Adversaries.

[Lord Anglekos]

Closed to Nwalmaer.
He really did not like coming to this place. As Eric gazed at the Citadel walls, growing larger as he approached them, a scowl of disapproval decorated his face. He'd never been an advocate of senseless fighting, nor was he brainless muscle to be hired or tested, and everytime he came to this place it made him feel like one or the other. He supposed he should've been glad that his employers had chosen this spot for the battle to take place, instead of in reality where his life could be put on the line, but he just couldn't seem to produce gratitude.

It'd been simple. He'd managed to reach the man he'd heard about back in Dheathain and had gotten the papers that would allow him to join the ranks of Raiaera's army. The day had grown late, and he'd sought out an inn to spend the night within. One thing had lead to another, and a half-drunken man had mistaken him for another his wife had supposedly cheated on with. It had been easy, and Eric had subdued his attacker without drawing any of his blades. His skill must have impressed someone there, however, for the next thing he knew, upon entering his room a women was standing there. With ebony skin and hair as light and cold as winter snow, the drow had cut an imposing and shapely figure, and Eric would've admitted that he'd thought other thoughts first before wondering just why she was in his room.

Upon voicing his concerns, she'd explained she and her companions (where they were, he did not know) were scientists of sorts, and they required his assistance. He didn't know, exactly, what a scientist was, but upon the mention of money she truly got his attention. She'd pay him, the drow continued on, for battling one of their "test subjects" in the arena of the Citadel. He'd tried to ask further questions, but all she said was; "Do we have an agreement or not?"

In the end, he'd agreed, despite the distaste she left in his mouth. This really was not his sort of thing. Without bothering to introduce herself or even ask his name, she'd wrapped a black cloak around herself and left, telling him to be at the Citadel at 9 in the morning sharp. Before he could respond, she disapeared into the shadows of the hallway and shut the door behind her.

Now here he was, walking underneath the clear sky of Radasanth towards the one place he desired not to be on this whole planet. But hell, it was money, and he was short, unfortunately. Climbing the marble steps he noticed the usual ragtag bunches of people here and there. Swordsmen, knights, barbarians, monsters, it did not matter. He just couldn't understand what would bring these people to this place. Were they all so addicted to battle that they had to create a very monument to it, here in the Citadel? Was there not enough bloodshed in the world to satisfy them?

A quick glance through the massive double doors that led inside to the hall told him all the info he needed; three drow stood by one of the counters, shifting impatiently. The female drow with the snippy mouth seemed to be the leader of the group, and held herself almost casually with one hand on a scimitar at her side. He didn't see anyone else, so he approached the group openly, throwing back the hood of his cloak to prove his identity.

"I'm here." He said somewhat unnecessarily, striding up to the foremost drow.

She lifted one silken eyebrow at him and pursed her lips. "Indeed." She turned and nodded at the monk behind the counter, who immediately lifted one hand. There was the sound of something tearing, and a hole ripped itself in the air before the assorted figures with ominous force. The drow gestured to it. "In there is your opponent."

"And I will get paid win or lose, correct?"

"That is correct."

"Then I shall be back soon." He nodded to the two hooded drow behind her in acknowledgment before drawing Amalia forth from it's scabbard, the blade ringing in the air, and stepped inside the portal, closing it behind him.

[Nwalmaer]

The dark room is little more than a prison cell, blank walls staring emotionlessly at the confined being within. The eyes and ears of these walls are turned away from the imprisoned, nothing of interest to be taken from a captive so easily controlled. No steel bars or closed doors keep the thing within its cage; neither is needed for he is a creature that has no need for free will. A dim light filters through the hallways that line the underbelly of the northern mountains. The pure white eyes, no iris’ or any coloration to be seen, of the creature stare longingly at the synthetic light, as if it is the sun itself calling to him. He does not move, he was told to stay there. No thoughts of investigating the light come to mind, no thoughts of standing or moving either. Instead he removes his Aleraran blade and runs a pair of fur covered fingers over the smooth black metal.

Nwalmaer is a creature of solitude, a being created as a slave to the Alerar government. The inability to act for himself is a product of his rearing, a means of control and domination that the research team instilled in him upon his ‘birth’. Free will is not in the slightest way a right he can claim, nor one that he has ever known. A slave to his masters, his masters a slave to theirs, it is the way he was taught and what he knows the world as. What is willed of him, he does. What he does, he does without remorse or a second thought. He is a Sereg’wethrin, an assassin of the dark elven people. He is a homunculus, a creature created by a mix of magic and technological advancements. In this fact alone he is perfect, a killer with a single mindset, an assassin without emotion. In all other ways, those being what all free thinking and decision making individuals find perfect, he is an amalgamation of terrible nightmares and incomprehensible darkness come to life.

A click echoes down the hallway, his long rabbit-like ears perk at the sound. He lifts his horned head to see what or who is approaching, by the sounds of it, the woman he has come to know as his mother figure is on her way to him. Vanya turns the corner to his cell with a smile. She always has a smile, why she does he cannot figure out, even how she smiles is a mystery. His lipless maw trembles, an attempted smile, an obvious failure. Instead of a smile his flesh colored nose twitches, her synthetic scents familiar and comforting to him. With a nod he rises, replacing his blade in its sheath and stroking the long horns. The ridges and dips in them makes him feel more calm, whatever Khu’fein buffalo they were taken from to be grafted onto him he was thankful for. Their origin to him, though, is as much his since birth as torn from the head of another.

<”Curious creatures,”> Vanya comments as she touches a soft spot on the side of his neck, eliciting a rough ‘purr’ from deep within. She checks his armor, the soft boiled leather still well maintained; she did not want to have to rub it with oil just before a fight anyhow. She taps the cage at his side, and his hands fall to it, holding it in both. Either hand’s three clawed fingers grip it gently, careful to keep it safe. Why he does this he cannot understand. The power of the artifact, however small and poorly made it is, he knows of… what strange reactions he takes when others attempt to touch it, he does not understand. <”Do not fret dear child, I am not going to take it. It is curious how carefully you watch it. There have not been any others like you that have taken an emotional attachment with anything given to you. Nor have there been any who have so religiously followed the exact same pattern. Rubbing your horns before you leave the room, is that some form of superstition?”>

The creature turns his head like a confused lap dog, his haunting eyes stare into her dull grays. She turns her head in confusion as well, mimicking the homunculus that she helped bring to life. The two stare for a second before Nwalmaer repeats the largest of the unknown words. <”Superstition?”>

<”Oh, do not worry about that. You will find out what words mean as you grow. We have quite a deal of time on our hands, and you are still very young. For now though,”> she steps outside the wide, rock carved doorway. With a hand she waves him on. <”You are going to go to a new place. One where you are not usually at. It is not inside here… Oh, I see you like that idea. Comprehension is coming along quickly for you. You are going to have a little fun.”>

Fun, a word that he knows quite well. Thoughts fill his head suddenly, fun thoughts. An Alerar native, his gray skin charred, screaming and talking far too quickly for Nwalmaer to understand. The smattering of blood that is created when you put a sword into the middle of another creature. That metallic, enticing scent of the warm red liquid that flows from all bodies. These were fun. Mental images of atrocities and carnage, of death and destruction, each one comes in turn and each one is met with a very real connection to the normally jovial word. There is little in the way of fun, as the people of Althanas know it, involved with being one of the sereg’wethrin.




((Feel free to set up the arena and have him enter if you want. I left it up to you. :p. Mod Note: I know there are fragments, it’s part of the way I’m writing. Also, anything between <> is in the Alerar tongue for the sake of ease.

[Lord Anglekos]

As soon as he stepped upon the ground from the portal, he knew that something was wrong. It was in the very air itself, in the soil he was walking upon, in whatever creatures could be living still amongst it. Eric needn't even open his eyes to feel the death crawling in the area around him, and almost as a reflex he jerked back from it, gazing in horror upon what he saw. Death had claimed the land he'd been dumped upon. It had made this place it's home, had touched every piece of living flesh and bark until what was left was naught but a shell of what it had been.

Eric felt as if he'd been drawn inside a massive corpse. Before him on the sodden ground, blackened and drowned in what smelled like blood, was a fallen corpse of an elf, half decayed already. A dark, drow face melted away into a skeletal grin, and several other bits and pieces of the figure were caught within this state of half flesh and half bone. A bony hand lay dipped within a pond even blacker than the ground surrounding it, clutching the hilt of a partially hidden sword it seemed. The swordsman looked at the trees surrounding the pond and was unsurprised to see that they were more like the drow's dead and bony fingers protruding from the blood-soaked ground than actual trees. Revolted, he gazed at the crimson sky, looking for the sun or at least one sign of normality. And still, he was not surprised when could not find it.

Where in God's name had they sent him? He wondered bitterly and silently to himself, shifting nervously from foot to foot as he eyed the dead forest around him, looking for his opponent. And what kind of being would fight in a hell like this? Certainly nothing humane, that was for sure. Just being here made him want to bolt and run screaming off into the distance, to wash himself clean until the stench of blood was gone completely. Yes, he was a soldier, and was used to seeing that crimson liquid in battle enough where it had become almost casual, but this was different. The very air was saturated with it, until he felt he was breathing in slaughter and out bloodlust. This was no place for him, a warrior who'd sworn only to fight when necessary.

Abruptly the image of one man flickered into his head. A white haired giant of a man he'd met, and had shouldered Eric aside like the soldier had been nothing more than a kitten. He remembered the sheer amount of bloodlust he'd seen within that warrior's eyes, and the fear that had been inspired in him at it. It'd been definitely inhuman. This place was more appropriate to that man, he figured, than he. He hoped he never had to meet that silver-eyed brute ever again in this lifetime.

Suddenly, a crack from behind him yanked him out of his thoughts, and all of his disgust and fear yielded to a cold determination flooding his body as he spun around, grasping his long sword within two hands. He narrowed his icy blue eyes at the source of the noise; a figure hulking within the darkness of the forest towards the clearing. It crashed through the dead twigs and branches with no thought for stealth, and Eric tightened his grip. "Come on..." He muttered beneath his breath as he assumed a quick battle stance; his right foot back, his left slightly bent and ready to move at a moment's notice. Ready to attack. "...whatever you are."

[Nwalmaer]

The corridors stretch what seems like an interminably long way, snaking through the underbelly of the border between Salvar and Alerar. Carved stone walls were smooth to the touch, grooved as if made by a machine instead of a person. The chimera let his fingers run along the closest wall, feeling the unnatural ridges the same was he felt his horns. A mental image of a large horned animal, pushing its way through the caves came to mind. If only he was something so strong, he would not have to worry about wearing the sun baked hides of another beast. He would not have to rely on his sword to do what he could physically do himself, a notion that made the furry mouth of the creature almost curl into a true smile.

<”They are going to be opening a portal,”> Vanya said with a smile on her face. She pushed a loose strand of black hair behind her short pointed ear. <”It is going to take you somewhere in Alerar, nothing new with what you are used to, just a new person to fight. He is a human, those things with the wide eyes. We found him in another country, Co-rone, that’s how it’s said. You’ll visit the place eventually when we start getting you strong enough for oversea’s travel.”>

<”sea?”> Nwalmaer questions. The woman talks far too fast, he can only catch words here and there but most them make little sense when he pieces it all together. The two climb a small incline as she continues talking about the opponent that he is going to be facing. Killing is killing to him, no matter who the opponent is he knows he will fight the same way. Normally he listens, trying to get a picture of the Alerar native that is his target. Sometimes he is given something to know them by, a scent, picture, or taste of their blood. This human he has no knowledge of, and no information that is being presented is any help to know what he looks like.

<”Alright, love. Off you go. That big black portal is what you need to walk through, and you’ll find where you will fight. I know, do not worry. This is magic. It will be in Alerar, but you do not have to go out the normal entrance. We will put you there. Be careful!”>


~*~

Dark black sand sinks as he takes his first step in the new world. The moist feeling of the ground reminds him of dirt after the water that falls from the sky is done, but it is slick and crusty. It cracks when he walks; the dark sand’s crimson hue looking like dried blood. Nwalmaer bends at the knees and his fur covered feet sink deeper into the ground, the depths of blood that has soaked into the ground far more than just coating the surface. A long fingernail carves a thick groove. He lifts the hand to his furless nose and sniffs it, the dirt under the nail bringing countless different memories to his senses. It is old blood, putrid after the time it has spent on the surface of this ground. He knows the place, he is in what the Aleraran people call the L’Renor Harlilen, the blood soaked steppes.

The world on the other side of the portal is completely different than the inside of the mountainous region. It is not a place of gray stone and pieces of paper with black ink, there are no dark skinned elves watching him walk about. This place is relative freedom, a concept he does not understand. All around him the night mimics the battle weary ground, a mirror reflection of the black ground. As far as his sharp eyes can see there is no other being present, only hard ground and lackluster plant-life. Trees jut through the hard ground; gnarled and forgotten they sprout through the steppes with blood as their main source of nutrients.

Shaking his hand free of the crimson tainted dirt he begins to walk. His steps are not quiet, for this is not a place he is accustomed to. The ground cracks and groans underfoot, the spilt blood still holding the souls of the fallen, they cry out in anguish as he uses them as little more than a pathway. No respect for the dead or fear of their resting place comes to mind. A creature’s soul is a concept he does not understand nor care to. The homunculus comes to the top of the small rise and is greeted with a view of what he can only assume is his target. It babbles something he cannot understand, something in the language of the wide-eyed humans.

“Hooman?” Nwalmaer asks. If that is its name or what it is called, both being the same to him, he knows combat is going to come soon. His rabbit-like face turns and he sniffs the air, trying to find a scent of the thing over the powerful smell of dried blood. “Fun?”

[Lord Anglekos]

No wonder he was being paid to fight this creature; no man in his right mind would fight it for the sake of battle itself. With thick, powerful horns curling from a rabbit's head and a vulgar grip clutching a dark, single-edged Aleraran blade, the beast coming from the dark embrace of the dead forest looked like something out of a child's nightmares. It flowed rather than walked over the blackened ground beneath it, the pants it wore flowing unnaturally over it's legs so Eric could not see them move. It wore leather across it's upper chest region and on it's arms, but the swordsman could tell it was soft and cured to allow more movement at the expense of strength. He'd worn such armor himself long ago, albeit in a different style that the creature before him. It's eyes were pure white without any pupils, and stared almost apathetically at him as it advanced forward relentlessly. The hair that covered the thing was even whiter than that, almost a shimmering silver in the dim light of the clearing.

Suddenly the creature stopped and smelled the air before it with it's nostrils, and to Eric's amazement, it speaks. "Hoo-man?" It pronounced the word with obvious unfamiliarity, lack of use of it's vocal cord rendering them rusty and guttaral. "Fun?"

Eric dug his right foot deeper into the blood-saturated soil, tensing his muscles as he brought his blade to bear by his side in a defensive position. It was still tightly held and ready to strike at a moment's notice, but he hoped the creature before him would see that lack of aggression in his stance. If it could speak, it must have some intelligence, he reasoned, and a creature with intelligence was always easier to fight than one without. Animals could not be reasoned with. He spoke slowly to the larger...thing...before him, annunciating his words with almost insulting slowness and clarity. "Yes...I...am...human."

[Nwalmaer]

Nwalmaer listens to the slowly recited words as his nose works through the air, the scent of the shorter man hardly noticeable in an area so full of death. The dried blood is repugnant, a lingering scent that assaults the senses. He rubs the back of his nose with his white paw, hoping his on smell can take the place of what his heightened abilities are screaming to be rid of. The smaller man’s odor is masked perfectly by the tainted grounds. Should the human have any powers which make him invisible to the naked eye, the homunculus knows he will not be able to easily locate him. Instead of focusing on what could happen, he plants his feet into the soft soil and listens to the ground give way.

Human, the only word the man said that he knows is the one that he concentrates on. Vanya said he would find a human here, a small creature with wide eyes. This thing with the metal chest fits the description. At his side he holds a steel sword, a boring looking weapon to the chimera. His white-knuckled grasp on the leather bound handle shows he is not comfortable with where he is. Nwalmaer attempts another smile, but in its place is a nightmarish expression of dark desires. Two large, sharpened incisors poke out from behind his lipless mouth, enlarged fangs of a vampire just another addition to the already disgusting aberration.

He does not draw his sword at his side, the Aleraran blade a precious gift that he has been told only to draw when absolutely necessary. His unnatural abilities are to be tested against this human. With a slow gait he begins to stride towards the man, his legs moving beneath the enchanted pants he wears. The black trousers are tattered and worn, ghostly remnants of a fallen warrior. They offer him the element of the unknown, the change to surprise an opponent by way of not showing which way his legs are moving or what they look like. Like a phantom he stalks his victim, the closer he grows the more he feels his muscles tense and his senses sharpen.

No fear can be found behind the pallid eyes of the sereg’wethrin, no emotions to express his inner thoughts. His hands rise before him and he stares at the human, eyes narrowing as he prepares for the initial attack. An Aleraran assassin is not trained for one on one, face to face combat. They are given the opportunity to hunt their prey as they deem necessary. For Nwalmaer, the necessity of sudden and surprising attacks is what he prefers. This form of combat, meeting another and having to gauge their strengths and weaknesses while being openly viewed as well is not something he is used to. It does not matter to him though. The gory grounds of the L’Renor Harlilen crave more nutrients, fresh blood to feed the flocks of carrion lovers that roam the steppes. They will accept the deceased body of the human as easily as roots do water.

With a quick thrust he charges forward, his three fingered hands moving in awkward patterns in order to throw off his opponent. As he grows closer he lunges, one arm moving towards the place the blade is resting in case of it being used to strike, a thick mass of manipulated bone coating the forearm. His opposite arm reaches out for the man’s throat, the clawed fingers seeking a gruesome prize. He knows the weakness of all humans. They are light skinned, wide-eyed versions of the dark elf, though much weaker in battle. Any exposed flesh has small lines that run below it, filled with the fluid that he knows the steppes long for.

[Lord Anglekos]

Eric was raised in a land of men and women weaned upon magic. It flooded their very lives, was in every aspect of their actions and thoughts, was the standard by which they were judged upon. He had been born with no magic of his own, and thus had learned how to fight with the weapons of old; the brutality of steel and bone, the harshness of melee combat. He'd learned how to fight those who relied upon their magic to defend themselves and, more importantly, how to defeat them without that very magic.

But the creature that charged at him now was not from his homeland; it was a being of brute strength and bone, armed with the very weapons that he himself used. As it burst forward he felt his body tighten in fearful expectation; would he be able to defeat this monster? For the first time he was unsure of the answer to that. The monster raised it's arms and began moving them wildly without a single emotion or sound as it approached, but Eric was far from distracted at these seemingly random movements. He waited, his eyes searching the creature's torso and legs for a sign, a glimpse of it's true intent. That strange cloth it wore around it's waist prevented him from seeing clearly, and the swordsman felt frustration flood him. Maybe if he could cut it off...

Then suddenly one of the creature's arms was a blur, and Eric moved without even thinking. Upon further reflection of his battle he realized that at that point he completely relied upon his instincts, and that is what probably saved him from the creature's three fingered grasp and lunge at his throat. He used his smaller size to his advantage at this point and, like his opponent, dashed forward. Eric ducked underneath that arm covered in white, almost goat-like hair and noted the bone protecting the monster's forearm. Bone armor? He wondered for a split second before he released the tension in his arms, sending his long sword in a vertical swipe at his opponent's upper arm, hoping the blade could cut through the soft leather armor and the flesh and bone underneath.

Nevertheless he kept moving forward, boots digging into the sickened soil, not wanting to be there if he did not strike true. He noticed the creature reaching for it's own blade at it's side and he felt a slight amount of dread go through him as his mind came up with thousands of possibilities at once. What was it like? Was it a good swordsman? A berserker? Careful and deliberate? Never before had he felt such nervousness go through him, and he blamed it on the unnaturality of their surroundings. He just wanted this fight to end so he could leave this God-forsaken place.