was that instinct that saved his legs, as the tip of the single-edged sword cut into his pants and drew a thin but sharp line along the skin of his left leg. Almost immediately that line burst open and blood started to pour out in slow tricklets. A small cut, but a cut nonetheless.

Eric once more reassessed his opponent, who looked at the dripping tip of his weapon with hope and renewed determination. He ground his teeth together. Time to stop holding back he supposed; he could always talk to the boy after the battle, but by then it would be pointless, wouldn't it? He couldn't get killed either, for before he left to go back to Althanas he wanted to visit Amalia's grave just one more time. There, it was decided: Despite how inexperienced this boy was, his determination more than made up for it, and that determination threatened Eric's chances. He didn't know who this boy was, but his life was not worth more than his own.

There was no more bantering this time around; Eric, save for the clanking of his armor, moved as silently as a shark underwater as he sped towards the distracted youth. His arms shifted, and Amalia's blade came singing from below in a diagonal slash at the youth's chest. Two hands drove the blade forward, and as he struck Eric locked his cold blue eyes upon his opponent's dark, determined ones.

[Olivan]

When that crimson liquid gashed from the wound that Olivan inflicted on the enemy, emotions of glee and terror commenced war with one another. Jubilation drove forward, carrying valiancy and confidence as its sword and shield, while the opposing forces of consternation met its foe with the same intensity, though taking up apprehension and fear as its choice of weaponry. Never before had the young Salvarian engaged in any sort of altercation where he had the courage to actually defend himself, let alone injure someone. Past quarrels were more like one-sided thrashings with him being on the disadvantageous end. He’d grown accustomed to such an arrangement, seeing how once an attacker was done with him, animosity toward Olivan would dissipate, and the serf would be able to carry on like usual. Being bullied mugged him nearly of all self worth, but it seemed to be the smoothest road to travel on with the fewest amount of problematic obstacles.

Yet this situation was indeed different. The small amount of blood dripping from the tip of his sword was the hard proof that his internal climate was beginning to change. The season seemed to be right for the fruits of a hero to show early signs of maturity, but harsh environments of weakness engineered by years of acquiescence still posed a very real threat to the teenager’s overall growth. Olivan almost exposed a smile, but the fierce gaze that Eric fired toward him seized every muscle around his mandible, prohibiting St. Donomar’s lips from curving up even in the slightest. He had witnessed this sort of countenance before. Razor focused eyes equipped with an extremely calming spirit denoted the awakening of a powerful beast, the unleashing of the killer’s instinct.

In the few moments of idleness that sat between the two opponents, Olivan believed that he heard Anglekos’ spirit roaring. Terrifying howls, which alone possessed the potential to crush the ordinary man. However, contemplation was curtailed by torn cloth and torn flesh. “W….What….?” It happened so fast that the inexperienced fighter didn’t even feel the initial strike. Yet the pain of the attack quickly registered in the brain, especially when Olivan glanced downward, noticing that his slashed shirt was dyed a deeper hue and exposed a bloody chest.

Olivan’s knees buckled, and the weight of the rest of his body caused him to crash toward the ground amidst scattered skulls and armor plates. No words could escape his mouth, but quite frankly, he was relieved. Anything uttered would only add fuel to this fire, and the youth was scorched as it were already. However, as he laid face up a pain much greater than his fleshly wound overcame him. The all too familiar pain of failure had yet again reared its foul head, proving that it’d been victorious over the side of the Salvic serf that attempted to orchestrate character traits that would’ve aided in the boy’s success. Tears streamed down his face his he clenched his jaw, trying desperately not to show any more fragility in the face of his enemy than he’d already displayed. Yet weakness was weakness, and it couldn’t be concealed.

Watery eyes looked at the surrounding corpses on the lawns of charred domiciles. “I’m sorry….I couldn’t save you Opheliah. I’m sorry....I’m not strong enough to save….anyone.” At this point, Olivan’s shame had eroded any pride he had left. Clutching the grip of the falchion, he held it up toward his enemy.

“Go ahead. Take it and finish me off. A fool deserves to die by the blade of his own sword.”

Anxiety stirred within Olivan like a tempest as he waited in anticipation. He was well aware that the action he’d taken wasn’t regarded highly among heroes, and that all who aspired to achieve such a legendary status would never think to give in as long as they drew breath. But St. Donomar was far from a hero, and the blade would soon help him forget that stinging reality.

[Lord Anglekos]

The boy had been lucky that Eric's slash had not been a fatal blow; the swordsman had been expecting his opponent to block his attack and had not struck to kill. Still, the tip of Amalia found flesh as it cut through cloth, and the diagonal attack made a bloody mark on the boy's chest with his own life blood. The sword flashed by, and Eric pulled back on both his body and the blade to prepare for his opponent's counterstrike. His grip was steady, his stance determined, his mind focused. Eric the wanderer had disappeared, and Eric the warrior had replaced him. He shifted his right foot back around and gripped the hilt tight with his armored mitts, pulling the blade back by his face with the steel of the weapon pointing in a silent declaration to the sky. When the boy struck, he would be ready.

And thus, he was astonished to find his opponent already fallen to the ground. The boy's knees had sunken into the dirty ground, and his hand limp by his side, barely clutching the single-edged blade he'd used. A bowed head gave the warrior standing over him insight; not only was he down on his knees from the blow, but from the shame that the blow had infected upon him. Empathy flooded Eric. He could see himself in this boy's place, his own blade by his side as he bowed on his knees before a much greater warrior than he. He could see himself whimpering in pain, and yet still trying to manage that defiance that had provoked him into attacking in the first place. It was all too easy for Eric to switch places with this boy, and that disturbed him and weakened his resolve. Before he truly knew what he was doing, the point of his sword drifted from its Heaven-wards position to kiss the ground.

The boy weakly lifted his sword by the hilt, head still bowed in shame. "Go ahead. Take it and finish me off." He spoke, and those words struck Eric like hammer blows. "A fool deserves to die by the blade of his own sword."

The swordsman was silent for a moment as he considered his opponent. He looked backwards to where the grave of Amalia lay silently waiting, and a wind blew through the shell of a town. It gusted around the corpses and the wreakage, and caressed the two figures standing amongst the ghosts with a lover's kiss. Eric closed his eyes as he remembered the magic of this land. The magic that he thought he never would possess. I'm sorry, Amalia... He whispered in the depths of his mind, and the wind slowed until it became a simple breeze once more. A smile graced his lips; there were ghosts indeed in this place...and one of them was listening.

"Get up, boy." He commanded the figure fallen before him. His voice was not harsh, but stern. At it, his opponent lifted a face framed by brown locks and looked into his eyes. "You can fight still, I know it. Does a hero lay down on the job at the first strike?" Stepping backwards a few paces he lifted his long sword from it's resting place and held it before him once more. His left leg trembled a little; blood loss, he imagined. Still, he could stand, and if he could then so could his opponent. His blue eyes locked with dark green ones and he smiled a little. "No! So fight me; I know that a hero is in you somewhere."

[Olivan]

He was sure that the blade would be his judge. He was sure that the hand of the beast would clutch the grip of the sword Olivan gave to him, thus carrying out the young Salvarian’s grim request. Up to that point, all of the actions of the barbaric savage painted a grotesque picture with his blade serving as the brushes that completed a callous and heartless masterpiece in the form of scattered bones and decaying flesh. A man who seemingly showed no emotion for the evil deeds that he’d done. However, the scripted had been discarded.

The command coming forth from the mouth of the adversary was a very demanding “get up, boy”. St. Donomar froze for an instant, for such a phrase had projected from the mouth of his father during his earlier years. Had Eric been cut from the same as the man who fathered him? To come to a conclusion favoring that view would’ve been the easier route to take. But the man offered encouragement unlike anything he’d ever before experienced in his life.

“You’re right. A hero never lays down his life after the first strike,” Olivan winced as he rose to his feet, yet with a healed spirit. Taking hold of the sword he’d originally sought to give to Anglekos, he held it as firmly as he could, despite his injuries. “Maybe you’re not the villain I once thought.”

Taking off his sweatshirt, Olivan tied it tightly around his body in an effort to stop the bleeding of his chest wound as best as he could. Staring at the opponent, he found that his renewed spirit also came equipped with a renewed focus. Thoughts of the great Sir Pallotan Nirriplion flooded his mind, providing him with the courage to proceed in this duel despite the overwhelming odds in his opponent’s favor. Nevertheless, Olivan vowed to himself that he would not allow fear to overcome him in the way that it previously did.

“You seem to have certain qualities that stood at the core of many Althanian heroes’ being. I greatly respect the warriors that’d served their people and protected all of us despite intense opposition. Though you are my opponent, if you are cut from that same type of cloth then I will not consider you my enemy,” Having a newfound respect for Anglekos, Olivan extended his blade in an honorable manner, emulating the gesture that many knights performed at the start of a duel. Though the deed was late, this point in the bout marked a new round in which Olivan would put forth everything he had until the fight came to an appropriate conclusion. “My name Olivan St. Donomar. Let us continue.”

And yet again, the teenager charged at his opponent without any hesitation, slashing yet again at Eric’s unarmored legs. However, he’d witnessed the speed of Anglekos’ attacks before and made sure that his attack had the proper distance that would allow him to defend if necessary.

[Lord Anglekos]

Olivan. Finally, Eric had a name by which to call his opponent. It was a fitting name, and upon whispering it to himself he thought of birds. The imagery within his head was seemingly random, but had he time to consider it further he would have realized that this boy was just like the image: A bird just beginning to learn how to fly, as he had spoken himself. As it was he did not have that time as Olivan saluted him and rushed forward with renewed spirit, swiping once again at Eric's unarmored and injured legs. The lack of experience was still there, yes, for his attack lacked refinement, but what it lacked it made up for in determination. He did not leave himself so open this time either, Eric noticed as he spun Amalia in his hands, deflecting the blow to the side. A small smile crossed his face.

"Good!" He told the earthen-eyed young man encouragingly. "Don't put all of your strength behind your blow, remember: It does not take a giant's strength for steel to pierce flesh." He added this advice as he stepped to the side and with one hand swung his sword at Olivan's head.

[Olivan]

He was prepared this time, strangely. When the steel blade sliced through the air silently with a cold and impersonal intent to curtail the Salvarian’s life, Olivan instinctively raised his weapon, parrying the attack to his head. In no way was he sure if such a flash of adeptness resided in untapped talent or fear generated adrenaline. Mentally, the boy leaned toward the latter, seeing how he’d grown very accustomed to protecting his head more than any other part of his body. “That was close….” Olivan chuckled, excited yet shocked at the same time. The eyes of the opponent were again locked on his own, showing the soul of a fierce warrior. The young serf tried to remain steady amidst the reality that at any moment, his life could come to an end by the blade of the more seasoned warrior.

“If I keep trying to match him head to head like this, he will end me fast,” Thinking back to the many warriors that’d been chronicled in various tomes of Althanas, his mind focused on the tales of Findelfin ap Fingolfin, for he was an excellent swordsman, but a legendary strategist. It was too often his intellect that got him out of dire situations rather than his blade. As it pertained to St. Donomar’s case, he knew that his intellect would have to be nearly the only thing that he could truly rely on.

Therefore, Olivan scanned his surroundings to see what he had to work with. “I suppose that could work…..”

The Salvarian’s eyes were set on a pile of skulls nearby. Gripping his blade tight, he yet again ran toward Eric as he’d done the previous times. However, before he came within striking range of the opponent’s blade, he scooped up one of the skulls and hurled at Anglekos in hopes of distracting him even if only for a moment. The enemy’s focus had to be averted. Hopefully, if his eyes attention shifted enough, Olivan would have the opening he needed for the piercing strike that came soon after the skull had been tossed.