Tvier Valka Seula vs. Penumbra Intersect

[Christoph]

Congratulations for making it to the third round of the Tournament of Champions. Both teams receive four Fate Points for making it this far! The battle closes after 11:59 PM EST on May 8th. Good luck to both teams!

Arenas were arranged at random, and your prompt is as follows:


Your battle will take place in maze of dank, dark sewer tunnels. The air is thick with the stench of human waste and the water is filthy and tainted with caustic toxic waste.

[Jericho]

All bunnies between Jericho and Kryos approved for the duration. Both teams have agreed to allow grammatical and stylistic edits that do not effect plot content or continuity.


odd feeling being dead

full of light—light everywhere—but he was blind, light to a blind man doesn't make sense—

and he was rising, or thought he was rising—could he think at all—had no feet to climb wings to fly none of it

but he was rising

not like he thought it would be

thought it would be

happy ending

but he failed

his sin

killed him.

Jericho.

he knew that Voice like he knew that name—his name, but the Voice was not his—it was bigger than he was, and he wished he could see the light because if he could see the light that would mean he had eyes, and if he had eyes he could cry and say he was sorry—

Jericho, are you still holding onto your guilt?

he couldn't hold onto anything, had no hands he was dead—but his sin was still clinging still bound to him—

No, Jericho. It was never bound to you. I broke its power over you long before you were born.

he could see something gray with walls like a fortress and something black inside—how could he see, did that mean he could cry—

You built walls around your shame to lock it away, to be rid of it, but you only trapped it inside yourself.

he recognized the black thing now—it was the Giant thing the Shadow thing that killed him that cut him away from the Light—and then he wished he didn't have eyes because he could see its hooded face, the two blades jutting from its arms—

I had to show you, Jericho. Now, do you see? Now, do you understand?

the Giant thing was growing behind the walls because there was no Light there, and it got bigger and bigger, beat its fists against the stones and then everything came toppling down because it was too late—

You said you would do whatever it took to purge that shadow, Jericho, even if it meant facing a giant with only a sling. But what I will ask of you will take even more courage than that.

but he had no hands he was dead what could he do—

No, Jericho. There is a long path ahead of you yet. I told you—I have made a way.

it blazed it roared it shook he saw it without eyes heard it without ears and


Then, he felt it on his skin.


Jericho's eyes opened to a far-off cobalt sky, framed in his vision by the shivering arms of fir trees. The elkin lay there, blinking in the flow of the crystalline light, feeling each tickle of the grass on his arms and the back of his neck. He breathed.

Straining his core, he pulled himself into a sitting position. The Garden of Secrets, washed in the aquamarine light of its strange second sun, lay around him in perfect silence—so unlike the clamor and roar of the stormy jungle arena where he had died. His ears still rang from the fire and thunder—but could that be? It felt like he had grown old and died, and then been born and matured all over again since his fatal confrontation with the monstrosity in the forest.

The elkin's breath caught, and his hooved fingers flew to his chest. His tunic was there, all signs of the fire that had consumed it erased. His cloak and breeches looked the same as they had last night—could it really be only yesterday?—before the Garden had swept him away into battle. His own flesh looked like new, all the scars and burns from his ordeal swept clean. His fur wasn't even singed. He reached up and ran one thumb over his right antler—it reached as wide and full as it had the previous day.

“You're awake.”

Jericho's ears swept behind him toward the sound. Twisting, he took in a view of the small clearing where he had awoken—and of his dwiilar partner, sitting cross-legged near the trees.

Tentatively, Jericho rose to his feet. “What happened?”

“The Cabal brought us back.” Kryos nodded across the clearing. Through a gap between two young spruces, Jericho could see the great monolith at the Garden's center—the only place he had ever physically seen the masters of the Garden, the overseers of the great Tournament which had brought the two warriors here.

But then, that was not true. He smiled—the Voice of the One had led them here, had brought their paths to cross in this strange place, not the petty schemes of some mystical Cabal. No, the works of the One were far deeper than their ambitions.

“I'm glad our loss is so encouraging to you.”

The elkin's brow creased, and he turned again to his companion. Kryos' voice lay tense and flat, like an assassin's blade pressed up beneath a table.

“Life is encouraging to me,” he replied.

“Really?” the dwiilar drawled, garnet eyes glinting in the blue-green cast of the Garden. “I've seen you call lightning out of the sky, but you charged that monster with pebbles and a sling. It almost looked like you wanted to die.”

Silence waxed between them. Jericho ran the rough tips of his fingers against each other, matching Kryos' steel-edged glare with his own soft, cervine expression. Finally, he snorted, kneeling to pick up his staff.

“The power you have seen me wield is not my own, Kryos. I serve One who is higher than both of us, than this Tournament, than the Cabal. He is higher than time itself—I see with his eyes, I strike with his arms.” Crouching on his haunches, he ran his palms over the oaken grain of his quarterstaff. “In our last battle, he withdrew his hand from me.”

The dwiilar snorted. “Power is useless if it's unreliable.”

At that, Jericho chuckled. “Make no mistake, my friend. Not even gravity is as reliable as the power of the One.”

Kryos rose to his feet, stalking across the clearing toward the gap between the spruces with his back to Jericho. “We were never friends. You were a combat partner, and a weak one at that. Now, we've lost, so it doesn't even matter anymore.” Jericho watched as his teammate, his ward, stared across the valley at the monolith, as though somehow, its depths held the prize promised to the great Tournament's champion: a single wish.

The elkin sighed, thinking back to before the fateful battle, when Kryos had told him his plans for the wish if he won. “I guess your 'strength and power' will have to wait,” he said to the dwiilar's back.

Slowly, evenly, Kryos turned his head to pin his partner with one carmine eye. His gaze was full of black and empty fire, and he looked twice the demon he had seemed during their first match. “Don't patronize me,” he said with a level of calmness only a madman could manage. “It was more than that.” He turned back toward the tower, hiding his eyes from Jericho's view. “But it doesn't matter now. It's done. Over. If I'd...” But he stopped and whirled around, eyes blazing with the taught expression of a stallion heaving at the reins. “But what about you?” he said, sweeping one hand up and down at Jericho's form like a machete. “What have you been through? You trust this god of yours even when he abandons you, only because you've never had everything in your life torn apart before your very eyes. What do you know about me? About anything?” Once more, the dwiilar turned away, his tense and jagged features forming a strange silhouette with the tower through the trees. “No, to you, life is encouraging. Life,” he scoffed.

Jericho sighed, shifted his grip on the quarterstaff—but said nothing. His spirit burned, urging him to speak, to prove Kryos wrong, to lay the truth bare. But he'd taken such care to hide himself, protect himself from this swordsman and his remarkable eyes, that now the walls were too thick.

A flicker. A quiet shriek upon the wind.

Jericho tensed. “Do you feel that?”

Dark stitches of power skittered over the edges of his spirit, drawing closer, circling down like converging vultures. A moment passed before Kryos turned toward him, looking skyward. “It's the Cabal.” The dwiilar paced back to the other side of the clearing, crouching to collect his blade and belongings. “Sending us home, no doubt. We'll not see each other again,” he said, the edges of his mouth curling with the words.

But Jericho stood still, staring into the firmament as the invisible energies crackled against his soul. He reached out—and the Voice, the Voice that had always shown him the way, that had fallen silent the day before, once again answered him.

I have made a way.

The wide smile of a treasured secret spread over his countenance, and he lowered his face to catch Kryos' gaze. The thrill of revelation danced in his eyes.

“No, Kryos. We're not finished yet.” Quiet certainty resonated in his voice, and the swordsman looked up from his work with a question in his features. The elkin's smile only widened. “Get ready.”

The power of the vortex fell on the clearing at once like smoke and fire, smearing the light like rain on a watercolor painting. Jericho lifted his face again to the sky—and then the world was torn away.


His mind rushed and tumbled into the edgeless space of the Between. Three times now, the magic of the Cabal had thrown him into this place. The first time, he'd been unprepared for the seamlessness of it, the lack of border between his own mind and that of his fellow passenger through the void. On the second journey, he'd been ready to box his memories and secrets away behind the fortress of his mind—but this time, it was different.

You're wrong about me, Kryos. He let the thought echo away into the portal's expanse where he knew Kryos would hear. I've hidden myself from you—from everyone. But now, I see. The Voice resounded in his soul. Now, I understand. Shadows thrive in hiding. Only in the Light can they finally be burned away. He offered up a prayer, from the very depth of his being, for strength—for the courage to do what had to be done. I'm not hiding this time, Kryos. This time, I'll let you see the truth.

In the nothingness of the mindscape, he saw himself—saw the giant walls of the righteous facade he had erected around the guilt and shame of the great sin he had committed so many years ago. The power of the One swelled within him, and he loosed his will against the mortar and the rock, the capstone and the foundations.

With the explosive sound of blaring horns and a thousand screams, Jericho's walls came crashing down.



-

[Kryos]

A snap of folding space sent vortexes of gray mist through the dank air, and Kryos fell into being. Landing hard on his feet, his knees gave out and he crumpled onto hard, unforgiving stone, arms flying wide. Then, with his first breath, his mind gave in to the rage that could no longer be restrained.

Damn it! Damn it all! Jericho, his infuriating god, the Cabal, this tournament! Why?

His hands clenched as his spine arched, mouth issuing a silent howl. Tears built in his forlorn eyes, only to streak down his shadow-clouded face, eyes gleaming dimly with the boiling heat within. A vicious stench dripped from the air engulfing him, eating away at his skin and gnawing at his lungs, threatening to push him over the edge, though the raw tides of fury being unleashed through his soul kept him alert, as much as he wished otherwise. Everything was dark–a light some distance down the encroaching passage beat crimson–and the pull of a heinous, sludging current mocked his every thought, his every defense.

With a strangled cry, his fist rose into the air and came rushing back down to the floor, striking the slick surface and sending vibrations through his arms. Pain lashed across his knuckles through his wrist, but he welcomed the pain, the distraction. It wasn’t enough, though. Gritting his teeth, his lifted his tender hand once more.

Why? Why? With each strike, with each hammer of crushing pain, his soul screamed out.

Why is it I who is destined to lose everything over and over again? How am I expected to endure this? Why has Jericho succeeded when I have failed?

The vision he’d witnessed in the void fueled his anger like a forest under a flame’s power. It reached out, taking more and more of what he had and destroyed it. His memories from so long ago, his reason for continuing, everything. All that remained when the images finally extinguished themselves was hate. The hate he had for himself, suppressed by ignorance and denial but recognized at last. It had been freed by his own doing.

Impossible! There’s no way! Such a thing . . . and Jericho . . . how could he?

His evaluation of the humble creature had been horribly wrong. The history he’d seen shattered all presumptions he’d harbored about the Elkin, and yet he struggled to believe in the past which had haunted Jericho since so long ago. To think that such a dark deed had been upon the benevolent creature this whole time was idiocy. But the past, as much as he and Jericho both wished otherwise, was as real and undying as the present. He knew what lay deep within his comrade. It was the comparison, however, between himself and Jericho, that sent his mind into chaos and drove the relentless waves of hate on like a whipped slave.

The rank blackness in which he knelt would not be forgotten, though. With ever growing speed, the pain in his right hand became numbing needles, and his freed emotions returned to his precarious, but strengthening, control. Rising to his feet, he took in his surroundings for the first time.

Stone made up the dungeon in which he stood, though the make was similar to human design, rather than that of dwarf or elf. The curved ceiling enclosed him all the more, and as the tides of anger ebbed, his vision became clearer–the throbbing crimson light became a steadily burning gold. Along the walls, spaced out in even intervals were medium sized holes of some unknown significance, and the walkways that ran alongside the walls stopped before each of those openings, only to start up again after a gap spanned by several feet. Next to him rolled a river of pitch, slowly rippling toward an invisible destination. But it was the stench that set his hairs on end and teased moisture from his eyes; it was beyond anything he’d ever experienced. The decay was ten, no, a hundred times worse than the rot of their last battle. The desecrating, humid air of the hell hole threatened to overwhelm his senses.

The swordsman glanced about for his partner. In his disoriented state, he wouldn’t be able to fight, not even taking into account his battered hand. Feeling the warm blood trace down his fingers before falling into the darkness of space, he took an uneven step. His journey through the elk’s memories had not been kind to his mind. Even now, he couldn’t quite gather his thoughts, couldn’t focus. For once, it was he who needed protection.

“Kryos!”

He spun toward the sound and accompanying light, eyes flashing darkly. Jericho rounded a corner, coming into sight like an angel of destruction, hand outstretched and illuminated with a celestial brilliance that cast aside the feeble shadows of the tunnel. Fear suddenly welled in the dwiilar’s heart; they needed to work as a team in order to avoid the outcome of their last match, but Kryos wished he could vanish into the fleeing shadows and the folds of his midnight clothes. At a loss, he remained where he was, watching Jericho approach in silence.

“Kryos.”

The call was more subdued this time, but it brought the insinuating elk closer and closer with a grimace on his face. Whether the cause was the stench, or something else, Kryos couldn’t tell. As Jericho neared him, slowing to a gradual stop, he noticed a flicker of unease–a veil of uncertainty and, perhaps, nervousness–brush past the elk’s features. He felt the silence grow and become brittle, interrupted only by the undercurrent of sound made by the tunnels. He waited, and waited. Nothing. No emotion passed between them. His hastily tied nerves began to unravel.

Then, Jericho smiled, melting away a few of the frozen shards of glass caught between them and sending Kryos’ fragmented mind over the edge once again.

DAMN HIM!

The agony and venomous rage crashed through his body. His eyes hardened, features freezing into ice, and his hands clenched. Blood dripped onto the stone beneath his feet. Yet, incredibly, some small bit of control remained, and logic won out over instinct as he fought against his fate.

Attacking Jericho would be lunacy.

I’m better than this, he snarled to himself. His gaze locked with Jericho’s–cold, knowing ice clashing against the warm embers. They were polar opposites and yet, their pasts could almost be as siblings. Their roads had differed by only a few degrees. Now, they stood miles, no, worlds apart. And just because one had a chance the other did not. I’ve never been envious of anything before. I’m not going to start now! Kryos averted his gaze and turned slightly away.

“You’re hurt,” Jericho noted, taking a step forward. Kryos’ answering glare stopped his feet, but his shining, furry hand still reached out. Beams of moonlight coalesced into thin, mystical strands and crossed the small distance between them. They wrapped, as gently as feathers, around his self-inflicted wound like a piece of gauze. The wary warrior felt, under Jericho’s power, strength return to his bones and the abrasions knit themselves back together. Then, with the reminiscence of a cool, autumn’s breeze, the tapestry of light dissipated into the air, leaving no trace, not even dried blood, of the former wound.

He flexed his mended hand experimentally, before taking a quick glance at his healer, careful to keep his emotions in check. With a nod of gratitude–how it pained him to give even that simple gesture of kindness–he turned and let his sword hiss as he pulled it from its dark sheath. The tunnel stretched on and on, breaking into converging passages that went where the foul river swept.

He remembered. He recalled his purpose. To destroy the foes who stood in his way on his race toward the wish. He needed it now, more than ever. Because once again, he had something to lose. He stood on shadow’s edge; there could be no going back now. If he wasn’t strong enough this time, well, it wouldn’t matter. Nothing would . . .

His partner stepped forward, coming abreast with him and illuminating the way. Out of the corner of his eye, Kryos saw the elkin study him, unspoken words trapped on the tip of his tongue. With a deliberate step, the confused sword master left Jericho in his wake, along with the probing eyes and miraculous past that accompanied him.

He did not understand–he couldn’t comprehend it. Not now, maybe not even after this whole thing was over. However, Kryos intended to try. He would unravel the secrets that separated him from the agent of the One.

[TwinDeath]

Xaul looked up from where he sat against a tree when the silvery portal appeared, blood dripping from his wounds. The thick liquid bubbled out his lips as he gasped for breath, knowing a pierced lung threatened his life. His Kounnar was fully awakened by the pain, the ancient spells laid into his skin blazing with crimson light. Normally, the runic tattoos lay nearly invisible against Xaul’s dusky grey skin; yet now that he was so close to death, the god possessing him had intervened and forced his influence upon him.

Knowing that Xaul was close to shutting down, Resheph had stepped in. The ancient and bloody god that Xaul had made a bargain with so long ago kept him alive and moving, the awful energy he used scorching Xaul’s soul as it rushed through his veins, insanity gripping him. Xaul, rest. I’ll keep you alive, whispered Resheph. Xaul only giggled in response.

As Epsilon came up and offered his arm, Resheph gripped Xaul through the Kounnar, fighting the restraints the tattoos kept him under. Slowly, Xaul stood, ichor gushing from his body as he leaned on Epsilon. His left arm hung useless by his side, the shoulder dislocated. Collecting his katars, Resheph guided Xaul into the portal with lurching steps. With a last mad chuckle, Xaul faded away, off to the next match.

* * *

Resheph opened Xaul’s eyes within the vortex of the teleportation spell, examining the weave of the casting. This was the first time he had truly investigated the workings of the Cabal. They certainly weren’t weak; the weave was tight and powerful. There were a few flaws, but they were so minuscule that almost no-one would have noticed them. Resheph, however, was special. A god, and one with a desperate cause, could find these little cracks; these miswoven sections, and exploit them. Having found a weak point in the spell, it was easy for Resheph to reach out to it and attach himself, funneling the energy of the spell through himself to Xaul’s body, accelerating his captor’s healing.

Resheph, what… Xaul stirred slightly as the Cabal’s power was funneled to him. The spell… you could kill us.

Relax, my avatar. The power only comes from the temporal component of the spell’s weave. We shall arrive where the Cabal wants us, in time. Resheph turned back to his work, concentrating on fueling his jailer with the energy he would need to survive the next fight.

It is impossible to simply take power, however, and Resheph was forced to allow a little of his own black weaves leak into the spell as he extracted the light that was charging Xaul. (Resheph’s own energy was made unsuitable for healing by its dark nature). This small leak began to change the weave in quiet, subtle ways, and Resheph watched with apprehension as the temporal nature of the weave grew a visual aspect, one that would allow the travelers brief glimpses of possible futures. Epsilon, I don’t know if you can hear me through the weave, but shield yourself. Xaul’s deep inside himself healing, but you’re going to have some unexpected visitors. The visions scraped at Resheph, but he ignored them, shutting them out so that he could focus on controlling the power that rushed through him.

[Exspherius]

All bunnying between members of Tvier Valka Seula has been approved by both parties.
Epsilon let his power fade away as quicksilver disc of the Cabal’s portal shimmered into existence. His power withdrew back into his mind and soul, taking the pounding rush of battle with it. As the bill he had conjured for Resheph-Xaul moments ago dissolved, he realized that it had taken none of his rage. He looked to Xaul, broken and bleeding, held together only by the will of Resheph, and his self-control very nearly cracked.

Epsilon had come into the tournament entirely by coincidence, a stroke of cosmic luck. He had no stake in this fight, not like these others who had been drawn to this conflict by the lure of power. Epsilon had no wish for power. The Esper hated what his life had become because of it; all he had known was loneliness because of his gifts. Of his life before the Gemyndi laboratories, he had no memory. No childhood, no mother, no father, no family at all. His only friends had been his fellow research subjects, and they were dead. Killed, one by one, in horrific experiments of push them further in their abilities. If they survived that, then they had died helping him escape from the facility. Scientists had even robbed him of his own name, sacrificed his very identity on the altar of power. And such power he had gained because of it!

Epsilon wanted none of it. Not when every last scrap of his power couldn’t save the first person he had allowed close to him since that day when he finally broke free of Gemynd. Instead, he found himself forced to trust a god of slaughter to keep his friend alive while he sat and watched. It sickened him. Even more so because the he had never bothered to try to apply his powers to healing. He'd been a good dog of the military and honed his destructive abilities to their finest. Now, all he could do was put his arm around Xaul's shoulders and aid Resheph in lifting Xaul's shattered body. Xaul did not respond, only gibbering quietly, but he leaned so heavily on the Esper that Epsilon began to hold him up with his mind as well as his muscles. Epsilon ignored the blood soaking into his uniform and mixing with sweat and dew, focusing instead on connecting with Xaul. Resheph be damned, Xaul needed to hear him now. He projected a steady litany of emotion to his ally as the pair staggered towards the portal. No words, just calm and peace and a repeated assurance that I am here for you, and I will not let you fall. I will not let you die.

The pseudo-trio touched the quicksilver portal and vanished into the void.

* * *

As soon as the Esper stepped through the portal, he knew that something was wrong. Normally there was no sense of transition, only a brief flash on nonexistance before he was reassembled at his destination. He didn't normally see anything.

Certainly not himself. Certainly not his own face...with no mask. The sight of it was so shocking that his hand flew to his face, touching the etched metal for the reassurance that it was still there. In this moment of surprise, he almost missed Resheph’s warning; the god had interfered with the teleportation spell and Epsilon was to bear the repercussions of it.

"Hello, Vasque." said the image. "Do you know who I am?" The name held no meaning to the Esper, but it sounded so familiar...

"What did you call me?" The Esper strained into his memory, searching for anything that accompanied the name. He found nothing, and it disturbed him.

"Your name, Vasque. But you don't remember that, do you?" His...name? But his name was Epsilon...had always been Epsilon...had never known anything but what the military...

Flash! For the briefest of instants, something broke out of the void that his past had fallen into so many years ago. A young boy, bright-eyed and dark-haired, laughing and smiling a smile that was broadly reflected in the face of an older man - and it was gone. Vanished, and try as he might Epsilon could not pull it up again.

"Who..." The image had shaken him. The name - his name? - had shaken his grip on himself. He struggled to form a sentence as he tried to keep a hold on his mind. "Who are you?"

"Didn't I say it already?" His image smiled, and Epsilon noticed for the first time that his counterpart was not wearing the fatigues of the Gemyndi PsiOps. He was instead clad in the casual, comfortable clothes of Gemyndi civilians. No military rank at all. The complete lack of insignia made his reflection seem almost...naked. "I'm you," the apparition continued, "Or at least, I'm who you could've been, Vasque."

The name struck at the Esper again. He felt it as if he'd been physically touched by the sound. Again, the void-wall in his mind quivered. Flash! The boy - himself? - was smiling, bouncing on the shoulders of the older man - his father? - as he was carried around the yard. Sunlight filtered down through the branches of the tree that spread over their home-

"What are you doing to me? Where is this coming from?"

"I'm just trying to show you...what you had. What you lost." His double paused, concerned. Almost as if he could see the torment that twisted Epsilon's face behind the mask. "What you could have again,"

"No! They're gone, they're gone. I have no family. I've never had a family." He repeated this softly, a mantra, as his mind came apart at the seams. Don't show me this! Don't make me lose it twice! The hole was painful enough before, don't show me was was supposed to fill it!

"Vasque..." The shadow looked at him, making eye contact even through the steel plate. "Your life doesn't have to be pain. You can have a life again." And suddenly there were more people in the void-tunnel of the portal. The tall man from the visions, older than before, with silver in his hair but a smile as warm as a sun. A woman who stepped from the shadows to take the man's arm, she had his own eyes, steel-grey but full of love and laughter his had never in memory held. A girl, young and beautiful, smiling with a heady promise in her warm brown eyes. The Not-Epsilon stepped back to join them, and the girl twined her fingers with his. The entire image looked so natural, so overwhelmingly right that Epsilon felt a burning wave of longing so intense it almost brought him to his knees. As one, the pair reached out to him, imploring. "Power lives not in the unwilling heart. Let it go. Let it go and be your own man again, Vasque-"

"Don't. Call me. By that name." Epsilon growled, his self-control slipping as he spat the words. Sparks of power leaked from his fingertips as he clenched them into fists. "I may have had something like you, but it's gone now." He swept his hand in a brutal chopping motion, and the figures dissolved again, leaving only himself and his shadow. Suddenly he simply felt tired. "It's been gone...for a long time. Not even the Cabal can give that time back to me. Yes, I could've been you. I could've been a lot of things." He lowered his head, lost in the last memory to leak back into his head. "But if I give up what I have now, if I throw away what I've been gifted with..." And abruptly Xaul Knofker stood beside him, the bloody sigils of the Kounnar entirely vanished from the dusky skin.

"Then I will never be able to help this man. I can't go back to what I lost. But I can free him, dammit! If I throw this power away-" and energy flared around the Esper in a brilliant silver-blue corona, "-then I damn him to hell forever. I cannot do that. I will not." He grit his teeth on the last few words, and hoped his shadow wouldn't catch his agony.

As if he would be so lucky. "You put on a good front, Vasque. Just like you've always done. My time is up, and the Cabal calls you back again. But you know how to find me, if you ever have second thoughts. If you ever want a...fresh start. I'll be waiting...Epsilon."

And suddenly the shadow was gone and Epsilon opened his eyes.

* * *

He emerged from the disc with Resheph-Xaul still draped over his shoulder. As soon as they cleared the quicksilver's border, their boots sank calf-deep in rancid sewage. The liquid was stained a putrid purple-brown by the blazing light of the Kounnar runes. Epsilon gagged, but fought it down before he could empty his stomach against the inner surface of his mask. He was thankful that he had it, the smell must be unbearable for Xaul if it was nauseating to the Esper even behind the steel. He dragged the two of them through the muck and onto the relatively clean stone catwalk that bordered the river of filth. As they hauled themselves out of the sludge, Epsilon tried as best he could to put the visions our of his mind. They'd shaken the certainty that he relied so much upon, put a crack in the crutch that he'd leaned on so long. It's said that it's better to not know you're missing something than to know what would fill the gap, and now I know why. It's going to be a miracle if I survive this battle with anything resembling sanity.

"Xaul or Resheph, or whoever else is driving, we have to get moving." he was reluctant to reestablish mental connection, on the chance that Resheph's power was still flowing through Xaul's mind. One brush with that power had been enough, and he didn't want to risk it a second time, especially with his own psyche in such a state. But he could sense the turmoil of his partner's mind already, and there was enough of a connection from within the tunnel that Epsilon was dragged immediately into his partner's head.

Xaul, why do you still fight me? I will keep you alive and all shall fall before me. Accept me. Resheph's vile voice was like a serial killer's; low and black and utterly mad with the urge to kill. It was no wonder that Xaul was nearly as insane as the god was, after hearing that voice in his head for so many years.

No, Resheph. I will never accept you, I shall never welcome you in. I am the avatar you have, not the one you dream of, and I shall retain my conscience. Accept me, and together we shall do some good.

Good, pah! Ignore good. Ignore evil. Live for the base pleasures only, and welcome the glory that comes from them.

Glory? How is it glorious to know that you have ended the potential of another, that you have unmade one who could have become a hero, who could have saved so many? I may be too weak to move my own body, Resheph, and I may be letting you aid me, but I shall never accept you. Never again.

You ask how it is glorious. I ask how it is not? To know that you, that one man alone holds the power to do all that you just said, that is glory. Man is an animal, meant to eat, sleep, and kill. To fulfill one’s potential to the fullest extent – that is glory. And Epsilon finally understood the mad god. He was not a god of slaughter, he was a god of instincts. Pure, unaltered survival, nature red in tooth and claw. He was about to speak, when a light appeared at the end of the tunnel.

It was a clean light, like noonday sun, and it illuminated clearly the cesspool of their environment. A low, domed ceiling of cut stone blocks crusted over with substances no health-minded individual would dare to examine in detail. The catwalk they stood upon was broken at regular intervals by grates cut into the wall, oozing out more liquid to join that in the shallow river that flowed down the center of the tunnel. At that moment, a man-shaped silhouette occluded the light, and the Esper realized that their opponents had found them. His pike slapped into his palm and shot out to full extension as he drew up his power, sheathing the weapon in silver-blue energy.

And Resheph started to laugh, the horrid sound clawing at the minds of all the tunnel's occupants.

[Jericho]

All bunnies approved. Resheph/Xaul's dialogue was written by Twin Death.



The viscous, sinewy shadows of mold and algae shivered violently in the quaking wash of Jericho's beacon. The darkness fought him, pressing in, trying to squeeze out the light, though whether the weight of the air came from the dripping stench or the tetanus-edge of Kryos' scorn, the elkin could not say. With each gavel's clop of his hooves against the strange stone of the tunnel, his mind echoed No, no, no...

He had cast aside every piece of armor, every mask, laid himself bare, and been met only with hateful eyes and icy silence. Where was the forgiveness, the flow of mercy, the cleansing breath of redemption? Perhaps, for such as him, forgiveness was too much to ask.

Are you still holding onto your guilt, Jericho?

The edge of a hoof caught a seam in the rock and he stumbled, the light nearly failing as his stomach and lungs and arteries all clenched and filled with bile. Yes. Yes, he was clinging to it, just as the stink of the tunnel's waste clung to his fur. And now Kryos would never—

I have led, and you have followed. Is it so hard for you to believe in me?

Then the shadows struck with enough force to knock continents from their moorings.

Jericho cried out, fell against the wall, couldn't breathe, couldn't see, the Light was gone—

One of Them was here.

He dropped his staff, felt the point of the dwiilar's eyes turn on him in the sightless dark, and then Kryos' ragged voice rapped against the terror of the madness of the night, bouncing and bouncing back and forth between the walls, walls everywhere, so close! “What is it?”

One of Them was here!

He was breathing. He'd started breathing again, sharp, fast, the darkness tearing at his spirit like claws!

“It's—” Gasping, thought he would wretch, it was death, it was death was here, “It's—”

Couldn't say it was Them, huge and deep and black and old and moving so close! A Stronghold. A Presence. Shadow deeper than men could find names for was here and was here and was squeezing and claws and—

Take up your staff, Jericho.

His hand moved. He hadn't told it to. Reflex. Touched oak. Gripped.

Stand up.

His feet moved. He hadn't told them to. Planted firm. Stood.

I have led, and you have followed. Is it so hard for you to believe in me?

Closed his eyes. Reached in, stilled his heart. The One had led him here—the One would make a way.

“It's—a shadow. Very big. I felt presences like it when I came to the Garden, but never this close, and in our last battle...” The nightmare Face he had seen cackling through the flames in the jungle came to life, unbidden, against the canvas of his eyelids. He opened his eyes. “To encounter two Strongholds like this in so short a time—something big is going on.”

He raised his hand. Breathed a prayer, sought the Voice. The One was greater. He had to believe the Light was greater than the dark.

The beacon flared to life from his palm, bleaching the walls white. Kryos offered a single cold stare, turned, and strode down the passage without a word.

The elkin's shoulders wilted. Whatever he had been in Kryos' eyes, he was little more than a monster now that the dwiilar knew the truth.

But there was no time to think of that now. There were bigger things at hand.

A short distance down the walkway, the tunnel split into three channels, the vile slurry branching into a languid flow down each. They paused for a moment. Jericho listened.

“Left.”

The word multiplied in the confines of the passage, filling it with the voices of countless spectators, watching, urging them on into the dark. Jericho could feel the shadows pressing at him again, the immense weight of the black spirit looming closer and closer. The sound of the echoes faded away as they moved into the left tunnel—and then they were replaced by something else.

A silent sound that was like rabid hyenas and drunken madmen dug its fingers into his mind and peeled at it like a ripened fruit, and only when he managed to keep from keeling over did he realize that this sound which was felt rather than heard, which made no echoes against the stone, was laughter.

He stepped ahead of Kryos, lifting his hand to reveal their adversaries—one without a face, supporting the other, who was steeped in darkness.

He cried to the One for strength and let the light of the beacon flare. “I don't know who you are, demon, or where you have come from,” he shouted, his voice reverberating through the tunnel. “But you have no power here. I am a servant of the Victorious, of the One who has broken your darkness for all time. In his name, I defy you! In his name, I cast you out!”

In a single breathless moment, the echoes died under the weight of the stench and the tautness of the air. Then the shadowed one lifted himself from his cohort's shoulder like a mangled marionette drawn by tangled wires. Its mouth cracked open, and this time, the sound it made was audible, breeding against the walls into a cacophony of twisted voices—the very groans of the Abyss. The figure's body—and Jericho's soul—shuddered under the weight of the sound.

"You self-righteous idiot. You call me a demon? You say I have no power here?" The macabre puppet bent over with laughter before reeling up its spine again. "I have just as much power, as much right to be here as your One, nay, more right. All of you have accepted me, welcomed me, and I made you glorious." The monster laughed once more—and then was silent, crushing even the echoes with the sudden weight of its soundlessness. Then its head snapped back, pinning Jericho with old, old eyes.

"You remember me, Jericho. You remember Ruth. You ever tell Kryos here about her? About the pleasure that you got from holding her down while you did what you were meant for?”

The beacon flickered like a candle struck by the wind. It knew. The demon knew, it saw his sin, the flaw in his armor, but he had no armor, he had thrown it all away—

“I was there. In the name if the One, you defy me. In the name of the One you cast me out…” It giggled. It giggled with the cracking voice of a child skewering moths with matches and plucking the legs from spiders. “Poor Jericho. In my name you held her. In my name you devoured another’s life, ruining her for all. In my name you welcomed me in, in my name you accepted your nature, in my name you. Were. Glorious!”

The words caught him in the chest like razors, and the tunnel fell into blackness as the beacon died, crushed in an instant by the gravity of the truth for the first time being spoken aloud—

—And in the space between two heartbeats, Jericho found he was still standing. His Accuser had not torn apart his foundations, had not brought his facade crashing to the ground. He had done that himself, in the void of the portal. There was no secret left to be uncovered, no charade to be exposed.

Now, do you see? Now, do you understand?

In that space between two heartbeats, the elkin smiled.

The Light ignited, blazing from both hands as he held the staff high. It flashed with solid, palpable brilliance, gathering in golden auroras around his body. For a moment, it even burned the sewer's stink away.

“No. You'll find no foothold there. Today, I am free!”

With all the strength a prisoner summons to tear apart his chains, he hurled the weight of the light down the passageway.



-

[Kryos]

All bunnies approved.
As they rounded the corner, Kryos felt relentless waves of spite crash over his being like a stone upon the storm’s edge, driven by the sound that ripped at his mind. With it, as if the cursed noise were summoning his deepest fears, came memories of black fire and converging shadows. A burning jungle, and wreathed in the smoke and flames, a dark giant. Jericho’s slaughtered body, and the countless others he had seen.

Lifeless, azure eyes that laid his guilt upon him.

The laughter crackled and warped in the darkness, now only illuminated as Jericho stepped past him. By the elkin’s power, he saw a man clothed in black, whose form shifted between reality and illusion as it blended with the shadows. Only the lunar glow that emanated from his weapon, a four-some foot long pike, further aided Jericho’s light in revealing him, and the shaking figure he supported, the one whose amusement dredged up the dwiilar’s unwanted past. But the swordsman disregarded the weaker opponent; his worth would only be made clear to him by engaging the pikeman. His crimson eyes, filled with anger, hatred and the urge to begin, flicked to the face of the black-haired man.

Nothingness stared right back at him. The surprise at a faceless foe caught him off guard for a split second before his resolve focused him again. It didn’t matter to him what his foe looked like. Nothing mattered, except his own ability.

Ignoring Jericho’s rambling, he darted to the left and jumped across the river of waste, landing expertly on the other side. Without pause, he took off down the left catwalk, footfalls hidden under the unnatural sound of the words now being spoken by the hunched figure. Soft, crimson patterns flowed over the body of the man, and Kryos’ skin crawled as if thousands of ants raced just below his flesh at the sight of the marks.

Could he have been the “Stronghold” which Jericho spoke of? Shaking his head, he disregarded the thought. Kryos would kill them both if the chance presented itself.

He flew over one of the breaks in the path, past a gurgling stream of falling sludge. He was almost to them now. His fingers tightened over his weapon in anticipation.

“You remember me, Jericho.” The voice rasped out of nowhere, yanking the reigns of his focus from his grasp. “You remember Ruth. You ever tell Kryos here about her?”

The girl in question came unbidden to the swordsman’s mind, and the memories he had witnessed. A new emotion filled his being, an onslaught of fury that made his push his body harder, faster. He was almost there, almost close enough to silence the bastards. He didn’t need reminders of how he’d failed in the past. That was behind him. Before him now, was...

With a deep shout of defiance, a powerful light erupted down the tunnel parallel to him. One of Jericho’s barriers, strong and glimmering gold, raced toward their foes. The one armed with the enchanted lance attempted to take it head on, shielding the other. The shimmering lens barreled into them both, blasting the unarmed man to the ground and staggering the former. Now was the perfect time.

Curving his steps to the right, toward the dark river and opponents, he planted his feet on the catwalk’s edge and leapt at his faceless enemy. White flames spread across his muandrian for a moment, evoking the powerful magic hidden within. Even if the blessed, ivory glow had no effect, he might get lucky. With a yell of retribution, crimson eyes glowing fiercely as he unleashed his powers, he swung his blade downward with all his force and lost himself to the beautiful glory of combat.

[Exspherius]

Gleaming silver barriers sprang up around the Esper's mind as the demonic sound of Resheph's laughter clawed at the inside of his head. Xaul's rune-scribed shoulders shook with pain and sadistic glee as the monster howled with laughter, and Epsilon gripped his ally tighter out of sheer reflex. The not-sound skittered across the barrier to his consciousness, seeking a weak point to bore into his sanity and rot it away. Epsilon held strong, though, and the shining walls kept the laughter out. It was clear that their enemies did not possess such defenses. The glowing figure, some bizarre hybrid of man and deer, seemed to crumple down at the sound, falling almost prone while the light flickered dangerously, strobe-like. He shook as if struck by physical blows, but suddenly stopped as the laughter faded away. As the deer-man gripped his fallen staff again and rose to his hoofed feet, Epsilon could sense sheer resolve wrapping itself around him like a cloak. The deer-man was drawing on a power so pure and strong that it could be nothing but faith. Faith in what the Esper knew not, for the belief was so potent that the other's mind was entirely cut off to his senses.

The deer-man raised a hand, stepping ahead of his companion. The glow that surrounded him suddenly brightened, bathing Epsilon and Xaul in sunshine-yellow radiance. With a clarion voice like a trumpet call, he decried Resheph's power in what sounded almost like an exorcism.

Epsilon was not, by nature, a faithful man. All of his training had been based on the power of the human mind, and how proven science could advance that. His pike, scintillating with pure psionic power, was proof. But traveling with a being like Resheph had begun to change his outlook on such matters. He'd learned much about Godlike beings in his trials by Xaul's side, and knew enough that a battle of forces far greater than himself was about to take place. Thus, he was not surprised as Resheph forced a hideous cackling rebuttal through Xaul's lungs, nearly bending his friend double before snapping his head back to stare at the glowing man at the end of the tunnel.

The pressure building between the two men was nearly palpable as Xaul suddenly choked off his laugh and left the tunnel silent save for the sloshing of the sewage. Epsilon raised the pike and moved himself slightly between his enemies and his wounded partner. As Xaul spoke again, the Esper became aware that Xaul's psychological assault had not effected both of the combatants equally. The second figure, all but invisible in the fringes of the holy aura, was speeding down the right-hand catwalk, directly towards them. Xaul spat an accusation, dredging up a fragment of the deer-man's past that Epsilon did not understand, and the new enemy faltered for a brief moment.

Falter...I cannot falter. Now, as ever, my path leads me solely forward. He adjusted his hold on Xaul as energy built between the pair of gods, becoming nearly stifling in its intensity. If I am divided, if I hesitate for but an instant, I am ruined. My cause will fail if I falter. He looked over his shoulder at the mad death's-head grin that warped Xaul's features. And I can no longer afford failure. Not when the price is a human soul. He felt, suddenly, a surge of resolve flow up through him. The dream-image, Vasque, was wrong. He was strong enough. He was Epsilon, the finest weapon of Gemynd. He had paid for his strength with his life, his face, his very name, and it would be proven here and now if it was worth that price.

Buoyed by his restored determination, he drew on his power. The aura of energy surrounding Coercion grew brighter and brighter as he poured energy into it, preparing for the shadow-man who had resumed charging with a drawn blade. At that moment, though, the divine battle of wills reached the breaking point. the deer-man roared out a challenge as the aura burned brighter still. With a great flash, the deer-man flung a wall of light hurtling down the corridor. Epsilon recognized it instantly, having called up thousands of such barriers himself. The disc of power passed by the swordsman, bearing down on them and intent on smashing them into the walls.

He had only one chance. With Coercion so charged with psionic power that it left a trail of silver in the air behind it, he brought the weapon up high as the shield-wave flew at them. Epsilon brought the pike down in a vicious one-handed slash, putting as much force as he could behind the blow while keeping Xaul on his feet with the other hand. A shockwave emanated from the tip of the pike, solidifying into a wedge-shaped wall in front of the pair. He braced his feet against the rough, slimy stone of the sewers and completed the stroke, burying the tip of the weapon in the ground as a brace just as the wave struck.

It was probably the only reason he stayed standing.

The golden light slammed into the wedge like a monstrous, luminous battering ram. The silver wedge folded and crumpled under the divine blow, driving the Esper back a step and tearing Xaul completely from his grasp. His grip around Coercion's hilt held him upright as his demonic partner tumbled away behind him. The sheer amount of force was incredible, such that Epsilon was barely ready to react to the second attack. The swordsman planted his foot on the edge of the canal just as the Esper caught sight of him, launching himself into the air while Epsilon pulled Coercion from the stone. The blade flashed with white fire for an instant as it arced toward the Esper's head, but Epsilon didn't have the time to examine it closer. Instead, he thrust out his arm and released his power into a burst that caught the man full in the chest.

With a surprised 'Whuff' of lungs being forcibly compressed, the swordsman's flight was suddenly and abruptly halted. The well-executed leap and lunge became a tangle of limbs and blade that still managed to shear through the thick leather of Epsilon's outhrust gauntlet and slice a thin line into his forearm. Epsilon gritted his teeth at the sudden pain, but continued his counterattack. As the swordsman fell backwards, the Esper drew back Coercion and plunged the scintillating spear towards his enemy's torso.

[TwinDeath]

Resheph, in Xaul, was thrown backwards as the wall of light crashed out of Jericho and into him and Epsilon. He slammed to the ground and slid slightly, moaning slightly as old pains in Xaul’s body were reawakened from the shock.

“Free, Jericho?” Resheph gasped slightly as he forced Xaul to his feet. “You think you’re free now? Trapped in servitude to a sniveling, sycophantic weakling? He keeps you tied to civilization, locks you away from your base self and tells you that to be an animal is wrong, and you call yourself free?”

Xaul took several halting steps forward, his hands creeping towards the handles of the katars strapped at his waist as his mouth ached with Resheph’s words. “Dirty little secret, dirty little lie. You say your prayers and you move through every day judging others as you judge yourself, holding everyone up to the light of your god. You keep yourself to the standards of your god, forcing yourself to follow his doctrines, and you call yourself free? Your god asks you to bury your desires, telling you that aberrations filled your head that beautiful night, and still you think you are free. You mindless sheep. You’re his little dog, his chained slave, and he did it so elegantly that you think that you owe your life to him.

“Kryos knows the truth,” rasped Resheph as he edged Xaul past the combat between the dwillar and Epsilon. “he accepts his rage, his desires, and uses them as he will. Watch him fight, witness the beauty of death. Welcome the animal.”

Resheph paused, his pained smile growing wider. He looked slightly above and behind Jericho, staring at the slight presence there. “Well met, sibling. You’re still meddling in their lives, trying to better them, I see. You always did care too much for the sheep.”

Resheph looked back to Jericho, shuffling Xaul’s body closer and closer. “You were free once, Jericho,” smirked the bloody god. “Free to do whatever you wanted, whatever you were meant for. I was there, in your head and in hers. You both loved each other. Walk with me, Jericho. Witness glory.”

Resheph allowed Xaul to kneel, and then pushed through his avatar’s head. Images and sounds poured through Xaul’s mind into his underbrain, soaring from there into the minds of all present. Resheph laughed and laughed as old, old memories appeared in front of everyone, and if he had edited them slightly to suit his needs, then only Jericho would be able to deny it.

Flash. A young girl, the same species as Jericho. She is smiling, happy and nervous. Her eyes are kind, and her features soft.

Flash. The girl is surrounded by a group of loud, drunken youths. They smile and joke, but their eyes are cold and predatory. She becomes more nervous, and twists and turns, looking for an exit. One in the group stops her and pushes her backwards. His kind eyes are glazed, and he softly laughs as his friends herd her into an alley. She screams, and the sound is cut off by a heavy fist.

Flash. He is on top of her now, the quiet one, deep inside her. He has clamped tight on her arms, and a small part of her realizes that she will have bruises in the morning. With every push, every thrust she is driven deeper and deeper inside herself, slowly shutting down. She stopped struggling long ago; every attempt to get away brought a blow stronger than the last.

Flash. He has finished with her now, and she is cast aside. She can see his face through the tears that bleed from her eyes. He is shocked and sorrowful, but there is something else. Deep inside his ever-so-kind eyes, there is lust and joy. He enjoyed it, she realized, and shrank further inside herself as she realized that, for the smallest moment, she did too.

Xaul stood jerkily, still shacking off the effects of the vision. “Let us leave them, sibling,” whispered Resheph. The god’s voice stretched and cracked, and a trickle of blood dripped from Xaul’s lips. No man was meant to speak for a god. “Let us leave our avatars without no guidance, but merely the powers we have granted. Let us finish this.”

Resheph withdrew his influence, and the Kounnar that wreathed Xaul’s body flared up, bathing the entire tunnel in the crimson light. Xaul staggered, catching himself and standing without any support. More blood dribbled from his lips, splashing on his shirt. “Stupid furry man, bright and early death for you. You’re bright, but all life dulls.”

Xaul’s hands flicked to his waist and drew his katars. The tattoos of the Kounnar fared again, and then the extra light flowed into Drshil and Haingre. Drshil latched onto the lives around it, and pain began to course through the bodies of everyone in the sewer, old pains reawakening. Scars and broken bones long healed grumbled, as if the agony that they had brought was only sleeping until now. The pain was only slight, but it would soon grow. Haingre, for its part, was quiet. The fumes it cast out were masked by the greater stench of the fetid sewer, but still those sensitive to it could smell the distinct scent of death float through the air.

Xaul crouched into a fighting stance, his movements more and more animalistic. “A man dies like a butterfly, life burns from the touch of anyone, and all things must pass,” he giggled, spraying blood and spittle. “Pass without any faith. Without any light. Pass, and condemn me to live. Pass, and condemn you to die!”

Xaul leapt at Jericho, landing outside of his reach and sliding in low. His movements were halting, and it was obvious that his injuries were beginning to take their toll, but still Xaul fought. He rose out of a roll and slashed with Drshil, the flashy move hiding his intent as he quickly slipped Haingre in for a stab.

[Jericho]

All bunnies approved. In this post, Resheph/Xaul's dialogue is written by me, approved by TD. Also, I'm cashing a Miracle as a power boost to Jericho. All parties have approved.



Jericho screamed.

His hands flew to his temples, pressing his staff against the bases of his antlers. He clenched his eyes shut, but the images remained—not the memories he had buried, not the ones he had finally let go. These memories were hers. Every marrow-deep stab of pain and pleasure, every fishhook of fear and shame—

Move, Jericho.

He didn't look, didn't open his eyes, just sobbed, let his body move of a will not his own. He felt the Light coursing over the surface of his staff as his hands threw the weapon into a spin. Two solid shocks of impact shot through his arms and registered at the edges of his mind, but his consciousness was elsewhere.

He felt the grit and cold of the alley floor on his back, the vice-like carpenter's hands crushing his arms. He heard the drunken jeering, smelled the musk and muggy breath—

He saw the vile, masked face of a monster with antlers and mahogany eyes staring back at him.

His eyes opened with a roaring bloodcry. The demon charged, cackling as he came, his dark blades catching the carmine light of the hell-runes on his body.

“You're wrong!” The elkin slashed the air with his staff, loosing a smaller wave of light that caught his opponent's right shoulder. The fiend spun from the impact and kept coming, and if he'd lost his balance it was impossible to tell against his chaotic gait. His mad giggling filled the sewer, coming from every direction, bubbling up out of the muck.

Jericho batted one blade aside and swept around for a blow to the neck. The man bent impossibly, rolled around, his left arm snapping out like a cobra. But Jericho was ready, planted his parry, slid in, wrapped around—

And then he was at the demon's back in an obscene caricature of an embrace, using the staff's midsection to crush his opponent to his chest.

“You're so steeped in darkness, you can't even see you're the shadow to his Light!”

He squeezed violently, heard a rib snap. Then he released one end of the staff, his adversary's body acting like a fulcrum to spin the shaft away, and released a burst of power that sent the fiend sliding across the mildewed floor of the walkway.

“You exist only that we might better see him!” the elkin spat.

The creature rose to his hands and knees, turned his head, and stared into Jericho's eyes with a sneer drawn straight from the pit of hell.

“Is that what he tells you at night,” he said, in that cracked and poisoned voice which was more real than any man's voice had right to be, “when you dream of what it felt like inside her?”

Rage and shame exploded from the elkin's mouth as he charged, but the sound cut off when the demon flicked out his hand, sinking a throwing knife into Jericho's shoulder. The possessed man rose in a frenzied clamor of limbs, and with a banshee's shriek he was spinning, striking, stabbing. Steel slashed across Jericho's torso, the stripes boiling with pain unlike any he had ever felt. It clawed into his blood, all rot and shattered glass, but a bull's kick to his stomach cut off his cry. He stumbled backward, desperately trying to open his collapsed lungs.

“Or maybe it's what he tells her, when she dreams of you and wakes up screaming!”

The monster struck in a storm of edges and blood—but the blows fell on a numbed mind.

What good was honesty? What good was acceptance? Dropping his act, exposing his past—none of it changed what he was. Had he been so naïve to think otherwise? That somehow, just by letting go, his sin would be undone?

He felt a strip of flesh tear from between his ribs, and the bones shattered as a blade plunged into his lung.

Another kick sent him tumbling from the edge. As he fell, something thick like pitch bubbled up inside his chest, caught in his throat when he coughed, strangled him.

And with a sick, half-hearted spluck, he was in the sludge, the ordure washing over him, filling his wounds. He twitched like a fly stuck on a needle, gulped pathetic breaths.

With a chortling scream, the demon leapt from his vantage point, splashing into the mire.

“Antler-man sees what he is!” The katar's edge flashed as it fell. Bolts of fire flared as it sank through the elkin's stomach into his spine. The aberration leaned close, breathing hot on Jericho's muzzle. “Now, antler-man sees what I am,” he sneered.

Fire preceded ice preceded nothing. The stink of the filth flowed all around, all over and in him, just as it always had. The white masking robes had not changed it. Taking them off hadn't either. Nothing could ever change it. Nothing could change what he was.

How very true, my son.

His eyelids twitched, his pupils dilated. And as he felt himself slipping away, he felt—cold.

Oh, Jericho. How quickly you forget.

. ~ / | \ ~ .

The mad winds drive the snows like razors at the mountain's peak. At long last, the scarcely-clothed figure of a young elkin sinks to his knees. He hugs his elbows to his bare torso as his tears freeze to his skin. He closes his eyes and waits for the ice to turn to the fire he deserves.

He feels something move. Something huge and ageless—and he opens his eyes to see folds and tongues of light blooming over the summit of the mountain. And in the Lights, he hears a Voice.

“Who are you?” he wheezes, his voice miniscule against the wind.

A man's name is that by which he is recognized. Therefore, that by which I am recognized—that is my name. My name is the soldier who stands his ground against impossible odds so that his family might have one more moment to escape. My name is the friend who bears the blame of his companion's crime. My name is the mother who picks up an orphan and calls him her son. My name is Truth, my name is Sacrifice. My name is Salvation, my name is Love.

The youth's eyes shake. He knows to whom he speaks. And he knows why the One has come. He bows his head, for he knows there is only one judgment for a creature like him.

I have not come to end your life, Jericho. I have come to redeem it.

The child's face folds with confusion. He knows the depth of his crime, feels the stain of it. He knows there is only one price that can be paid.

I have paid your penance.

His tiny voice rasps against the storm. “W…why?”

Because I love you, Jericho.

“How…how could you…”

Because I am, Jericho. I have crafted something great in you, and though you hide it from the world and even from yourself, you cannot hide it from me.

And now the familiar voice is rising over the memory, as all fades to white.

Because of who I am, Jericho, nothing can change who you are.

. ~ \ | / ~ .

“No.”

The word struck like thunder, and with it struck the Light.

The shockwave sent his attacker flying, and all the sewage scattered to the air. Jericho strained and rose to his feet, deaf to the cries of his wounds. The Light streamed from him, filling the tunnel thicker and thicker, like smoke. The force of it built and strained and screamed, and as Jericho lifted himself upright, he ceased to touch the ground at all.

“These accusations, these things you show me—these are things I have done.”

The radiance of the aura began to boil and spin, sweeping around him like a hurricane furious to be trapped in such a small space.

“But who I am is beloved of the One and Only.”

Now, you see. Now, at last, you understand.

Starlight poured from the surface of his body, and the force of his spirit strained even harder against the walls. He felt his wounds weave themselves together in an instant as a Voice far greater than his own rose up above the howl.

“I am not a code to be followed. I am not a book to be read. I am a Truth to be spoken, a Story to be told, and a Life to be lived. I Am.”

All the light in every sun that ever rose broke through the gloom of the sewer. It cracked with the force of every quake that ever rocked the earth and sang with the strength of every gale that ever blew.



-

[Kryos]

All bunnies have been approved.
“Get out of my HEAD!” Kryos raged as he fought back the forced images, of Jericho in the cold, deserted alley. He lunged forward and swung his blade in a wide arc, blood flying into the air at the speed of his attack and face twisting into a vicious snarl. A rush of blue-silver steel, and the flare of sparks blossomed as the two weapons clashed, the screeching of the deadlock grinding on his nerves. He heaved, feeling blood spurt from the gash on his side from the sharp, metal pike.

Had he underestimated the man?

All over his body, new wounds had appeared from the glowing point of his opponent’s weapon. Three on his arms, the one at his right side, and on in his thigh. They all trickled blood, fueled his rage as they soaked and grabbed his garb. Spinning again, he twisted, thrusting past his opponent's weapon only to have his sword glance off the man’s hidden chest guard. The glowing weapon rushed towards his throat, before missing by inches as Kryos blocked with the muandrian’s hilt. The sharp point dragged across the back of his hand, but he lunged again through the pain.

His weapon’s edge slid across flesh and bathed in a stream of blood from his opponents shoulder. Twisting out of the way of another counterattack, he jumped backwards, landing in a feral crouch. He bared his teeth, eyes flashing. Kryos had added another mark of his own to the faceless form before him, for blood ran down his body as well.

A fresh wave of pain burned at the open wounds that covered his body, flaming and biting as if acid had been poured into the wounds.

What is this devilry? he thought as he clenched his teeth against the intense burning. He readied his sword, only then noticing that the pikeman, too, had faltered. Now!

His legs pounded as he rushed, the deadly point of his blade aimed for the heart. He almost had him . . .

A pain so intense, so horrifying and utterly impossible, flared across his eyes, along the scars that lined them, as if the dim, feather-light impressions of flames had split open with molten rock, burning him alive. But this, this was more than a simple wound. Through those obsidian marks, the stream of agony crashed upon his soul, his very essence. He fell to his knees, weapon clattering on the damp floor, and screamed. His hands clutched at his head, clawing invisible flames as he writhed.

A dark carvern, shadows spinning and converging. Glowing, powerful eyes, full of spite and mocking. A hand, wreathed in pure darkness, gripping his face and burning his soul as he died . . .

Footsteps, and Kryos saw the man’s rush, the pike rising higher and higher. Saw the inevitable descent through eyes filled with death. He had to move, to save himself. He couldn’t die! He rolled, and the spear ripped through his shirt. Clawed hands still clutching his forehead, his body spun and his leg extended and slammed into the knee of his attacker. The man fell to his knees, thrusting again even as he fell, though his aim went wide. Fighting for his existence from years past, he screamed again, demonic voice echoing through the caverns. His mind scrambled wildly; he had a few seconds to save himself.

The Bane spell is the complete opposite of Charity. When the two meet with equal strength, they become nothing.

The voice of his teacher of long ago flashed through his mind, and he dug into his being until he grasped his inner self. His hands glowed, brighter and brighter, before the dancing alabaster flames of the Charity spell came into existence. At once, the pain eased, and his mind cleared. A rugged breath clawed up his throat as he rolled to his stomach, grasped his sword, and jumped backwards and away from the recovering foe.

His arms and legs shook as blood streamed from his raw, festering wounds, while adrenaline coursed through his frenzied body. He glared past the dark strands of his hair and the flickering, white flames pressed to his temple by his hand, fighting the resurrected torment. He stepped back into a defensive stance. He would wait for his enemy to come to him.

The man adjusted his hold on his glowing spear. Kryos watched his every movement with his blood-colored eyes and, for the first time, saw Jericho, arcing through the air and into the stream of muck on his right. Another figure jumped after the elk, yelling in triumph, skin glowing with the fires of wrath and damnation, and landed on the poor beast, katar punching deep into the gut of his filth-covered victim. Jericho spasmed once, twice, and fell limp, sludge washing over his defeated body.

He’s gone . . . It’s time to prove my worth! His black and silver clad foe rushed, spear sliding past the air and stench. Kryos flicked his wrist, sending his sword to brush the spear aside. He would kill, and he would be glorious.

“No.”

The word erupted through the tunnels with an almighty clap of power, and Kryos could barely recognize it before the blast hit. It struck with the fury of a hurricane, picking both him and his battle partner up and tossing them backwards. He hit the ground and rolled to his knees, spinning around to face the heart of the blast. Jericho was suspended in the light, the pure energy pouring out from him and swirling in a matrix of riptides. The beams of light and power rushed in all directions as they grew stronger and stronger, pulling and slapping at the frames and clothes of the mortals. The elk, eyes blazing pure white, opened his mouth and spoke, words blasting into their very souls, proclaiming the Truth. The light raced across Jericho’s pelt, endowing it with power, before become lost to Kryos’ sight, so intense was the light. He reached his hand up to see past the wind, and felt the awesome reverberation of Jericho’s power breaching the dams that held it back. Everything went white as the energy flowed through the tunnels, and silence rendered all senses useless. Then, there were cracks.

Kryos saw them, black lines growing in spurts all around him. The light began to fade, and he understood. The power that had flowed out of Jericho had been so strong that the walls and ceiling were breaking, whole chunks falling out in a few places and new cascades of waste falling downwards into the tunnels.

Kryos glanced over his shoulder and saw that the spear man hadn’t recovered from the blast yet either. It was then that he noticed his wounds. They were gone. Not just healed, but were as if they had never existed. He flexed his arm, feeling the strength rush back to him. And his soul, too, felt fine. It was better than he’d remembered it being for since a long time ago. Something was different.

What is this? This . . . this feeling . . .

Warmth bloomed in his chest and flowed outward, erasing his hate and rage and loathing, pushing him to his feet. It took from him his will to fight. It was then, at that moment that he understood.

I am who I am, just as Jericho is who he is. He shook his head in disbelief, at how simple and obvious the Truth was. I have not failed, not ever. I have grown because of what I have lost. He looked to his enemy. Or rather, the person he had been pitted against. The man, also, was on his feet, slim weapon in hand. Perhaps that is what this tournament is all about. Overcoming, and accepting. He stooped to pick up his sword and began to walk slowly, past the falling dust and waste, toward his advancing opponent, eyes clear. Even if it isn’t, well, I don’t care. He stopped just as the man began to run towards him, and the dwiilar settled into a deep stance, calming his eager hands. He closed his eyes once, and when they opened, the power of his ancestry again glowed brightly, crimson shade seeing all.

My name is Kryos, and I will only be myself!

The spear rushed through the air, and Kryos exhaled. For an instant, his eyes flared, and with that glow, he moved. The sword in his hand snapped through the air, dancing at the edge of a person’s ability to track it, flowing from one strike to the next with inhuman speed.

A splash of blood flew into the air and lined the quivering edge of his blade.

[Exspherius]

Bunnies Approved

'We are equal,' the Esper suddenly realized as Coercion was struck aside by his enemy's sword. 'Matched blades, locked together,' The Esper grunted, bringing the pike around to catch a sweeping cut before it could disembowel him. And suddenly their weapons did lock, the hilt of the sword catching on the blazing spike. For an instant, the pair stood at a standstill, panting from their vicious exertion as each tried to force the other aside. Epsilon found himself pierced by the man's fiery glare, for a moment unnerved by the pure, unaltered rage that shone in his foe's crimson eyes. A glow so like the Kounnar...

With a growl so low it was almost subsonic Epsilon shoved forward, driving the point a fraction closer to the swordsman's side. He instantly redoubled, striking out with his mind as his muscles strained again, and his enemy's guard failed. Coercion's glowing tip flew past the sword and came away sizzling, as the psionic energy shed the blood in a flash of energy. It was not the only hit he had scored, blood dripped freely from the man's dark form. And yet, as the Esper spun and thrust again, he found himself once again deflected. Faster than a snake, the dark blade of his enemy's sword flickered out and bit into his shoulder, staining the silver PsiOps insignia a tarnished red. The new flow joined a pair of slices on his left arm, and the long, shallow slash from the first attack on his other arm. His uniform sleeves, already filthy from the collisions with the tunnel walls and splashes of sludge, hung in tatters that flapped in the fetid air as he lunged out in an elegant stab that was just as skillfully evaded, the glowing eyes dropping through the gloom as their owner slid down into a crouch.

It occurred to Epsilon that, as skilled as he was in psychoevocation, most of his wounds could have been prevented. Yet in the wake of the warp-vision's words, it seemed wrong to protect himself with his psionics. He had failed to protect his old identity, would fail to protect Xaul and even himself, should he continue without using his gifts.

Just as he called on his power to defend himself, his mind exploded. Images, memories, slammed into his wards with the force of meteors. Epsilon was staggered by the force of the impact, and his sterling walls began to crumble under Resheph's mental hammer. But he reached deep into himself, and threw everything he had into his defenses. And as Jericho screamed, as Xaul laughed, Epsilon withstood. He opened his eyes, not even realizing that he had closed them, and saw the attack coming. A lethal stab, aimed for his heart. His armor was weakened, and would not hold. He brought Coercion around, but he was too slow...

And Xaul drew his katars, bringing thousands of needles that pierced his skin in remembered pain. It was minor, the injections had been the least of his pains, but there were so many...he was interrupted by a scream. The swordsman fell to his knees, screaming and clutching at his glowing eyes. Epsilon seized his chance: he knew the pain of the Kounnar, and could endure it. As the swordsman's hand blazed with white energy and he pulled himself to his feet, Epsilon made what he intended to be the final lunge. As he moved, he saw Xaul slam Jericho into the river and impale the deer-man on his katar. The swordsman saw it too; he tensed, and lunged to meet Epsilon. Each weapon moved to dislodge the other and score the killing hit, but neither could do so.

The world turned to light, in a roar of denial.

For a second time, a shockwave blasted through the tunnel. Epsilon barely sensed the power before it struck him like the fist of God Himself and slapped him away from the swordsman. The sunlight-glow grew brighter and brighter, streaming outward from Jericho's body as it rose into the air. Epsilon's mask did nothing to shade the holy light as it filled the tunnel, filled it like a physical thing as it suffused him. Instinctively, he tried to repel it, but it overwhelmed him like a minnow swimming against a tsunami. The light overcame him, surrounded him, filled him until it was all he knew. And with it came such a feeling of warmth and fulfillment that tears leaked down his face to drip off the edge of the mask.

And then the light faded, and he was surprised to find himself alive. He was sprawled on the catwalk beside the canal as the stone walls cracked and groaned around him. As he brought himself to his feet, he noticed that the light had not left him as it had taken him. Each cut, each jagged incision carved by the black blade of his enemy was gone. Gone, as if it had never existed. Vanished too was the pain of the hypodermics, every pain in his body had been cleansed by the light of this god. Words echoed in his ears, plain and pure in their truth, and as he faced his enemy for the last time he realized what Vasque had been trying to tell him.

'It doesn't matter,' he thought, 'What I had, what I lost, what I might have...none of that matters. The only thing that matters...is following my path,' He stood, turned, faced his opponent. 'I've been given a gift most would gladly kill for. I can spend no more time regretting that the universe saw fit to give it to me,' He leveled Coercion, found his footing on the treacherous stones. 'I must be worthy of that honor. No more regrets. Only forward!' He charged, moving so quickly his feet barely touched the ground.

'I am Epsilon, Esper! My path is clear, and I shall follow it to the end!'

And that path nearly ended as he came within range of his opponent. As the scintillating spike of Coercion streaked to impale the man, his form suddenly blurred into five blistering cuts that Epsilon could barely track. The first two slashes bit deeply almost before he could react. By the third, he was reacting. Psionic energy flared almost blindingly bright, a blue-silver aura sheathing the Esper's arms and torso in a seamless coat of energy. The next blow struck this barrier and skittered across Epsilon's shoulder in a spray of blue-silver sparks.

And the swordsman shifted his fourth attack, shearing through Epsilon's mask and scoring a burning line across the Esper's cheek.

Cold, cold fire erupted in Epsilon's body. His mask was damaged. The blade might just as well have carved away a part of his soul. The mask was his identity, his life, the symbol for all that he was. And it was damaged. Fury pulsed in his breast, icy cold and lethal in its intent. Epsilon gathered it all in, infused it with every drop of his power that he could draw in, and the temperature plummeted around him. Hoarfrost coated the stones around him, traced fractal patterns on the remainder of his mask. A ball of pure silver energy coalesced in Epsilon's palm, and he forced more and more power into the sphere as it grew brighter and brighter. And yet the swordsman did not back away.

"Goodbye." He murmured, and slammed the sphere into the swordsman's chest. The world went white, and the Esper's ears were filled with the sound of a howling gale. It was the most intense cyrokinetic attack that Epsilon had ever inflicted. Blood poured from his ears and nostrils as he forced power through his hand and into the swordsman. Ice coated the man's clothes, sheathing him in ice that immobilized and agonized. The swordsman screamed as the water in his body began to freeze, rising in a crescendo until it was cut off by ice forming over his face.

Epsilon let his hand drop, slumping forward to lean against the icy statue that remained in place of his opponent. Oddly, he didn't feel cold. Warmth suffused his chest, spreading slowly down into his legs. He looked down and saw the frost-rimed blade of his opponent's sword protruding from the center of his chest, pierced cleanly through his psionic armor. Blood flowed in a scarlet river, soaking his uniform and staining the stones beneath him. He felt no pain, only a sudden sense of complete exhaustion.

Darkness began to close the edges of his vision, and his last thought before it closed over him completely was 'I'm sorry, Xaul.'

[TwinDeath]

Bunnying is approved, and Jericho's dialogue is written by Jericho. TVS and Penumbra Intersect would like to request that this round be unlocked after judging so we can finish it. Also, please consider this and the previous post when judging. apologies for the lateness.

Xaul whooped and giggled as he twisted around Jericho, his blades slashing and twining in a blur of violent beauty. Resheph was merely speaking through him, now; his movements were his own. In full grip of the Kounnar, Xaul laughed and laughed at the promise of blood. He flicked out into he air, laughing harder and harder as Drshil, his left-hand blade, sank deep into Jericho’s gut.

Xaul leaned close to his foe, blood spraying from his lips as he smiled. “Now, antler-man sees what I am.” He inhaled softly, pausing briefly in his madness. His right hand blade traced a soft pattern in the elkin’s stomach; the innocuous scratch it left quickly turning a sickly black, a plague-color. Inside himself, the other Xaul, the sane Xaul was screaming and thrashing, railing at his madness and at Resheph for denying the universe such a bright soul. To kill Jericho, to casually snuff out his potential, was not something he wanted to do.

“I'm the one who takes you there, your only true friend now,” breathed the outer Xaul, his mad whirling eyes clearing slightly. “Birds burning, angels frosted, you're the one who's shamed.” He gloried in the kill, slowly edging the katar Haingre into Jericho’s gut beside its brother. The elkin simply stood there, his eyes far away and fading. Stood there and accepted oblivion.

Then Jericho’s eyes refocused, his brow furrowed and determined. A single word tumbled from his slack lips, its significance bright and beautiful and ever so pure in the middle of the vile black that Resheph brought with him.

“No.”

The word seemed to hang in the air, the light it brought blazing forth brighter and brighter until the world seemed to wash away. This light was physical, mental and spiritual, and everyone in the tunnel (besides Jericho himself) was blasted off their feet. Xaul himself was the worst affected, being closest to Jericho. He was thrown backwards, his blades tearing out of Jericho’s body. Slamming into a wall and sliding down it, Xaul shook his head, watching dazedly as his wounds were healed by the light. Resheph? Resheph? The god’s presence was gone, and Xaul’s Kounnar, his animalistic rage, had faded slightly. He looked up, the sane Xaul now in control.

“Jericho,” he whispered, his voice normal for the first time since he had met the priest. “To have what you have… Run. Run far and fast, for he will come back. I have seen your god’s power, have taken his measure, and I fear for you. Resheph will never leave you alone. He never forgives.” Xaul sobbed slightly. “He’s back. Run. Run!”

Resheph’s voice returned, and with it the Kounnar and the pain from Drshil. “Who you are is not what you show the world, Jericho. And what you are is a ‘beloved’ slave. Who you are is your desires, your wants and needs. These are the causes of your actions, and you cannot deny them forever. In fact, the longer you do, the louder they howl. You can hear them, reminding you of her scent, of her touch, of her sweet soft screams…” Resheph howled with laughter over the voice of the One.

Resheph/Xaul struggled against the light that held them and sank back to the floor. “You hold me now, sibling, but for how long? Your avatar is not a power line, meant to be channeled through at every whim. You hold me, but already you fade. You always did go for flash over effectiveness. Impressive, but I’ve seen it before.” Resheph chuckled ruefully, and then abruptly changed moods, railing at the light that emanated from Jericho.

“You misguided prick, meddling in natures yet again! You say that you are not to be followed, and then lay doctrines at your avatar’s feet! All of us are Truths! All of us are Stories! All of us are Lives! All of us Are!”

Jericho smiled softly as his light began to fade. "You are not Life. You are nothing but death."

Xaul leapt to his feet, diving at Jericho as the light shut off and the elkin dropped lightly to the ground. Resheph spoke through him again. “Xaul is right, though. Run. Run and run and run and run until you drop dead in the mud of the road, and then lift your soul from your worthless body and keep running, Jericho. That is what my sibling would have you do. Run from your desires, from your needs. Deny them as impure, because they make you feel good. Feel alive.”

Xaul’s blades slipped in and out faster and faster as he spun around and around Jericho. “Run run run, Jericho…” Resheph backed off, content to watch his avatar bring him a sacrifice.

Xaul flashed over, under, and around Jericho. His every movement was random, and he left himself many opportunities for counterattacks, which Jericho and the One took. Still, though, he landed hits, and the slight cuts added up. Between the many cuts and the terrible effects of the katars, Jericho was in bad shape. Xaul, however, was no better. The battering he had taken from Jericho’s staff had him stumbling as he moved, his attacks sluggish. Still, he fought on, raising his arms and rushing in.

Jericho stood facing Xaul, bleeding from a dozen minor cuts. Some were rotted, from Haingre, while others held the agony of a mortal wound, thanks to Drshil. A strike from Xaul swept in, and was blocked. The force of the blow sent Jericho staggering back, and he caught up on the edge of the walkway. Xaul advanced on him, opening and closing the blades of his katars slowly.

Shink

Xaul took a small step forward, splashing through the mire of the sewer. A chill wind caught at him from the side, and he heard the screams of either Epsilon or Kryos, but couldn’t be bothered to check.

Shink

Now he was closer still, the awful glow of his Kounnar reflecting off of the muck.

Shink

He was in front of the priest now, his soft giggling almost peaceful and lulling. Jericho tried to raise his staff to fight, and the weapon was batted away.

Shink

Xaul opened and closed Drshil right in front of Jericho’s eye, dragging the tip of it down his muzzle. The elkin stared into his eyes, shuddering at the pain but unafraid of death itself. “Death may be oblivion for you, Xaul. But the One is Light in darkness. He is Life, even in death. You can't frighten me,” he breathed.

Shink

This time, Xaul trimmed off a bit of fur. He pulled his arm back and drove it forward, the point of Haingre blurring towards Jericho’s heart.

Clank

Jericho watched as Xaul forced his arm away, the katar ringing off the stone of the walkway. The possessed man dropped to his knees in the sewer muck and screamed, the sound that of a lost pup or a dying rabbit. He flailed around, clutching at his head and smashing into the walls of the sewer. “RESHEPH! OUT!”

Resheph manifested in Xaul’s mind, smiling cruelly as the tattoos of the Kounnar formed into a cage around him, their presence fading from Xaul’s skin. I’ll never leave, Xaul. You can’t fight forever.

Xaul screamed once more, and latched onto the sensation he had felt while in the maelstrom of light that Jericho had created. Slowly he began to spin this light, weaving it and adding it to Resheph’s cage. “I don’t have to fight forever, Resheph. Not alone, at least.” He left his mind and staggered back to reality, collapsing onto the walkway.

Alone is a state of mind, Xaul. You are always alone. The halls of Xaul’s mind filled with echoing laughter as he faded from consciousness.

[Jericho]

Just a quick note from Penumbra Intersect seconding the We're sorry please count our posts!! part. You should have seen the mad-muse-marathon going on over Gmail between the four of us for the past eight hours. It was hardcore. :) But yes--please accept TVS's posts. We are prepared to offer pizzas with questionable toppings as payment.