View Full Version : The Blood Of Cuchulainn
The Blood Of Cuchulainn (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MkT2wW3-1jQ)
1955
Blood magic was born through sacrifice and preservation.
It needed blood to survive, and it needed blood to suffer living.
A blood mage, thus, had to embrace constant weakness and the thirst for the sacrament of others.
You were born into that servitude, and were never free of it.
- The Tome of Lao-Sheng
Arden Janelle was a blood mage. His thirst was driven by revenge, pure, simple return of justice. He had long forgotten, and still tried to forget, the evils he could wreak on the world. Many, in their madness, would turn to the slaughter and the sorrow; turn to evil for evil’s sake without a thought amidst their insanity. The Janelle line however had used Blood Magic for ‘good,’ they had used to bind spirit and daemon and quell war and rebellion in Akashima. They had used it to harness the stars and bind their thirst to blades and arrows; taken war’s toll to heart to state their thirst instead of with ravaging fangs and heartless claws.
Without war, or without fighting, the thirst would win.
Blank entered the arena of the Citadel once more, confident in his victory, if not in his ability to survive whatever perils awaited him. He had fought several times in the Monk’s proverbial paradise and temple to the flowing ebb of battle, each time he had been defeated, humiliated, cast aside as a weak and feeble man. Now, he had the prominence of his ancestry behind him, and no more was he afraid to speak the ills of the world and the transgression of his father. He was no longer afraid of anything or anyone except himself.
The battlefield was an arid plain; similar to the one he had fought Sei Orlougne in, and many times more dry and despondent than the battlefield that had claimed his life against the mutant Lorenor. Intermittently, great menirs rose up from the dirt, marked with ancient symbols of power and engraved with stories of kami and oni in eternal war. Blank had requested the Plane of Balance for his arena, and the monks had re-created the ancient world between the voids faithfully. A smattering of trees covered the spaces between the towering story rocks, and dry grass clumped in futility around their feet, clinging to life.
Few knew of its existence except the Spirit Warders and the Blood Mages cowering in their crypts on thrones of bone; it was a fitting, ironic reminder to nobody but Blank, a brand on his scarred form. The song that drifted through the air was a delicate medley of drums and flutes, half-Akashiman, half Scara Braen, every bit meaningful to him and him alone. Music was a powerful tool for concentration and the heart, and he had asked the musicians of the Citadel to play the traditional Cuchulainn concerto throughout the course of his engagement, to keep his mind on the goal, his heart on the prize, his memories on distant dreams.
The swordsman had his hair was tied back and his body bathed in lavender and milk, his clothes cleaned and repaired after a long and perilous journey to Corone. His sword had been especially sharpened and rebound at the hilt for the debut of his new found direction before the world. He was ready and prepared for whoever entered the arena through the doors far on the horizon. He vowed to see them succumb to his blade and offer their blood for the salvation of Scara Brae, or die once more trying to scream at the gods.
The hand flexed, and with each motion it surged with power. As much a weapon as the hand that propped his red head up, Lawrence stared at his palm whilst lounging in the shade with the scents of fresh grass rising beneath him. A specimen of his own body, the hand was not so special; after all, it was as he had made it. In his quest for fame, he had found changes occurring with, and unbeknown, to his will. Muscles dividing from the strain of combat, the bolts of electricity racing through his nervous system as it refined itself. As a shape-shifter, well aware of himself, he could feel the results of his labor, though it was of course not his choice fruit.
“Now calling Ace Mandelo,” The shrieking klaxon shouted. Its voice was disembodied, providing Lawrence with nothing to glare at when it blasted his alias across the waiting gardens. The Meditational Field provided those waiting for battle a hill to relax on, a cool breeze to refresh them under the open sky, and the peace of mind which only real peace could provide. It was a place to think… which was utterly ruined every twenty minutes.
Irritation, one of the truer emotions, was pushed back. The down turned lips quickly readjusted, and Ace looked ecstatic, a young man with a future much too bright for the blood and violence he was about to see. It was an inappropriate smile, as if he was among friends while every other weathered face simply looked alone.
Standing, brushing the grass from his side and ass with a giddy flourish that marked his transformation complete. Ace descended from the hill. A warrior, still fresh to the Citadel, but carrying himself with ease, he was surrounded on all sides by the seasoned, the salted, and the brutal, the difference between them too great for anyone to mistake. All as he had intended. It was a bright day, and through the open roof, the sun followed him as far as it could, before the shadows engulfed him. Candles lighted the booth against the wall, and the scent of unwashed—never washed—druid wafted into the air; a sour tang that pickled Ace’s sensitive nose from a distance.
There, staring back at him was the abyss. An old crone with deep-set eyes, and wild red hair flecked with gray. Whatever these druids did, they did for love first, and money second—most of them anyway—because whatever they were paid, they did not use it on themselves. She had a pudgy look to her, like the man Ace had murdered at Dansdel; a man Ace did not know was the terror of this arena. A quirk of the upper lip, she bared her teeth and failed to match, or draw near the intensity of his charm. “So little time, are you the young man I’ve called for?” She asked, eyeing him with an unnerving and hungry look. She scanned the contours of his broad chest, measured the strength of his arms, and watched the veins beat under the skin of his neck.
“That would be me,” Ace said, not backing down from the strange, intent look she had given him. He leaned over the counter, looking through the bars that separated them. “And you’d be the lovely lady who’ll tell me what I should do?” A masterful lie adding flavor to his words, he tinged her world red, and inside, his gut was held steady, unable to wrench as it pleased.
“Absolutely and anytime.” She said, brown eyes glinting with the druidic power of nature. “You’ll be facing off through this door.” She pointed to the singular wall, an arch of stone filled with impenetrable darkness. “Step lively, step strong, that doorway changes so much, so often, you’re likely to be lost…” She lowered her head to gaze up at him in the most intensely cute manner she could, “and when something is lost, it belongs to the Citadel.”
She watched him go, her head turning as he moved out sight with a nod and a wave. ‘What a lovely man, I hope he delivers everything he promises.’ She thought, watching him leave, watching until the next combatant came forward, the druidess gave her the same look. ’So full of blood.’
Walking toward the arch way, Ace made no gesture as to test its depth. Without doubt, he walked into the darkness, and exited into a wind swept waste land. Mounds of dirt telling stories through the paint inscribed upon them. It reminded him of his youth in Fallien, the memory of thirst, and eternal drought.
Ace walked, the dirt grinding under his feet with soft crunches, he felt alone, he felt like he was surrounded. He felt like he was in the grave. The white blade of Black Mesa shined in the dull light, no one saw Ace draw it. Brown slacks, white shirt, black suspenders, a part in his hair, and a gleam in his eye, the valley of death held for him no terror.
Thrumming in the air, over the stuffy scent of dry leaves, music played, music that danced. He took no part of it, but breathed in the beat, and set his heart to beat while looking for his enemy. And there his enemy was, standing in a ring of tombstones. Taking no liberties with caution, Ace proceeded with a steady pace, his weapon lifted. “Nice to meet you!” He called, waving with his free hand.
Blank, used to silence, forgot to speak for several moments, letting the ambience rush out from his lithe form in droves. He licked his lips, then reminded himself that the shattered curse bound him no more. He thought for a moment, searching for the right words for this auspicious moment and took to clichéd memories of the stage to satisfy the statement.
"The pleasure is, and will be, all mine."
With a snap and a driving rush, Blank twinged his muscles and ran to his left. With clambering limbs, he leapt up onto the side of a menir and pounced to grab it's top. He dangled for a moment and took a foothold on the etchings, before climbing atop the ancient way stone triumphant. The wind whipped back has hair, and the baggy material of his trousers fluttered like a tidal sea. The arena stood oblivious to the passing of time, and continued in it's solvent flow; the sound of birdsong drifted in-between the heavy chorus and the sun beat harder and harsher.
Blank bowed again, drew the Rheilhand with a satisfying ring and lowered it loosely to his side in his right hand. He held it in a reverse grip, with it's point curved against the drop behind him, catching the light to only sweeten the menacing blade's presence. "I will stake no claim to victory, nor will I relinquish the opportunity to take your life - I will wish upon you the drive to do the same, and ask for mutual accomplishment, mutual carnage to ensue," he grimaced, realising that the sound of his own voice was making a mockery of the moment.
At the back of his throat, the thirst was already growing. It growled and crept into his mind like a tendril of shadow, a furlong message of madness. First blood would break him, and then there would be no civility or pomposity in his words - "whenever you are ready, let us begin!" He set the tip of his sword onto the tepid stone and waited.
No reply met Ace at first. The man across from him was so seemingly content in his silence that Ace half lowered his hand, and wondered if he had done wrong by speaking at all. Then, as if some great palsy lifted, the swordsman spoke and his words grew in Ace the spirit of excitement, and to a lesser extent eye widening competitive evil. ‘Pleasure?’ He accompanied the thought with laughter, a chorus growing in his mind as they echoed within his skull.
As Blank ran to the side, Ace divided his attention between the man and the dirt, seemingly uninterested as he nudged a rock from the soil… and then decided he could do better when he saw that Blank’s performance was beginning. A child of the stage years before, Ace was a child to an elemental idea. He to his core enjoyed theatrics, and appreciatively waited as Blank took a tower of dirt for his stage — clambering with his back turned.
Spoken words filled the air, and rather than take them as contradiction to the first as to whom would go the pleasure and who would sample the pain, Ace dropped his sword. The rolled up sleeves of his shirt showed hardened muscles trembling as Ace brought his hands together. With such a grand display, it was only appropriate to clap… he knew what it was like to be stoned for a bad performance, and overall Blank had not disappointed him.
“At my ready, Sir?” He called up to the actor on high, “Then first my reply!” He reached for the sword buried in the dirt, and cast Black Mesa to the sky before dashing right to the nearest menir. Rather than climb, he vanished behind it, and ran up the back of its curving, and stooped body. There was a fire in his eyes, his chest put forward. “I am not such a man as you—I stake my claim to victory with my every breath—for I would not have arrived if my mind was uncertain, or my heart impure.”
“At Dansdel, the hearts of men exploded! In the sky, there was fire, and I was one with it in a battle to the death! My victory here, will be your tombstone!” He thrust forward an accusing finger, as if to imply Blank to be the antithesis of all that Ace claimed. “My heart pounds, my blood burns, they know nothing of defeat or fear.“ Truth to form, he was certain, and did not waver for the split second that Black Mesa descended inches from his face to drive itself into the menir next to his leading foot. Cracks formed as the blade sank in, and waited.
“I accept your wishes! And in this endeavor, I hope you do not fail in your convictions.” The tone could have easily been mocking, but in truth, it was born from a desire never to be outdone. Rolling, leaning forward, Ace flipped off the menir with the caution of the suicidal, tearing the sword from the menir violently as he fell. Now that it was free, Black Mesa flashed. Its blade slit the hills throat as the sword decapitated the mountain.
Landing on his feet, ignoring for the sake of dignity the twinges of pain in his left ankle, and the spasm in his knee, Ace threw his hand backward. The make of the hill raining down about him, he caught the menir’s head. The shape shifter’s hips dropped, then thrusted as his legs pushed him forward. In the manner of the Olympian's shot-put, Ace hurled the menir's head at Blank.
Fighting with words was something Blank mostly left to Duffy. Fighting with swords, guts and bravado? That was his style, his providence, his...he cocked his head at the strange and elaborate individual that had entered the arena as he leapt, cut and fan-dangled a hunk of rock at him through the air as if it were a piece of cloth. The eloquence and ease with which he did so came as such a shock, that Blank simply stared at it for the first half of it's ascent.
By the time he keened his gaze onto the twirling menir, he had left himself little time to react properly. With a skip, he leapt from his own vantage point and brought his blade, clasped in both hands, across the menir's path with every inch of strength he could muster. In an ideal world, he would have cleaved it in two, but his stupidity and panic highlighted the lack of cutting power steel had when striking solid rock.
A flash of sparks disguised the impact of the rock into flesh, and knocked Blank back several feet, rebounding from his forward trajectory like a rag-doll. The menir head fell flatly to the floor without ceremony, embedding itself into the dust with a little dance of smoke and rubble. Blank felt the impact of the ground shoot up his spine and he flopped onto his back to feel the arid earth welcome the back of his head with a clump. His sword dropped several feet to his right with a metallic ring.
He had entered the arena in the vain hope of procuring a vial of blood, ripped from a man's throat if need be. As he pushed himself upright and into a crouching position, he realised that he may very well have to collect on his own account, although the prospect of digesting his own soul in the process was not appealing. "Im-pr-es-si-ve ac-cu-me-n, im-pr-es-si-ve st-re-ng-th!" He roared, spitting blood between syllables and rubbing his already bruising chest with delicate and concentric motions. "What do you say we fight like men," he strode over to his blade and scooped it up, "with swords, whiskey breath and a bit of argumentative punching, ay?"
He began to walk somewhat askew towards Ace and pulled a small flask from the folds of his clothing. He swigged the cheap street liquor and fondly kindled the need for more in his throat; it was one small vice, in his mind, to take the edge off the inexplicable and insatiable need to feed on the blood of others since his 'talent' had awakened and his world had come crashing down. He was nothing more than a vampire now, and he advanced with his eyes firmly set on his opponent's neck - revenge part of his plan, bruised ribs part of his memories.
The filth of the Menir’s make rained down across Ace’s vision, tiny black specks passing the world by. The menir’s head flew high, and by its weight, he knew just what it could do. Ace remained still, his arm extended, his form still poised in its stance as he seemingly beckoned his opponent to make a worthy reply. The smile looked expectant when the man raised his sword to calcified dirt and stone. Rather than dive to safety, Blank lept into the Menir‘s path, and sparks exploded.
Ace jaw went somewhat slack, but the tension returned elsewhere as he brought his hands up to shake his fists in a silent cheer. ‘So is this is what I am up against?’ He suspected swords that could cleave stone, but that idea died when the stone exited the clash scathed, but unbroken. It proceeded to introduce itself to Blanks chest in a most brief, but intimate, manner. The sound lungs suddenly emptying themselves the best clue Ace could ask for. Ace’s hands fell in disappointment, even as his mind relaxed. ‘Well, he tried.’ If nothing else, Ace suspected the man to be suicidal or insane. ‘But if he’s willing to try, then he bets his life that he can win.’ Ace grinned at the fallen man, confident. He did not gamble.
To Ace, Blank was little more than a grounded bird, still shaking off its dirty feathers as it struggled to stand. Ace watched him, and his brother’s still young voice rang in his mind, a distant reminder of better days. ‘Well, that’s what you get for letting someone put you on your back.’ Ace walked across from Blank, maintaining the distance for the sense of honor he broad-casted with his boyish charms.
Over the scent of earth, Ace could smell the heavy odor of blood, there was not much shed, but Ace’s eyes narrowed on the crimson flecks across Blank’s lips. ‘A good sign for things to come.’ “Fight like men? Just the same old, same old?” Ace shrugged before running his hand through his hair, and across his neck to brush dirt from his shoulders. “If it’s acting within acting, or stabbing while being stabbed, it’s all the same.” There was no chance on this plane or any other that Ace was going to let Blank stab him, but it was good banter. “You can keep you’re poison of choice, I have my own.” He called, his venom coating his teeth to give them that glowing shine.
How utterly different this opponent was from the last. Blank drowned his sorrows in liquor, while Artemis distanced himself from the past by hoping for a better future. What is it about good men that forces them to tint their world in rosy pinks, or the swimming murk of alcohol? Is the ambient ugliness really too much to bare?
Blank, now armed and drinking, approached Ace with the same intent that the Citadel receptionist had possessed. Unwilling to recoil in the face of hungry intent, Ace spread his arms, and proceeded to welcomed Blank to battle. With the last foot separating them, Ace broke from his calm stance to lunge and slash Black Mesa down to the right. It would not be a shallow blow, it would sheer through the meat of Blank’s thigh.
Like a gun shot, Blank's eyes crossed paths with the descending blade and with an instinctual letting lose of fear, pain and anger, he festooned himself in the vestigial talent he called The Aria, and prayed. So far, his intent to severe the arteries of his opponent, to offer his life-force to the rock of living had been nothing more than a hollow promise - a ludicrous suggestion.
He disappeared.
The transition between one world and another was not easy, it never was, nor would it be. The painful twang of muscle ripped from momentum to be placed stable and sound in the silent, silver landscape of The Aria brought the reality of the situation back to Blank's mind. He had over estimated the strength, guile and bravery of his match, but would not do so again.
He thought alone, of all his mistakes, smiling on the ancient jetty that ran from the invisible coast over the mercury sea. In his wake, he knew the faint sound of music and the swirling blue string would have left his opponent daze, beautiful and confused - as his blade passed through his shadow, he longed to see the shock, the seduction, the calamity reign.
Sickened in a fell swoop of fate, Blank fell to his knees in the silent landscape and closed his eyes. As he fell back into the same position he had been in a mere two seconds before, he tried to think sober, tried to think of completing his task without ado - he thought of nothing more, no memory less than obtaining the Blood of Cuchulainn - the blood of a hero proverbial and hero foul.
Letho.
He re-emerged into the world from his Blink, and in a flash, cut his own sword across Ace's midriff with a guttural and harsh slash from right to left. It was driven more by fury than finesse, but finesse had strange ways of rearing it's aristocratic glare in the dark of the night.
Black Mesa cut through the open air in a wild motion. The swords destination being Blank’s leading leg, on arrival it would cripple the sauced samurai. A flash of white in the open air downward.
The leg, and the man, vanished in an instant.
Ace’s eyes narrowed reflexively, the power of invisibility well known to him. ’No one just disappears.’ His sword continued through the place Blank had once been in with its full speed. Ace then confirmed that his thoughts on the matter were completely wrong, and to his staggering amazement, something hit him.
Just as quickly as Blank disappeared, so too did he return. The very space that he had occupied, was once again filled, and Blank struck with a power Ace could not believe. The katana slammed into Ace’s stomach, parting his shirt as Blank dragged its blade through.
Caustic saliva followed a violent, “Uuhah!” A statement containing all of his surprise. Questions abounded, but Ace focused on escaping. Rather than be cut in two, the shape-shifter doubled over, and staggered backwards. Struggling to keep standing, Ace held up his sword as a shield for whatever defense it might give him. His stomach's contents writhed against each other. He covered a small amount of ground holding his stomach, and in those few seconds, he felt for a wound.
’The hell was that?’ Ace asked, still winded and heaving even as he forced himself to stand. He straightened his back; let his right hand drop to reveal the hole in his clothing, and the steel that lined his belly. Whether he had vanished from the world, or been intangible for the second and waiting, Ace could only wonder. He wandered in fear. Brave face on, his heart never picked up its pace.
The fingers on Black Mesa’s hilt tightened as Ace cocked his head, a rye twist to his smile. “To hell with fighting like men.” He turned the point at Blank, the tremble of excitement no different from hesitation. “I’ve never seen anything like that!” He shouted, silently feeding paralytic voltage through his palm into the sword.
“Do it again!” He leapt forward, raising the blade to drive it home into Blank‘s chest. Did he fear another strike? Of course, but what better escape for a coward than to think himself brave. Just as he had stood on the stage all those years ago, if he could maintain his act, and juggle his skills, he would never lose.
The uttering and cacophonous twisting of his opponent almost made Blank wretch, but he turned away the tide of guilt as the edge of alcohol made the senses of the tongue and eyes warm and fuzzy. If he could draw on The Aria again so quickly, so recklessly, he assured himself that he would.
He would flit between realms in paeans of ecstasy and tear everyone who stood in his way apart with ghastly slashes and haunting echoes - tearing through flesh and corpse with blood festooned into his very soul. In the end, that would lead to nothing more than another way to die, another way to perilously bury his own name in the dirt.
"Soon enough, friend," he brought the blade of the Rheilhand across the Black Mesa's forward thrust, gritting his teeth and stepping back with one foot planting firmly into the dust between the pillars of ancient lore. For a moment, it seemed as if he had the power and guile to push the incoming blade back, turn it aside with a snap of his heel and a follow-up scythe of air and flesh and victory.
His limbs gave way, sodden and forgiving of their own failure. The sun caught the sweat on Blank's skin and he shone like an angel for a brief moment, up until the dagger's tip lunged and struck him square in the left shoulder, deflected from it's path by his parry and shearing skin and bone with corrupted, agonising ease.
For the first time in his life, Arden Janelle screamed.
The sound fell from the heavens and rose from hell, and he felt a greater relief from the feeling of pain than he had ever head when he was muted by the curse of his father. He stumbled back and pulled himself free of Ace's blade. Gobbets of blood fell from his gaping jaw and ran freely down his shoulder, his rippled torso more crimson now than it's elegantly tanned bronze.
He hung his head as weakness took over, and the blood and the wine and the iron of life fought one another in his body. "Blood is such a precious thing," the thirst rose in his stomach, and took hold of his throat and mind with ravenous claws, "yet man wastes it so fleetingly for idle pursuits, arrogant gestures and ignorant pledges."
"Yet gather it we must," he looked up and stood upright, his legs shaking and his brow feverish. "If we do not," he bared his teeth, red plates of bone set into his charm. "We falter and waver, corrupted by our own greed!" He skipped forwards, brought the Rheilhand up and around in a big circle and drove it downwards, hoping to split Ace's guard,body and confidence in two with a patter of feet and a battle cry that sounded unmistakably like one thing only.
Sacrifice.
He was consumed by his own objectives, and shed all care for his own life, cushioned in part by the Citadel's magic as he charged. He had to get one drop, and that was all he required to be one step closer to the vengeance over his father he longed so much to have.
The short sword suppressed the rising katana with sheer electrical force, killing the defense that raised itself in Blank’s service. Black Mesa tasted blood, and caressed the bone of Blank’s shoulder. ’He’s still here?’ A projected air of frenzy masked the way in which Ace took Blank’s measure.
The screams were the surest sign that Blank would not be escaping through the warp—or becoming intangible to the material world, or any number of other suspicions the shape-shifter held. Lawrence took comfort in this, Ace’s smile relaxing.
’That should make what I am about to do much easier.’ The kill was in sight… and yet Lawrence’s senses noticed something that gave him pause. A rising sense of danger. The scent of alcohol and blood hung in the air around them.
Ace having expended his courage by testing his opponent's abilities did not give chase as Blank withdrew. Wary, ready to employ all of his powers, Ace turned the blade, and sniffed at it casually. “Oh yes,” He said with bravado as Blank seethed with what Ace assumed was rage, “very precious, and I’m sure by the end of this you’ll find yourself to be a very poor man.” A short laugh, “hah,” followed as Ace put forward the sword.
Backhanded banter aside, Ace had smelt something… the blood was mixed with alcohol, a given, but there was something else in it… he could only identify it as a metallic malevolence. Yet, for whatever hidden depths Blank had yet to reveal, Ace knew he had more. More power, and more suffering, and again, he would be damned if he was going to be outdone. He relaxed his expression to avoid grinding his teeth.
”Shameful?" He laughed, "No, brother, those idle pursuits, arrogant gestures, and ignorant pledges are what make life grand,” Ace shrugged at Blank’s existential reasoning, “without them, we've got naught, but our pains and sorrows.”Ace spoke lightly on the lighter things in life. “If you can't resist them, then let yourself go, and relax. You won't falter and waver if you are comfortable with what you are—or you can die knowing that you tried, and failed! Come get some!” He finished, speaking with a youthful eloquence that could only be fashioned from years of experience.
Years of perseverance.
With a single hand, Ace's wielding of Black Mesa was weaker than it could be with two. However, trusting his own great strength, Ace smashed Black Mesa up into Rheilhand.
An explosive crash of conversing metal, warring steel, and surprisingly alike minds followed. Black Mesa slipping, the lack of any martial style its only folly as Rheilhand forcing the sword to a slant, came grinding down its blade. It froze trembling, fingers wrapped around the hand that wielded it. Ace caught equal parts of blade and fist in his right hand. Blood ran as the taller of the two men bore down on Ace, the blade sinking into the meat between forefinger and thumb.
There was no more distance between them. Voltage surged in that wounded hand and it‘s counterpart's sword even as the rocking Rheilhand sank deeper. Reacting, no longer willing to play, never willing to gamble, Lawrence Spades hissed a sudden and violent mist of caustic spittle at Blank’s eyes. Paralyzing, blinding, to hell with fighting like men, he fought best as a monster and coward.
The blinding agony of pain pressed against the body's desire to succeed and gave way the moment Ace's gobbet struck Blank's face. It had not been expected, and in the moments before, Blank was almost sure he had defeated the strange maniacal man as his blade cut deep and his strength gathered momentum. Despite his thirst for blood, his strength and his cunning, he stumbled back bereft of all the little fluctuating glories he held dear.
The menir's instantly sprang to life, crackling into existence in florets of lightning and blue ochre fire. The colours danced as the Once Silent Swordsmen scratched at his eyes to clean them of the ichor. It smelt and felt sickening, and he rubbed and sloshed it away as quickly as he could manage. The lightning bolts arced along the arid sand and struck air and scorched reality as Blank finally opened his lids, and saw the world once more.
The world was black. Blank was now fully blind, and the pain rose like fire through his nerves.
"A petty trick, but then again, I expect nothing less from crooks, thieves and vagabonds." He paused for dramatic effect. He tensed his bloodied body, his tired fatigued muscles and his immaculate buttocks and ran forwards, "I should know - I wrote the book!" With one last push, with one last refrain, the Swordsmen brought Rheilhand up to the right and then down with full force across Ace's personal space - at least, the space he had occupied the last time the swordsmen had sight.
He swang overly wildly, leading to the natural conclusion that if his strike missed, he would swing down and stumble to his knees, his neck an ironic offering to the man he was trying so very hard to garotte.
Ace spat flecks of venom between the blades into Blank’s eyes while shocking him through his own sword. Blank's curses of surprise gave the shape shifter his relief. The man retreated, unable to endure Ace’s venom and voltage in tandem.
With the time bought, Black Mesa swept aside Rheilhand, a swift, ringing repartee. It was a spiteful afterthought to the blood that flowed from Ace‘s free hand. Ace fell back, fear carrying him on lighter feet no more than two yards breathing room away. At a safer distance, Ace realized his pain.
The shape shifter raised his arm, and looked. The depth gave him insight into the workings of his flesh, but he could not accept the red blood flowing from open veins and exposed flesh. He could not see the bone for the blood, but he could feel the radiating pain. Denial began to fade as the pain became real.
The rushing noise in his heart, the taste of metal all across his tongue… he stared at the blood. The blues of lightning were lost in the crimson cascade. Ace’s vision lifted to Blank, he was saying something, his thin lips flapping insults.
Pain throbbing, death riding imagination. Ace knew nothing, but he felt the time had come. ’Precious?’ He thought. “Idiot!” He shouted aloud, partly at himself for his failing. Raising the hand, Ace ran his tongue through the wound, motes of agony entering his vision, each exploding as punishment for allowing even a drop to be lost.
Upset, but understanding, Ace never missed a chance to share his wisdom, “You don’t know a damn thing!” Unmoved, sword still slashing, Ace met Blank again. Before, he would have shouldered Blank’s blow, unafraid of broken bones, but fear for life required more than daring!
Black Mesa caught Rheilhand again, but now it hit with purpose. Steel resounding, swords rebounding, Ace still coming, the time came to make an end of things. Taking that instant, the shape shifter came slamming into Blank, reaching out to him even as they fell to the ground, his palm and sword alive with electricity.
Ace, with wounded free hand, reached to seize or impede Blank’s sword arm. If he could not beat Blank in sword play, he would conquer him with all else. He twisted and stabbed, Black Mesa’s white blade seeking life. Dry dirt and dead grass welcomed them on arrival with a cloud of filth and a thud.
Any bunnying approved.
In his descent, and their calamitous ringing of strength, Arden Janelle arrived at the inevitable conclusion. He had, in his innocence, allowed the feverish rage that dwelt within to consume him. There was no escaping his Thirst, his red rage tantalised by death, but he could fight it, contain it, reserve it for those truly deserving of his ochre blade and his tempest hand.
He rolled in the clod and the mire, spluttering blind and feeling inertia right him in his senses. He could not see, but then again, he was half blind to begin with, the memories of 'the incident' that taken the sight in his eye flooded back. He had been not much older than Pete, the Orphan Ring Leader of the troupe, when he had taken a hammer to the back of his head and a deft cudgel to his eye socket in a brawl in the Numarr Slums. He had lost his sight for days, but fought and fought the taunts and wooden blades he had screamed the troupe throw at him.
He had longed to not be beaten by his disability.
Today would be no different.
"That is enough!" He roared, flipping onto his side and pushing himself upright from a push-up position. His boots scraped lines in the sand and lightning, delicate strands of blue energy crackled in the dredges of the movement. The menirs sent out their static into the air and their ancient writings glowed; the prophecy was complete.
"I will suffer this insanity no more, this peddling of lines shall stop!" He let his voice ring out, and as it fell silent, dropping from his senses, he bent down and sniffed the ground. Like a blood hound he scuffled along the floor, until at last he came to a pool of Ace's blood, where his senses told him it was strongest.
His prize.
"I have found what I came to claim, without the need to become the monster I feared. I have taken it, without remorse, and leave you with your life and mind intact." He flipped out a small glass vial and scooped the thickening morsel of blood into it, filling it eagerly. The scent of iron rattled about in his skull, and the bird song broke the lightning's fury as it rolled inwards towards the swordsman and crackled up his body. It poured into the vial, glowed for a few moments, then died to the light of day.
Blank feebly put the lid back on, and tied the silver thread tight.
"Do with me as you wish, it has been a pleasure, but we are done." He turned, and with pure guesswork, worked towards the door, his back exposed to his opponent, his determination wavered, his need to continue lost. He had a reason to fight, but it was not here, and not now, and not his thirst.
"You shall live on in the ritual of Lao-Sheng's Arcanum..." he muttered to himself, burning the memory of his near failure, and Ace's fancy footwork into his mind for all eternity.
Spoils:
Prima Vial: A vial containing enough blood for one casting of a Blood Magic spell, sufficient for divining and reforming the memory of the person to whom it belongs.
Honourable: Blank has tempered his anger somewhat, having learnt that he need not be a monster to fulfil the needs of the Blood Mage; although he is still prone to the rage and is a volatile individual to all.
The earth now airborne blinded Ace in the pursuit of his kill—no pretenses of civility remained to shift his thinking elsewhere; what else could he call the ragged drunk? Rolling in the dirt, having missed his falling stab, Ace cut wild swathes into the fog, and with his bleeding hand searched and clutched for cloth and flesh. Nothing, instead Ace heard shuffling feat as the man escaped. Why did he come here, ’if he’s going to run away?’
With every beat of his heart, a sharp ache throbbed in Ace’s hand and up through his shoulder. The flesh, sensitive before Blank’s katana had exposed Ace’s nerves to the air, could feel dirt both collecting and sloughing away in crimson clods of filth. Dusted, filthy, white teeth ground sand as Ace’s field of vision cleared. There was an anger there that made his veins throb, and he spoke when he heard Blank cry out his frustration.
“Enough?” Baffled by the exclamation, Ace took it as an insult to who he was. “I came prepared to kill and die, and now you’re running from me.” He had come to put on a show, to appeal to a passion that all spectators shared. Now there, scrambling from the dirt was the partner he had been determined to butcher. The menir to the left, beheaded and flashing, exploded, bits of burning refuse flying past Ace with no notice, only illuminating his ire in a blue light. The old man at Dansdel had at least had a reason for not giving his all—a heart attack—Blank had no excuse, but there was nothing Ace could do. He was not allowed to kill in cold blood.
The anger faded as Ace reeled himself back into his roll. The lips that moments ago drew back ferociously, slowly came together, and sealed. Folding his right hand under his left arm, Ace stifled the flow of blood, and let the end come as it only could. With curiosity, he watched Blank only feet away drop to the ground, snorting dirt for some scent. Ace watched as he drew nearer on hands and knees, and said nothing as the man gathered up the blood beside Ace’s foot. ’I could kill him now.’ It was a complete thought…but felt so much like a question. Should he? No. Killing a man who was not fighting did nothing for his image.
As the man stood, Ace stared into Blank’s sightless. burned out eyes. “There’s no insanity in testing your skills,” he stood his ground, and looked down on Blank as he turned to leave, “there isn’t a thing deranged about wanting your skills to be seen.” No, Ace had his reasons for wanting to become a champion of the Citadel. “My idea of humanity may not be flattering, but it makes for greater fun than drinking, and servicing my own questions with lies.” He said, ignoring the ridiculous implications Blank’s banter put forward.
Ace watched the man bare his back again, and let him leave. There would be no great pleasure in splitting him from crown to buttock, and when he had left the arena, Ace tightened his left arm, and made his own way, feeling less than victorious. ’In the great scheme of things, what player leaves his stage before his role is done?’ He mused, and then shook as a chill soaked him through his skin, and numbed even his bones. It was the presence of his mistress weighing on him. Senses careening, Ace faded in persona back to the grim Law.
∞∞∞
I...
Through the corridor Ace had entered through, Lawrence took his leave. On the other side, a chorus of happy hands, and glowing torches were within seconds muted and dimmed. Blue hues accompanied the distortion of sound, and Lawrence’s practiced, easy stride dragged in the air like it was water. Egr’msatchek, the deep destroyer, from her subterranean grotto reached out to caress the walls of her servant’s mind. The people gave him the obligatory greeting, as all crowds do for their victor, even as he stumbled at the touch. The thought conveyed itself with no threat, no will, no sorrow, no emotion. It was a great nothingness; steeped in animal drive and alien nature, its single thought was an aimless command.
...am...
The gravity of that ancient mind weighing him down, Lawrence twisted his lips into a calm smile, and nodded to the crowd unaware of the horror he had to bear. Lifting the wound in place, thumb locked in place, he forcefully waved to the people as he head to the infirmary. The arm rippled, the muscles flexed. Lawrence was the weapon just as much as it was.
...hunger.
‘Give me time to perform the best of shows; I will soon serve a feast of dreams no Thayne would ever think of.’
Spoils:
The Fruits of Meticulous Labor: Having stood in the public eye, and performed on the battle field often, Lawrence Spades has gained a minor glamor. When he chooses to conduct himself in a certain way he is known, what he does is observed, and the strange smiles he shares fill people with a strange sense of contagious mirth. This ability seems to be born from confidence, sheer aural confidence.
I would also like to request that all Gold be converted into experience.
Round Two (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=21733)
Silence Sei
09-23-10, 10:17 AM
Finally judging this thing. Let me just say that this was a good battle, at least the parts I could understand. Let’s get judging.
STORY ~ A tie in every area in story. I don’t really have any full commentary to provide here that doesn’t apply to both of you. As such, rather than doing this area separately, you both will be grouped together with the same score.
Blank and Knave
Continuity (6/10) ~ I understood enough from each of your characters to have a decent grasp of how you each got where you were.
Setting (4/10) ~ Neither of you did too well here. Mainly because I couldn’t get a good grasp of what the arena actually looked like. I imagined it as a kind of Stonehenge with menirs instead of columns, and if that’s not what you two were trying to convey, then I apologize. If it was, it was hard enough to even grasp that concept in my brain
Pacing (7/10) ~ You each did excellent in your pacing. The thread lasted as long as it should have, given the characters motivations for being there.
Both Story Total:17/30
• CHARACTER ~
blank
Dialogue (6/10) ~ I understand your character got his voice back,and the spitting blood between each syllables in one of your posts was a nice touch. However, I wish you would have capitalized more on the fact that Blank can talk again. Perhaps he should have tested out his voice box a little more to communicate. Even if I was used to just fighting and not talking, I know I would be saying all kinds of things to see how my voice had changed since I lost it.
Action (6/10) ~ The thread really looked up when the fighting started. I imagine if you two could have realistically kept it up, you would have thrived in an epic clashing of the swords. As it stood, however, this battle rates slightly above average in your department.
Persona (8/10) ~ I enjoyed seeing Blank go in from confident, to questioning his own abilities, to learning he didn’t have to be a super dick to get what he needed. This was one of your highest scoring area. You played Blank exceptionally well in this fight.
Blank Character Total: 20/30
Knave
Dialogue (7/10) ~ Everything said here was completely within Ace’s character. I haven’t gotten enough of a feel for the big E yet to grasp her, but she was just in one post at the end. I especially enjoyed the bit about the drowish receptionist in your opening post.
Action (7/10) ~ You did quite well here as well. Throwing the menir was a great opening move (though I had to google what a menir was), and from that point, you kept on the sword strokes until you had enough. Spitting acid in your opponents eye to blind him was both unexpected and a welcome addition to the fight. If you can continue to have Ace surprise me with sneaky moves like that, your action score will get higher and higher, at least with me.
Persona (7/10) As said before, I didn’t have a feel for the E-girl, but the thread wasn’t technically about her, was it? That being said, Ace acted fully like I expected him to, pandering to a crowd that may or may not be there. I would honestly like to see both Ace and Duffy in a quest, just to see the epic one-upmanship.
Knave Character Total: 21/30
WRITING STYLE ~
Blank
Mechanics (5/10) ~I actually saw a couple of mechanics error from you here, surprisingly enough. Most of them came around the end of the thread. Also, I would advise against capitalizing a title such as ‘Once Silent Swordsman’, as I don’t think that’s necessarily a ‘title’ in the instance you used it in.
Technique (5/10) ~ I saw a couple of literary devices here, such as your foreshadowing into using Ace’s blood, yet keeping it mysterious as to what exactly you’re doing with it. There wasnothing that truly stood out here though.
Clarity (4/10) ~ I couldn’t understand either of you for a good part of this thread. As I said before, the setting was confusing, I had no idea what a menir was, and with the way each of you described the ‘fall’ to the ground, it seemed as though each of you had a different kind of perception about how fast you were falling.
Wild Card (5/10) ~ A good read, if not confusing.
Blank WS score: 19/40
Blank Total: 56/100
Knave
Mechanics (5/10) ! Like with Blank, I notice a few errors in your writing as well, also around the end of this fight. I felt you overused the word ‘menir’, and could have found another word to describe it. Also, when you had Ace say ‘….and now your walking away.’ I felt as though an exclamation point would have been a better fit than a period. The statement just came off as dry and unemotional with that period.
Technique (5/10) Some foreshadowing in your last post, nothing really different from Blank, so no advice to really give you here.
Clarity (3/10) The only reason you had one less point here is because I was often confused by how much dialogue you use in your paragraphs, along with the action at one point you incorporated a thought with apostraphies and directly went into dialogue with quotation marks, and it require a good two re-reads before I understood that you weren’t just confused. While action and dialogue are fine together, I wouldn’t try to also throw a thought process in there unless you have a better way to separate the three more clearly. Getting rid of the apostraphies when you think and just leaving thoughts in italics would work.
Wildcard 5/10 ~ A good thread, but I would advise against using a black font when you write as you did in your last post. I use the tan layout of Althanas, and as such, it was harder to read that text, despite how large it was. You didn’t get any points taken away from this, but I just thought advising you to use a different colored font would help.
Knave WS total: 18/40
Knave Total: 56/100
It’s a tie! All Spoils approved pending RoG. Blank gets 605 exp plus 90 GP!
Knave gets 700 exp!
Silence Sei
09-29-10, 11:37 PM
Exp-GP added.
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