Hold Your Tongue! (Closed)

[Arden]

Closed to Mutant Lorenor.

Hold Your Tongue! (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C3lWwBslWqg)


The Citadel bore many people each and every day, but few were as odd as Arden Janelle. It was often customary for example for the instigator of a battle to outline the details and requirements for the arena. Without instruction or aid from the participants, the monks were left perplexed and confused as to what to prepare for the coming melee. Blank had sashayed into the arena with every intention of fighting, but he did not partake in the self indulgent sport of pandering ideas and fantasies in make belief worlds. He waited at the centre of the simple sand circle that was the default appearance of the Citadel’s many domes with baited breath and a stoic stance that spoke a thousand words resembling readiness.

A note had been written in a somewhat feminine hand by the enigmatic mistress and matriarch of the Tantalum Troupe, Miss Ruby. It had simply requested that the holder of the note be allowed to enter one of the domes to fight an opponent of the monk’s choosing. Whilst it smelt of lavender and was penned immaculately, the irony of which washed only Blank’s wounds with salt, it did not give instructions beyond that. They had nodded solemnly and guided the strange man and his naked torso to the door of the thirteenth chamber, and watched with a furrow collection of brows and fiddling thumbs as he crossed the threshold into infamy.

Minutes turned into half an hour yet still he stood in silence. The gate opposite was a portent of venomous doom and soon Blank knew that his opponent would come scuttling forth from the blackness with murder and malice in his or her eyes. Perhaps it would be a monster or perhaps a medley of men with rusty blades and pick pocket sensibilities, he did not know, nor did he care. The silent swordsman cared not for the reasoning’s and drives of other men, he had encountered too many evil hearts and tantalised troubles to bring them to account in this sand and heat. The distant sound of drums filtered into the arena, and a chant of deep spirituality grew in Blank’s mind.

At the centre of the arena a desert rose billowed in an invisible wind.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

Finding himself in Corone after that certain matter in Raiaera, the mutant looked upon The Citadel. The recent events near Radasanth concerning the battle with the youth named Jensen, and his newly discovered enemies the Order of the Apocalypse. Lorenor was annoyed that a member of the Order of N'Jal had orchestrated the entire event. Thinking back to that event now, Lorenor recalled that the body of Jensen was left in the wheat field back where that war took place. In the end, disaster struck, and the youth had left a terrible feeling in his gut.

Shaking his head, Lorenor approached one of the nearby monks.

"Oh. Master Lorenor. We have received this summons for you. It was arranged by the Tantalum."


The Tantalum. Lorenor repeated that name in his head for a moment or two as he recalled a certain man. Duffy. He remembered the brief meeting with the man many moons ago, another life-time ago it seemed. He looked at the monk and nodded. After handing Lorenor a detailed note that smelled of lavender, the mutant read the perfectly scripted text of the note. It was an invitation. An invitation by the Tantalum. So. They are still causing trouble out of Scara Brae? Well, let us see what they want.

Lorenor looked up at the monk for a long moment.

"Challenge accepted." Lorenor said. "What Chamber does this event take place in?" Lorenor asked.

"Chamber number thirteen." The monk responded. Lorenor nodded his appreciation. "Lorenor. Do-not underestimate this one."

"Fellow. It would be wise not to underestimate me." Lorenor put emphasis on that last word. It was not a threat, but a promise of things to come. Armed with the steel, masterwork, Blade of N'Jal, Lorenor marched towards chamber number thirteen. When he found the large, powerfully built doors, he saw a single one and a three etched on either door. There were no other markings upon the doors. The chamber was already invitingly open, waiting for the mutant to enter. Lorenor looked at the monk that walked alongside him. "Is my opponent in there already?" Lorenor asked.

"He is. Go with the All-Thayne." The monk said. "May he guide you in the trial ahead."

"Keep your well wishes for someone who needs them." Lorenor said and entered the chamber.

He never would have noticed, but the monk remained behind praying for Lorenor's glorious outcome, as well as the safety of his opponent.

***

Walking on the dirty ground towards his opponent, the mutant felt a warm wind entering the chamber. Looking up, he could see the beginnings of a domed roof as far as his sensory array could permit him to see. A blood-red circle was etched on the ground, similar to other such combat arenas that he'd encountered in his past. The circle was very wide, and at its epicenter was a flower he had never seen before. Looking at the single flower dancing in the breeze, the mutant shrugged as he entered the arena.

A single individual lurked near that flower. Lorenor tasted a scent in the air, a scent that he hungered for. Immediately, the mutant recalled the body of Jensen lurking in the wheat field outside of Radasanth proper. He'd fought the psychotic youth briefly after a fellow member of N'Jal's cloth had betrayed the mutant. Lorenor walked towards his opponent quite slowly, each step deliberate and controlled. Drawing his sword of darkness, the living dark tainted the air around the mutant.

As he walked towards his foe, he began to notice details around the shadowy figure. His hair was auburn, he had blood-red eyes, and he seemed to have a gaunt build. The man stood taller than Lorenor by almost a head. But Lorenor had learned long ago never to judge an opponent by their physical appearance on the Firmanent or on the Antifirmanent. On the Antifirmanent, the man gave off a mysterious electromagnetic field. The colours danced about the air around the stranger creating an eerie, ghost-like effect.

Lorenor paused when he was but a few paces directly in front of the flower, and in front of the man.

Lorenor called out to the man.

"I trust that you are a member of The Tantalum?" Lorenor began. "I received this letter from the organization to come meet someone here in chamber number eleven. I trust that you are that someone." Lorenor showed the fellow the letter. Then, he pocketed the letter. Looking down at the flower for a moment, the mutant hissed at the brilliant surge of life that the flower gave off. He then turned towards his opponent. Lorenor pointed his masterwork steel blade towards the fellow. "Well. My name is Lorenor. If it is a duel you want, then 'tis a duel you shall have!"

[Arden]

The gates cracked open and instantly Blank raised an eyebrow as his scrutiny of his opponent brought him to one simple conclusion. Fate had brought the N’jalian paradigm Lorenor to his homestead, and this did not bode well. Stories had been uttered around the table of the Prima Vista’s lacklustre kitchen about the Dark Ghoul, but Duffy had asserted that he was an ally and not a daemon. His words promised so much but in his infinite stupidity, Blank took no heed of them. Fear shone at the back of his eyes but he gritted his teeth and took stock of his chances. He tensed his shoulders and took a confidence boosting gulp of air.

He strode forwards and approached the delicate flower at the centre of the arena. The scent of its bloom rose up into his nostrils and he smiled calmly and bowed to his opponent. The silence washed over the sand and rolled towards the ghoul with an unwelcoming and eerie sense of ignorance. With a simple gesture he held out his palm and beckoned to Lorenor to approach as he accepted the terms of their engagement. Three times he twitched his fingers and three times he stomped his right foot. On the third he jumped and span about full circle. As he landed he buckled his knees, brought his flat palm down into the sand and drove it as hard as he could into the sparkling dirt. A circular shockwave as tiny as the petals of the rose flew out and the thud echoed up into the lofty heights of the arena.

The Aria sung in his mind and he channelled the delicate melody towards Lorenor’s skull. With puerile grace and an obliterating power the sphere latched onto his larynx and mind and silenced it with simple efficiency. He stood slowly and with fire in his eyes and tensed his fists to ease out the stiffness. He clicked his neck, smiled once more and entered a cocksure stance with his hand levelled to the hilt of the Rheilhand. Lorenor could wield a thousand swords or fire a thousand muskets at the Silent Swordsman, but without words, what was a prophet of the dark gods?

[Mutant_Lorenor]

After a brief moment, the electromagnetic field around his opponent gathered to one single point. Then, that point was thrown at the mutant. Lorenor stood considerably shorter than his taller opponent. His eyes locked on the project that was thrown at the mutant. When Lorenor saw the projectile coming at him, he hissed loudly until something happened. A very unpredictable something. Lorenor suddenly found himself unable to speak. His voice had failed him as a result of physical contact with the mysterious orb. Lorenor clutched at his neck with his free hand, a sudden sense of panic.

Feeling isolated from his voice, the mutant's face contorted with a strange mixture of psychological pain. Mostly, it was a bruised ego. His voice had failed him so completely, so perfectly that he could not grasp the event. So shocked was he by the event that the mutant tried to curse. He heard no sound erupt from his throat. Stepping back a pace or two, the mutant felt a sort of dead weight in his throat as the sudden mute-spell worked its magic.

Lorenor saw the electromagnetic field around the man react with the power he'd released. The mutant frowned at this, the field around the fellow reminded him strangely of the halo around Duffy. Do all Tantalum fellows have a mysterious halo like that? Lorenor wondered. Soon, his panic shifted from that state of affairs to a cool and controlled calm. The initial moment of shock was now over. Lorenor inhaled and exhaled several times looking at his opponent all the while.

The mutant's eyes were locked upon his foe's forms. He's full of tricks, I can't speak but I don't need my voice to win this match. I cannot underestimate him. Lorenor rotated the steel weapon in his hand, and moved to his own combat position. The art of Th'llexyah Drukai, whilst armed form was exceedingly dangerous. Especially in his skilled hands. He studied the curved weapon that his opponent wielded, it was made of steel, as hard as the man's resolve and ingenuity.

Lorenor waited for the man's next tactic. That's a nifty trick, what else do you have to hide stranger? Lorenor thought to himself as the initial panic of not being able to speak faded.

[Arden]

Blank gave no quarter and showed no emotion except glee in his smile as he began to advance slowly across the arena. With an almost feminine sass to his walk, he lifted each foot and set it down toes first as if creeping through the invisible shadows that separated the assassin and the ghoul. When he was near enough to see into Lorenor’s abyssal eyes, he clenched the hilt of the Rheilhand and drew it with a single unsheathing that rang cold steel across the sand. It remained behind his back in his left hand, held in the typical reverse grip that offered null profusion and a certain degree of feint threat in his stance.

Blank very much doubted that any form of intimidation would work here, but he had to remain conceited and arrogant enough without the normal proffering of words and gulling lines to make his opponent think he had something to bring to the midnight poker table. His hand was already shown; he had to hope he could bluff. He stopped ten feet away from Lorenor and cocked his head to the right with an inquisitorial inspection of the man’s blade. There was no recognition of the stance or style, and thus no attempt to attack its mysterious defences. Hold the line to the northern gate, in this defence the thief Marcus shall wait, love unhindered in a time of war, duty served for the princess whore. The line was a servitude verse from the poetic interlude the troupe had added to I Want To Be Your Canary, and it was one Blank often relayed to the crowd as the arch villain. It comforted him and reminded him that failure came only with death, and he would drive himself into the unknown until fame or fall came about.

He longed to be able to speak; contented only by the fact that Lorenor felt his solitude and pain in every excruciating lack of expression. With his free hand he adjusted his hair and set its trail behind his ears, the jingle of the metallic chain around his waist and his beaded braids only added to the tension. Before the immortal ghoul Arden Janelle waited, every muscle in his body coursing with energy and every ounce of his soul ready to spring into the defiant dichotomy of the lost lords of Scara Brae. He looked momentarily up at the scorching sun above and relished in its Basque; with a sultry stare he returned his gaze to his opponent and thought of his next manoeuvre. His whirlwind of blades would be a brief, but brilliant dervish dance before one of the greatest evils in all the Island Nations.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

With his voice gone from him, Lorenor wanted to say something, anything! However, the finality of his opponent's actions against him had left him with the frustrating incapacity to speak.

Preparing himself with the fabled martial skills at his command, Lorenor wondered exactly what other tricks that the stranger before him had to bring to the table. Lorenor's defensive posture was tight, skilled, and showed no signs of wavering. Resolve was evident in the mutant's face. Indeed, he was a terrifying sight to behold. Seeing his opponent's approach, the mutant decided to meet him half way. He intercepted the fellow before him and stopped exactly one or two paces in front of him.

When Lorenor performed this action, he looked directly into the youth's eyes. He was searching for something, anything. Some sort of a hint as to the mysterious nature of the man before him. Lorenor was very aware of the single flower that sat in the middle of the arena as well. He looked down at it for a brief moment, then looked back at his chosen foe. Lorenor's facial expression became a grim mask of concentration. He came ready for a fight, and a fight he would have. The flowery dance of psychological tactics had gone on long enough.

Lorenor decided he was going to take the initiative maneuver.

Placing himself well within striking distance, the mutant was done gauging his foe. He had learned all he could with what he was given, now it was time to test the unfamiliar foe. Lorenor suddenly, and skillfully, reached forward with his sword in combat position. Holding the blade with both hands, Lorenor quickly rotated his weapon, then, at the apex of the movement he lashed out. It was a motion that heavily favored the mutant's left side as the weight of the weapon was carried from the ready position to striking position.

The attack came at a perfect slashing angle. Aiming to incapacitate his opponent's opposing arm, Lorenor was striking for the fellows deltoid region. His eyes, however, never wavered from the fellow. Lorenor was planning to remove the striking capacity required of using a two-handed weapon. If successful, the tactical strike would bring the match to the mutant's favor early on. Thoughts of his battle against Jensen Ambrose filled his head. I will not be denied another kill.

[Arden]

Lorenor’s blade struck like the coiled retaliation of a horned viper. The silent swordsman drew his sword, span on a heel and brought the Rheinholdt up into the blade’s path as it made a stroke of genius attempt at severing his sword arm. The metal clashed and the sound filled the arena ominously as the participants remained in their linguistic solitude. Arden gritted his teeth, glared into Lorenor’s phantasmal eyes and leapt backwards, hooking the sword under the blade to ensure it rose out of harm’s way as he withdrew. His shoulder twanged with pain and whilst he was free of karma and alive, the sheer brutality behind the attack served as a potent omen that he was outclassed in many more ways.

The heavy crunch of sand beneath bare feet followed and Blank skipped back until the gap between them was twenty feet once more. Each movement was carried out with anatomical precision and cat like grace. With a cocksure grasp of his blade’s hilt he brought it around to his front and held it forewords in both hands with a firm spread of his legs and a bent knee. It was a classic Akashima stance, developed fleetingly together to combat the rising brashness of the then elite cadre known as the Samurai. Where Blank had learned of it was a mystery, but it formed a part of the Rheilhand Dichotomy that was his cultural heritage, and added an air of geographical mystery to his already colourful past. It served as an undying symbol of rebellion against his oppressors, whoever they ultimately turned out to be.

Without thinking and with a speed that shocked even the swordsmen he ran at the ghoul. With a skip and a jump he brought the blade up over his head and leapt at the final moment. His chest bleated, his eyes bulged with the strain of gravity and his muscles rippled under the scrutiny of the sun. The tanned eagle descended onto its prey and the blade came down with all its lack lustre might. The sword hoped in its metallic inertia to cleave the priest of N’Jal asunder. It would not be long before Lorenor realised the cantrip of silence that had claimed his voice had all but faded, and then Blank’s advantage would require a riposte of form, or a continuation of application to serve as his only card in a dangerous game.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

Observing his opponent with an almost scientific analysis, the mutant's gaze never faltered. Not once. He carefully watched everything that his opponent did without fail. His seasoned, veteran's instincts took over and his mind calculated any number of possibilities that the acrobatic foe would attempt. And with that library of knowledge cataloged, the mutant was prepared for every eventuality, even his own death. With such a mindset, the mutant was a dangerous foe indeed for he had nothing to loose whatsoever.

Following the mute's movements, the mutant slowly came to the realization that the weight around his throat was gone. That brought a smile to his face that quickly became a grin when the fellow before him jumped into the air like some sort of a twisted bird-of-prey. He followed the mute's actions, observing like the madman that he was. The grin on his face grew wider. When his opponent reached the apex of movement, just as Lorenor had thought, the fellow struck with the velocity of a mountain cougar.

Quickly admiring his opponent's bravery, Lorenor wondered exactly why the mute had made such a careless error. Calculating the exact mathematical time that would elapse between his opponent's strike and imminent impact, the mutant held his ground. True to his preferred combat style, Lorenor never moved. Instead, his expression became cruel, sadistic and evil. With a deep frown touching his frontalis region, the mutant closed his eyes to savor the pain that would come. In the back of his mind he willed a certain event to occur.

Summoning the vast power at his disposal, the mutant felt the mysterious sensation that The Endless caused. A pull in the back of his mind created a potent manifestation of the dark that appeared as living armour. The dark surrounded the mutant with a toughness that was rivaled by very few warriors on Althanas. A mask-like helmet that was insectoid in appearance covered the mutant's head. The transformation happened very quickly, and the end-result was a true horror. Darkness surrounded the creature that now stood before the mute.

An apparition of nightmares. The Endless originated in the deepest recesses of the caverns within Haidia. And even deeper than that still. With that dark power, Lorenor felt the weight of the man coming down upon him. All 130+pounds. A powerful bruise developed beneath the second skin Lorenor felt the armour writhing beneath the weight of the man's steel weapon. Lorenor turned to look at the fellow as he came down with his weapon. He grinned behind the mask. With his opponent at close striking distance, Lorenor had all the time in the world to kill him off. Yet, something interesting happened.

Relishing in the pain that the mute had caused him, the mutant became addicted. He wanted more. So instead, he did something quite unpredictable. He backed off. Lorenor wanted to savor the moment, and make the battle last as long as possible. With The Endless bound to him now, Lorenor controlled the symbiont so that it stayed around his vessel. Looking at his opponent with a sadistic expression, the mutant spoke. The lead-like weight vanished from his throat signaling that his opponent's spell was gone from him.

"Much better." Lorenor said. "I see you want to play. I want to play too." The madman added. "This art of pain is serious business my friend. You have no love in your swings. How could you ever hope to best superior opponents when you have no love in your swings? Where has your passion gone?" Lorenor asked that last question with genuine concern in his voice. "Regain your passion. You must have a love for conflict, a love for warfare. Warfare is chaos, and that is the domain of N'Jal." Lorenor's chest swelled with pride by that point, damn it felt good to talk again. "Now my friend. We can play. I will show you the meaning of pain and horror." Then, Lorenor bound towards the mute at top speed, the games had truly begun. With his sword in hand, the mutant calculated a tactical swing of the weapon at about three-paces away from his foe. When Lorenor had reached that tactical distance, he swung at about the mid-section level of the mute's body. However, he reduced his power level so that he was more or less even with the man before him. He swung with just enough strength to connect with meat and cut his opponent.

The game would begin.

[Arden]

Blank considered the weight of the world as the shadow bound armour formed around his opponent and rebuffed his strike with an ease he was not altogether comfortable with. It rang out with a dull thud and his feet landed they kicked up plumes of sand in little concentric circles. No sooner than the ghoul had shifted his weight backwards to clear himself of any quick-witted follow through, Blank hopped backwards himself and brought the Rheilhand instinctively up in a reverse grip, cut across his chest to offer the best readily available parry that the diminished swordsmen could muster.

The silence that surrounded Arden Janelle all his life as long as he remembered it grew and solidified, until the atmosphere between the two of the swordsmen erupted into nauseating tension. He was being weighed before a juror who had a thousand years of death and renewal on his own few meagre years, and the patriotism in those abominable empty spheres where eyes ought to be were slowly degrading his sense of self. They slowly removed any hope and humanity he had left in his underworld dreams in the criminal world he occupied.

Without questioning the ghouls’ motive further, it was decided that mercy was still a lingering emotion in his mind. As he spoke, Arden tensed and flexed every part of his body, looking for a twinge of pain or a sign of weakness to remind his ego that he was human after all. If he could show a mirror to Lorenor’s face, perhaps he might show him that humanity purveyed in all his sycophantic glory. He felt a foreboding dread looking at his opponent, but somehow, as the black armour alive with fury covered Lorenor and the smell of sand and sweat clunked up his nostrils, he felt that it was not enough. He needed something more, even knowing the death threat from the Citadel was unreal and false; he needed an excuse to fight as if life were a bet on the table.

Lorenor’s words humbled the silent swordsmen further. Each inflection and adjective empowered the mutant’s reign of terror until Arden could do nothing but glare and feel powerless beneath the onslaught. He felt his knees metaphorically buckle beneath parable, threat and desire. He let out a sigh and stooped to conquer the sand beneath his bare feet with a sweep of his free hand. It felt coarse and warm to the touch, and as he held it aloft and let it slip through his fingers he presumed it said all that he could not with elegance and brevity. I am waiting, Lorenor, waiting for the coming storm.

Lorenor approached with thundering anger and a rumbling advance. Arden keened his eyes onto the blade, locking onto the puppet and not its master. The cut across his midriff was too easy to counterweight with a tap of his blade and a feint step backwards in a spiralling flourish. The movement was so quick it did not register, but when he caught Lorenor’s gaze once more, Blank knew that he was pulling punches to draw out anger, hatred and frustration. He snarled, pulled a flawless back flip with liquid perfection and landed in a crouch. Like a tiger he lunged forwards into a plain shattering run and slammed the Rheilhand into the dirt with his right hand. It cut through the ground as his feet drove his body forwards and as Lorenor cut sideways with the culmination of his attack, Blank brought his own blade upwards in a wild and reckless ascent. It mimicked the strength and conviction of his downward strike, but held none of the peerless drudgery of assuming itself perfect. It was merely the opening movement of the dervish, as every bit as untempered and wild as the rose growing amidst the melee and heat of war.

Whatever game Lorenor brought, Blank clearly did not know the rules.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

Seeing every aspect of the opponent's dance, the two warriors were kicking up a lot of dirt by then. The arena became well-trodden, and the mutant was moving carefully not to snuff out the single flower that rested in the centre of it. Standing firm as he struck, Lorenor's initial attack hit naught but air which made the mutant grin wider behind the mask.

His foe reached from deep within some unnamed source and attacked with dual skill that Lorenor had come to expect. He could taste the violence in the air. Sweat from both he and his foe filled the wind. Lorenor tightened his muscles and combat stance in preparation for the incoming assault. There was anger in his foe attack, a certain desperation. He tasted that desperation in the air with the metallic taste of rusty ichor. Lorenor kept The Endless bound around his flesh. The advantage was an unfair one, he knew, but he wanted to draw the battle out until either they both were dead, or just his foe was dead. Ready to fulfill the word of N'Jal, Lorenor looked his opponent dead in his eyes, the mask further hiding any emotion the horrible monster was feeling from the battle.

A combined mixture of pleasure and pain made the mutant's black heart race with elation. Lorenor prepared for when his foe had reached the apex of his attack. He quickly swung his weapon at full speed, unbound The Endless so he was as himself, and swung his weapon downward. There was a clang of steel, as Lorenor intercepted the fellow's attack. He'd moved backwards just enough to put his full weight upon the counter-maneuver, and in the same movement, he countered the fellow's attack.

From hell's heart, he would stab at his opponent. Pushing downward with all his might, Lorenor suddenly released his grip on his sword, leaped up atop the weapon as it was falling to the ground, moved forward in an expert maneuver and continued his attack. With deadly precision, the mutant struck out with his forward leg, and when his sword had begun to fall on the ground, Lorenor sent a skillful spin-kick at his opponent. He maneuvered so that the back of his heel would potentially connect with his foe's head. The mutant knew he was setting himself up for serious trouble, but he didn't care.

He was having too much fun.

[Arden]

Irony would have the gods hold a mirror to Blank’s face, not Lorenor’s, and the shocking revelation came with a bone crunching strike to actor's chin. The movements of the counter and the loosening of the sword to the dusty floor did not register in anything but time in the swordsmen’s mind, and then it was knocked clean from his memory with a rattle and a tumultuous pain. He fell sideways and was rendered prone without any form of defence mustered.

He saw stars and blue skies and the eternal meadow in his mind where he spoke, and the angels spoke, and all was right with the world. Blank saw a brief glimpse of death, but would not have it come to pass so easily. With both hands scrabbling through the sand he reached for his discarded weapon, clenched it tightly with his right hand and stumbled like a drunk to a reasonably upright position. Still bucked at the knee and propping his back up with the blade stuck into the sand like a cane he turned to Lorenor and clenched his teeth. His hair was bedraggled and his eyes bloodshot but somehow, he remained every bit as poised as he ever did. The chains around his waste and the markings of the Scourge on his arms carried their own bravado and threat; his tattoos swore at the ghoul without the need for air to pass through his lips. It took a few moments for the adrenaline in his veins to revitalise his spirit and give him the governance of his own body to allow a skip and semi-dance to appear in his step.

All of the posturing of the ghoul had cut too deep, and cut too freely through his mettle. Whilst his head rang with the death knell of uncertainty, his heart pounded with the rhythm of fear. His body was tense, his vision still clearing and every part of his mind wanted to scream, but he remained resolute and weathered the storm defiantly. Reaching into the Aria once more Blank pulled at the silvery tendrils of manna that gave all of the disciples of Tantalus their power and wrenched them into reality. With invisible mysticism they cracked together unseen and unheard over Lorenor’s head and rendered him silent a second time. Arden gave no chance for the ghoul to realise his fate, and ran forwards with the physical clumsiness of a rhino.

Each step towards Lorenor was a defiant hand gesture. Blank would not be slowed by blindsides or words. Each phrase cut like a knife into tender skin by all means, but the silent swordsman had suffered love, and hatred, and solitude for too long. He did not question Lorenor’s accusation of feeling lifeless in battle, for he now knew, as the underdog and victim, that he loved every bit of grace in every strike of his blade. It was an extension of his psyche, just as his acting and mimicry was an extension of his self-doubt.

As he had learned to mimic each animal he had learned that he felt alive only through the expression of others. He did not expect to live long, but neither did the eagle in the sky, nor the tiger in the undergrowth, nor the rhino beneath the scorching rays. The desert and the savannah were both inhospitable places and it was a miracle that man and life had survived so long under the Tuscan sun. The rose wavered as he leapt over it and he brought the blade backwards and spin his entire body in a whirlwind motion as he approached the ghoul. He held the Rheilhand out at full extension and let its weight carry his attack with ferocity and temper.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

Half-expecting the acrobatic opponent to evade his attack, Lorenor was shocked when he felt his skilled kick connect. Lorenor frowned at that, but continued with the motion anyway, spinning in mid-air and focusing on forward momentum. So stunned was he by the maneuver, that he paid no heed to the incoming attack of his opponent. In the span of a few precious seconds, the battle had forever shifted favor, but the mutant was always a step ahead of the game. When his foe moved, Lorenor could sense his opponent coming closely at him, he could taste the rage in the back of his throat. It made Lorenor smile and that was painted on his face.

When Lorenor landed on the ground, the last few seconds became a far away to the mutant. The love behind his opponent's counter was visible. Seeing that his foe had recovered momentum surprisingly quick, Lorenor kept grinning. He prepared for what was coming. Lorenor was not a stranger to death, in fact, he welcomed it. He taunted death by the simple fact that he knew he was immune to it, he would always come back with or without the magic of the monks.

Lorenor knelt to the ground, unmoving, unflinching, waiting for his fate. As he remained stationary he felt his opponent moving closer. Precious seconds passed. To the mutant's enhanced reflexes and mental prowess, the seconds were as an eternity. The smile never left his face. He was counting the paces it would take for opponent to reach his position. He felt the breath of his foe upon his skin making his heart flutter with pleasure. At the last possible moment, Lorenor stood up and turned around to face the incoming attack of his opponent.

With that movement, Lorenor was prepared. Lorenor waited for his opponent to strike, it was a cool and calculated movement. When the attack finally connected, Lorenor's face lit up with pleasure. Checkmate. He thought to himself, and in a controlled movement, he reached over the blade of his opponent and moved to bite him. Lorenor could bite with the pressure and force of a shark, his teeth as sharp as plynt. The mutant was hungry for flesh, and he would consume the mute's. Lorenor felt tremendous pain from the sword-strike, but he was used to pain. The pain sent a warmth of pleasure up from the connection point of blade to flesh, his body slowly regenerating from the injury. Lorenor moved forward on the blade to put all effort and focus on biting the man before him. His bite was position for the vein visible upon the neck of the opponent. Should his bite connect, he would proceed to feast upon the flesh of his foe and cannibalize him. The ultimate insult and slap to the face of anybody with honour.

[Arden]

Blank felt his blade connect with the corporeal form of his nightmarish opponent and
grinned with satisfaction. No sooner had he done so Lorenor's weight shifted forwards and Blank's arm strained under the pressure. The teeth glinted in the sunlight and for a moment, time slowed as the realisation dawned on Arden that there other weapons than metal. Instinctively he let go of the Rheilhand and tried to leap backwards but he was not quick enough. The dead-weight of the ghoul's skull dropped onto his shoulder and the sharp twang of pain shot down his right side like a thunder bolt from a mage's staff powering over his body. If he were anyone else he would have screamed, but he managed nothing more than a pained expression which cracked wide his jaw and scrunched his face up in visible agony.

Both knees buckled and blood poured down his right side, lacquering his torso with a deep crimson polish. Without thinking the silent swordsmen brought his fist up to Lorenor's head, and again, and again, and again. He knew each blow was a gnat on a windowpane to the madman's mind but it worked its magic long enough for him to wrench his neck away from the fangs. The flesh tore and a sickening wave of weakness rolled over Blank as he took several hurried steps back and leapt over the rose. The world span, death drew near.

One thought entered his mind; that one last reprisal of the combat's one sidedness would occur. Lorenor would suffer even if he could not be killed by Arden's hands, and he would roar in every bit of his agony and pain. He knelt down to the rose and let his blood pour over it's petals. With a careful pinch of thumb and forefinger he picked it at the base, ignored the thorn which pushed into his workman's skin and held it aloft. His face was pale and he shook from the blood loss as it continued to pour out and stain his clothes as red as the flower before him. He adjusted the rose until his eyes crossed and the ghoul dissipated behind the stem in a blur. So mighty yet so small to nature's wrath... he thought.

Blank ran forwards scuttling like a rabid dog along a dark alleyway. The sun beat down on the hot sand and he tucked his knees as he came to his blade. With one free hand he picked up the sword and with the other he clicked his spare fingers and let the rose shed a single petal, a tear of remorse for the sacrifice it made to me a metaphorical display of passion. He used the movement to springboard himself across the last ten feet and he brought the sword up as if to strike Lorenor one last time.

Then he disseminated.

Arden vanished and left nothing other than a blue swirl of mist shaped like a man in his wake. A small crack in reality appeared briefly before sealing and it shed music and energy from the world beyond. The rom-pom-pom of a marching band song and a melodic female vocal slipped out from The Aria, and then there was nothing but silence and death and the stench of blood and iron.

Blank appeared on the end of the jetty he found himself standing on each time he used his ability. The memories of each encounter with this place came flooding back and the pain in his shoulder ached, but he was whole again and untouched by blood or blade. He slapped his knees and kicked an invisible box with frustration. He knew that he was defeated, and that his last gambit would not suffice to achieve anything other than a flesh wound. If this were real... he mused, I would be truly dissapointed with myself.

He stared out across the mercury sea of The Aria for several hours, using the difference in the passing of time between one world and another to contemplate on where he had made his mistakes. As the sickness and spinning sensation returned that heralded his own return to reality he tensed both of his fists, spread his legs apart and waited.

Blank re-appeared behind Lorenor, the motion of his movements had carried him through the ghoul and with one last dying movement he thrust his blade backwards. He had been gone, at least to the mutant's perceptions, for no longer than two seconds. He felt it hit something and with a satisfying grin he presumed it to be embedded in necrotic flesh before he fell forwards onto his knees. Sorrow welled up in his heart and made him wretch. The heat and the lethargy from loss of blood had parched his lips and drawn out all the water that made him. Truth welled to the tip of his tongue, and for one brief moment he felt as if he remembered what it was that had silenced him long ago. He felt a compulsion to talk, to say one last line before departing.

He turned to Lorenor, too nauseated to see where his sword had struck and spoke;


"If you have nothing nice to say Lorenor, hold your tongue!"

With that he fell prone and lifeless onto the sand; another victim to the deadly struggle of the desert and the narcissism of dark gods.


Spoils:

The Bloodied Rose: An eternally vibrant rose stained thick with Blank's own blood. It is missing a petal, and has no other properties besides an enchantment to prevent it from withering. It can be destroyed, but is otherwise devoid of monetary value.

One Last Request: When Blank dies, his words garner a strange and unbidden power. They possess minor gaeas potential, inflicting sorrow or remorse or purpose on his murderer or those friends who witness his passing. Until he remembers what made him mute in the first place and fights his own daemons, this is the only fleeting time he can speak, and evidently has little use outside of dramatic flair and creative bantering within the Citadel or similar scenarios; with permission of the opponent, the last request can be used to give people he defeats more enthusiasm and determination in their next encounter, or those who defeat him introspection and a humbling sense of mortality.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

Keeping his eyes on his opponent, flesh was further torn when the fellow somehow managed to escape his shark-like grip. This disturbed the mutant greatly, but he deduced that the matter must have been some sort of adrenalin rush that overtook the mute before him. Readying his weapon once again, Lorenor saw that the fellow was taking his sweet time in recovering any hope for momentum. One thing was certain however, his foe was preparing for death.

Lorenor never once removed his eyes from his opponent, even when the fellow summoned up a courageous strength that was meant to subdue the mutant. Cocking an eyebrow, Lorenor saw that the fellow suddenly vanish right before his peripheral vision. Sighing for a moment, Lorenor reacted quickly and assumed that his opponent would attempt to reappear behind him. At least, that's what the mad-man would have done in such a situation and he assumed that the mute would do the same.

Moving at best speed, Lorenor turned around. His hypothesis was correct when he saw that his opponent had manifested once more. Appearing where Lorenor's back just was, Lorenor reacted with his own impressive speed and reaction time. Carefully maneuvering around his foe's counter-attack, the mutant ducked down ever so subtly. The sword was there from the mute and it did manage to connect with flesh. Lorenor could have done anything to avoid such a telegraphed maneuver, but he decided on relishing in the pain.

Connecting with his chest, the mutant's face became washed over with pleasure as he felt the sword penetrate his body, then get retracted. More black ichor spilled from the injury even as the wound was regenerating. He still hadn't recovered completely from the previous injury. Lorenor sighed with pleasure, looking at the mute, when suddenly, the fellow talked! Having nothing relatively important to say, Lorenor was merely shocked by the fact that the mute's voice had come back to him in such a fashion. After the fellow talked, the mute limped over a few paces and fell to his death.

Death filled the air, and the mutant grinned at this. He started to laugh, in the end, he had bested clever tricks once again. In his arrogance, he walked over towards the corpse of the mute and knelt down towards him. As he did this, he leaned close to the man's ear. "In death, you will not know peace..." Lorenor said. "Only the pain of The Pyre awaits back-stabbers like you." And then, the mutant proceeded to perform an act that had become second-nature. He ripped the shirt off of the mute and felt the transformation of his face as his lower jaw extended downward. He snarled, and then began to consume the flesh of his enemy.

A fitting end to a fitting journey.

[Taskmienster]

Hold Your Tongue!:: Full commentary, as requested. I’m going to be doing as much as possible, splitting it between the two writers if necessary. If either of you have questions, concerns, or would like further commentary feel free to PM or IM me and I will help as much as possible.



Continuity
Lorenor :: 4
Blank :: 5

Setting
Lorenor :: 5
Blank :: 6

Pacing
Lorenor :: 5
Blank :: 5

Dialogue
Lorenor :: 6
Blank :: 4

Action
Lorenor :: 5
Blank :: 5.5

Persona
Lorenor :: 5.5
Blank :: 5

Technique
Lorenor :: 6
Blank :: 7

Mechanics
Lorenor :: 7
Blank :: 8

Clarity
Lorenor :: 6
Blank :: 6.5

Wild Card
Lorenor :: 6
Blank :: 3


Score:
Lorenor :: 55.5
Blank :: 55


Rewards:
Lorenor :: 2750 exp | 75 gold
Blank :: 825 exp | 50 gold
[[Spoils approved for general use until the next level up – use of One Last Request is up to the opponent to use, or ignore at their own discression.]]


Thread Notations (post by post)



:: “It was often customary for example for the instigator of a battle to outline the details and requirements for the arena.” – “for example” should be set apart by comma’s… “customary, for example, for the…”

:: “and watched with a furrow collection of brows and fiddling thumbs as he crossed the threshold into infamy.” – “a furrow collection of brows” is a odd way to phrase it that doesn’t make as much sense as you intended. Though not completely impossible to understand. It would have been easier to understand as “a collection of furrowed brows”.

:: “The gate opposite was a portent of venomous doom” – “venomous [DOOM!]” are you entering a snake or something? Not sure about the adjective used to impart the picture of entering, though it’s mostly metaphorical (if not completely) it’s best to keep to metaphors that keep with what you are trying to convey.



:: “Finding himself in Corone after that certain matter in Raiaera, the mutant looked upon The Citadel.” – What matter? What was the matter? Can’t just leave me hanging here! :p

:: “He never would have noticed, but the monk remained behind praying for Lorenor's glorious outcome, as well as the safety of his opponent.” – I think it’s something I’ll never quite get… but why exactly does everyone like Lorenor? He’s a head priest of a religious symbol that wants to destroy the entire world. I would think, at the very best, that he would be generally hated by the vast majority of… well… everything and everyone.

:: “On the Antifirmanent, the man gave off a mysterious electromagnetic field. The colours danced about the air around the stranger creating an eerie, ghost-like effect.” – What does that mean? What are the color’s symbolic of? Anything?

:: “”I received this letter from the organization to come meet someone here in chamber number eleven”” – Eleven? You posted earlier that it was chamber 13. Remember to remain consistent.



:: “Three times he twitched his fingers and three times he stomped his right foot.” – A bit cliché of an entrance and beginning to a battle. The overused martial arts symbol of wiggling fingers to beacon…

:: “With puerile grace and an obliterating power the sphere latched onto his larynx and mind and silenced it with simple efficiency.” – This is bunnying and a bit of powergaming.



:: “The art of Th'llexyah Drukai, whilst armed form was exceedingly dangerous.” – Confusing way of wording something…



:: “With a deep frown touching his frontalis region,” – you tend to do this now and then… you go into detail to the point of using words like frontalis, which means nothing to me as I am not a student or study of human anatomy. Keep it simple, or at least use words that are commonly used by people other than doctors.

:: “A pull in the back of his mind created a potent manifestation of the dark that appeared as living armour.” – The dark? What is the dark? Is it shadows, or personal evil, or something altogether different? As it’s worded, it’s confusing at best.

:: “All 130+pounds.” – The use of “+” in formal writing is a no go.

:: “A powerful bruise developed beneath the second skin Lorenor felt the armour writhing beneath the weight of the man's steel weapon.” – after “the second skin” you should have a comma.

:: Why are you concerned about the way your opponent uses his weapon? You’re not technically his mentor, unless Lorenor for some reason takes on the persona of a mentor at all times. In which case, you should make some sort of narrative note about it, so that it makes more sense.



:: “It rang out with a dull thud and his feet landed they kicked up plumes of sand in little concentric circles” – “[as] his feet landed” makes this sentence work better.

:: “No sooner than the ghoul had shifted his weight backwards to clear himself of any quick-witted follow through, Blank hopped backwards himself and brought the Rheilhand instinctively up in a reverse grip, cut across his chest to offer the best readily available parry that the diminished swordsmen could muster.” – This is a run-on sentence.

:: You write well for technique, but at times it becomes a bit convoluted and confusing at best. Remember, sometimes it’s best to go with something a bit more simple for clarities sake, despite the use of such big words. :p



:: “and the mutant was moving carefully not to snuff out the single flower that rested in the centre of it.” – Why not? Is it symbolically important to Lorenor? Does he have a personality trait that favors solidarity and lonely things? Or does he just like flowers? This is all persona at it’s finest.

:: “leaped up atop the weapon as it was falling to the ground, moved forward in an expert maneuver and continued his attack. With deadly precision, the mutant struck out with his forward leg, and when his sword had begun to fall on the ground, Lorenor sent a skillful spin-kick at his opponent.” – This entire series of movements and actions makes little sense when I try and picture it.



:: “in the swordsmen’s mind,” – should be “swordsman’s” since there’s only one of you.



:: “It made Lorenor smile and that was painted on his face.” – instead of that, it should be which, though by using which in its place you would have to put a comma before it. Instead of that, which would break the sentence and make it not flow even more I would have suggested changing the phrasing of the sentence itself. “It made Lorenor smile, a smile that was painted on his face.” That makes it flow better, as well as make more sense.

:: “When Lorenor landed on the ground, the last few seconds became a far away to the mutant.” – “became a far away” doesn’t read correctly. Maybe it’s the “a”, which if you didn’t have would read “became far away” which makes more sense.

[Taskmienster]

Exp and GP added.