Concentration

[Caellach]

Closed to Helm Ortega
The first time Caellach had ventured into the Citadel he had been seeking a place train. However, after subsequent visits the swordsman soon found that the Citadel was not only an exceptional means to practice combat abilities; it was also a source of great entertainment. He took no pleasure in spilling blood and causing pain -- at least not in the world outside the wondrous arenas of the Citadel -- but the intense feeling of adrenaline coursing through his veins was hard to imitate outside the confines of the magical structure. With no threat of consequences one could fight as much as they wanted in the Citadel, but as Caellach saw it this was both a gift and a curse in terms of entertainment; while he could enjoy a fight more when not considering the possibility of death or injury, he knew that the more he fought in the Citadel the less it would feel like true combat. He decided that the feeling would likely last quite a while longer, so there was no reason to try to starve himself of the place; he had only been there a couple times anyways.

He had asked the monk for an arena that provided some sort of distraction, and had received exactly what he had wanted. Of course he had not imagined anything quite on the scale of the scene that now surrounded him. A strong wind blew his hair in every direction; it was so intense that the swordsman had to concentrate just to stay standing. He was standing on the weathered gray rock of of a stone rampart; to his right there was a battlement about half his height, and a few paces to his left there was a sharp drop. A glance to either side revealed massive armies on either side. If the slick stone and great gale were not enough to try a combatant's ability to concentrate, the arrows and catapult stones whizzing past should have been.

Most of the projectiles passed over head, but Caellach guessed the monks had likely made it so even the few arrows shooting right in front of him would not actually strike him or his opponent. Briefly he wondered if the monks could read minds; they never seemed to disappoint. The din of battle could be heard faintly far below, but the wind carried most of the noise away.

Slowly reaching a hand over his shoulder, Caellach loosed his longsword from its sheath on his back and gave it a quick slash in the air in front of him. The gale changed directions so quickly that it always seemed some stray flows of air pressed against the flat of the blade, making it more of a challenge to handle. Caellach was familiar with the blade though, and gripping the weapon with both hands allowed him to control the sword without great difficulty.

He had not come, however, to practice using a sword. He was no master, especially not with the two smaller blades that hung at his waste, but he was certainly no novice with the sword in his hands. In terms of combat he considered himself first and foremost a swordsman; he was not bad with a bow, but he doubted he would ever use the stringed oak arc on his back as his primary weapon. He felt differently about his magic however. Most young men from his village showed little aptitude for magic, and many could never learn even a single spell. Caellach had shown more potential, and most likely would have continued training with both physical and magical combat forms if he had stayed longer in his village.

Not intending to ever return for longer than a couple weeks at most, and certainly not for training, Caellach had decided he should attempt to practice his magic for himself. He knew only how to control forms of ice and snow at this point, and was not even very skilled with the narrow specialty. Using it almost always as a form of support, he had little experience with magic as a weapon, but figured it would not be a major departure. However, he knew he was not able to channel magic powerful enough to act as an effective defense, and for that reason he kept a firm grip on his blade as he waited for an opponent to arrive.

[Helm_Ortega]

His beautiful face was looking somewhat haggard that day. Although the magical geas slowly robbed Helm Ortega of his vitality, it did little to muss his immaculate hair. Long, straight, flowing blonde hair danced playfully in the wind as the warrior stoically endured his curse, exploring the city of Radasanth to find the means of his release. The knight's muscles were strong and apparent even through his silvery steel breast plate armor. He moved through the streets, confidently weaving through crowds of exoticly clad passer-byers and peddlers, coughing occasionally as he neared the great stone fortress known as the citadel.

Radasanth was different from Helm's beloved kingdom of Day Haven in many ways, but the few similarities the paladin found made him somewhat homesick. Many of the buildings were old, outdating his entire family tree. A few churches, some of which were dedicated to deities which Helm could not even pronounce, had great stone gargoyles poised to ward away evil spirits. They reminded him of the Grand Cathedral, and the nuns who stalked its halls.

Helm shuddered at the chilling thought, rubbing his gauntlet-covered knuckles reflexively.

Relief found the paladin, as he ascended the last few steps to the Citadel and his breath came easy. The pain and exhaustion had diminished somewhat when the paladin finally arrived in the capital city, but as time went on, it tightened its tentacles of the knight once more. The city itself did offer one solution however, if only a temporary one.

"How long am I going to have to do this for? I'm tired of fighting rabble every afternoon to no benifit. I wish at least one of these mainlanders had some backbone. A good, honorable duel would be nice for a change." Helm griped silently to himself.

"Here again, good paladin?" an elderly monk, clad in vibrant oranges and yellows spoke up, startling the young man.

"As long as you keep healing me up so nicely, I'll keep coming back, Podgeworth," Helm replied, patting the man on the shoulder. It wasn't his name, but the monks of Ai'Brone never really seemed to complain. "So who am I fighting today? Sexy cat-girl with a spear? Skinny elf girl with a bow?"

"Young man with a sword, and that's all I'm telling you this time. You'll have to see for yourself," the monk stated definitely, leaving no room for the paladin's retort. "Now come, quickly now. I have to prepare a room for Morgorath the Destroyer and his nemesis, Karael the Blood-Angel."

"Cool!"


---

Helm Ortega, paladin on a quest without a choice, stood alone before a set of nondescript wooden doors. Clenching his eyes shut, he pushed forward, the silence of the long stone hallway being replaced by the cacophony of battle. The all too real sound of chunks of stone slamming into parapet resonated from around the young man and he opened his eyes. Surprised, he found himself atop an ancient stone battlement surrounded by furious combat between opposing armies.

"Awesome!" The paladin shouted, pausing to duck incoming arrow-fire but never truly in danger of injury. "Whoever designed this place is okay by me."

He strode the length of the grey, stone causeway, leaning over its edge to cheer on a pair of knights locked in mortal combat, his voice stolen by the fierce winds that raged. He wasn't sure who was winning, but the scene fueled the fire in his veins and the wind at his back pressed him further down the wall. Moving a short distance, he spied a dark figure, taking a few balancing strikes with a keen blade. The form was swathed in fur and black, and had the air of an accomplished swordsman.

"Who goes there!" Helm called out over the wind, gesturing with a gauntlet-clad hand.

"Heeeey, maybe today I might have to earn my free healing..." he thought.

[Caellach]

The wind was tearing through the space around Caellach so quickly that he barely heard the shout from behind him. Spinning around, he saw a man who was not just handsome, but beautiful. Caellach was not sure he had ever used the term to describe a male, but while he felt no attraction of that sort towards the tall figure, he couldn't think of a better word to describe the man's face. It was obvious from the man's muscled physique and dazzling smile that he must be quite popular with the ladies, but the way he stood as if the polished armor he wore weighed nothing showed he wasn't one of a leisurely life.

Caellach walked a few paces forward before answering, in an attempt to mitigate the howling wind's affect on sound.

"I am called Caellach. And you?" he shouted.

He held his sword with the point down on the gray stone, both hands cupped over the top of the pommel. The tip was nestled in a crack in the otherwise smooth rock, and allowed Caellach to keep his balance a little more easily and sway less in the wind. While he was not one for mental games, the swordsman disliked giving the appearance of being ill at ease in his surroundings.

In the moment he waited for an answer he channeled a small flow of magic through his hands as a sort of warm up. After letting the icy energy pool in his palms, he formed a small block of ice around the pommel of his sword so that his hand fit better on top. The spell served no real purpose, and Caellach doubted his opponent could even see it, but it felt good to know the chilly essence was ready for use. Of course, he would not have the luxury of taking his time to cast spells in combat, but that was exactly what he meant to practice today.

[Helm_Ortega]

"I'm Helm Ortega! Valiant knight, and inspiration for dreams had by women across Althanas. I vanquish demons, slay monsters, rescue damsels, and do it all with impeccable hair," the vain paladin ran his gloved hand through his golden mane. What he said wasn't nessisarily true in the black and white sense of things. But Helm figured that sooner or later a demon or two would fall to his hammer, and there was no harm in talking a good game before a friendly bout. Helm had a somewhat shakey interpretation of the paladin code.

The youth standing before him was no more than a few years his elder, roughly the same height and weight as Helm which gave the knight pause. His posture was fitting for a warrior and his blade, a fine weapon indeed. Then it dawned on the paladin that his foe wore no armor beneath his cloak of fur, no doubt a trophy from a past hunt or some such. That fact may have been the edge that the knight would need to win against his obviously more seasoned opponent.

"Well met Caellach. I haven't met a man in this place yet who's name has been worth remembering. Maybe yours will be the first," Helm stated with a tinge of arrogance.

He proceeded to draw his family's signature weapon; a three-foot long steel-hafted warhammer. Its grip was made of winded leather, dyed red but faded to an orangy-brown with age. A few clear gemstones dotted the intricate haft-work along its length, climbing towards the hammer's showpiece. The Ortega family hammer boasted a heavy counter balanced head, engraved with the names of every man who had weilded it in battle. When Helm retired it to the next of his kin - most likely his younger brother Olan - his name would take its place on the list, embedded in history.

The hammer was heavy, but it sat comfortably in the noble warrior's hand as he lifted the weapon infront of him, as a dividing line between himself and his opponent. It was silent for a moment, save the howl of the wind. Caellach had moved closer, and he seemed to be prepared. Helm readied himself to make the first move, forcing his opponent onto the defensive early in the battle.

"Fight well!" was the only warning given as Helm charged forwards, hammer high, gripped in both hands. He anticipated a dodge and sacrificed power in his opening attack to lend aid to his footing. The last thing the often clumbsy paladin needed was to fall on his face three seconds into the battle.

[Caellach]

"Well met Caellach. I haven't met a man in this place yet who's name has been worth remembering. Maybe yours will be the first."

"Perhaps so. Good luck to you, Demonslayer," Caellach replied with a tone that was not insulting, but indicative that he did not completely believe all of Ortega's claims. Considering his use of his sword to keep his balance, he supposed it was not his place to judge any kind of boast. As the so-called knight drew the giant hammer Caellach felt his mouth twitch ever so slightly. While cuts and stabs could certainly cause grave damage, they rarely induced broken bones. The steel maul Caellach's foe hefted would be different. Caellach had broken his leg once before, but had never attempted to fight with any kind of fracture; the thought was not very appealing.

The swordsman watched as Helm lifted the weapon above his head and charged forwards. There was enough distance between the two for Caellach to briefly consider his response. He needed to ascertain whether he could block the hammer with any kind of efficacy, or if the fight would be spent dodging. Taking a deep breath, he waited a moment longer before whirling his blade up with a grand flourish that was more for show than anything else. Just as his opponent was about to strike, Caellach lifted his sword upwards towards the oncoming attack, but prepared to step to the side if his defense failed.

As the hammer crashed down onto the iron blade Caellach pushed upwards against it with all his strength, significantly slowing the hammer's path. He was not able to completely halt the weapon's advance however, and quickly took a step to the right before letting the tip of his blade drop, allowing the hammer to finish its path. The man in front of Caellach was just as big, if not bigger than Caellach himself, and Caellach thought with a tinge of vexation that the attack was likely not as powerful as it could have been. He would likely have to spend most of the fight dancing around the dangerous warhammer as best he could.

Wasting no time, Caellach released his right hand from his sword's grip, holding onto to it with only his left, and forced magical energy down his right arm and out of his finger tips as quickly as he could. Icy claws about two inches long sprouted from each of his fingers, and he lashed out at Ortega's unprotected face. He knew that the sharp tips would have no chance against the knight's armor, but soft flesh was another matter.

[Helm_Ortega]

The next few moments were a flurry of steel and iron, sparks dancing about as blade slowed the course of hammer, muffled but not muted by the roar of wind and war. Helm's battle training took over as he pressed his attack, but when his offense appeared to be turning the battle in his favor, a sharp pain wrenched through the paladin's face, followed by a numbness he could not explain. A bright blue eye watered and Helm jumped back, keeping his trail closed with a defensive sweep of his warhammer.

Using the time it took for his opponent to regroup from the first pass, Helm wiped his armored hand across the right side of his face. The warm, watery surface blood quickly melted what appeared to be frost, formed on his face by a blast of elemental energy and stabbing pain. He hadn't anticipated that the swordsman might also be a magic-user.

It may have been in Helm's vanity that he chose not to wear a helmet. Even if the power of the Ai'Brone monks could mend scrapes and cuts, erase scars and gouges, the handsome warrior still took the sneaky arcane strike more than a little personally.

"You shouldn't have gone for the face, pal," the paladin warned evenly, waiting for the blurred vision in his right eye and the numbness to fade. "Shouldn't have gone for the face..."

Helm roared, his battle cry piercing the din of battle on either side of the rampart, rising above the howling wind.

Helm charged forward, teeth bared and left eye focused on his target. His hammer swept from left to right as he plowed forth. Side to side the hammer ticked like a pendulum, herding his opponent back towards the very edge of the ramparts. His hammer fell like rain; relentless and fluid. On he roared, strength and momentum on his side, even if quickness of wit was not.

[Caellach]

As his hand finished its stroke, Caellach let the frosty claws melt. Not truly of this world, most of the liquid was vaporized as it fell, only a few drops reaching the ground before evaporating. Had the ice been naturally formed it would have retained its form until shattered or melted by temperature, but Caellach' conjured ice tended to simply melt and dissipate when he stopped concentrating on the frozen magic.

Just before the novice mage prepared to launch another frigid assault a massive stone from a catapult flew through the air between the two warriors. Caellach involuntarily took a small step back, and his head briefly followed the projectiles path. Distracted by the near miss, Caellach didn't react quickly enough to Ortega's strike. It had likely been more of a defensive move than a real attack, but the edge of the great hammer still clipped Caellach's left flank. A smaller weapon likely would have had no effect with such a small connection, but the giant maul caused Caellach to spin in a half circle before tripping away from the knight, towards the perilous edge of the rampart. In a slight panic, Caellach dropped his sword in favor of stopping his fall with his hands; it was possible he might have hit the ground rolling otherwise, headed straight for the sharp drop. Caellach could feel a slight throb in his side, but it was not significant; it was little more than if someone had roughly shoved him over.

Luckily Helm took the time to make some vain comment concerning the paladin's face and issue a fearsome battle cry, giving Caellach enough time to scramble into a crouching position, facing the knight. Just before Caellach leaned forwards to grasp the hilt of his dropped sword Ortega started swinging his hammer back and forth with considerable force. With a split second decision Caellach opted to leave his sword behind; he did not think he would have time to both grab the sword and dodge the deadly pendulum. He straightened and began jumping back to dodge three swings of the paladin's maul, but then as he attempted to spin on his heel to turn and run his boot lost traction on the weathered stone. The swordsman prevented falling over by quickly stepping back with his other foot, but the mistake cost him a precious second, allowing the swinging warhammer to catch him once more in his left side. This time the hammer connected full on with the flank, and Caellach felt himself briefly lifted off his feet as he was knocked over.

He completed a full rotation in the air, landing flat on his back. His entire left flank and most of his back throbbed intensely from the impact, and he struggled to catch his breath. After gritting his teeth and forcing himself to take a deep breath, he unleashed a blast of magic with a yell, sending a flurry of snow towards the paladin. Interspersed in the harmless flakes were small but sharp icicles. Caellach hoped the frozen knives might cause damage to any unarmored parts of the man's body, but the main point of the attack was to create a sort of smoke screen. Using the white curtain to his advantage, Caellach tried to ignore the pain in his side as he scrambled upwards, preparing to dodge in case Ortega came out of the miniature blizzard swinging his massive warhammer.

[Helm_Ortega]

The paladin's next breath was as the first breath of winter air after leaving a fire-warmed home. He could feel the blast of elemental energy causing the metal of his armor to stick to the bare skin underneath his arm protection, which he used to frantically guard his face from the icy daggers. The chilly sensation reminded Helm of the several times he had touched his tongue to the great steel streetlamps that lined the paths and roads of his beloved kingdom of Day Haven during the cold season. He exhaled a puff of visible air in front of his face that was quickly taken away by the gale-force winds.

The distraction was enough that the knight was once again unable to capitalize on his offense, and he began to grow frustrated. Caellach was on his feet again, dispite the two hits scored by Helm's smashing hammer. He may not have had his sword in hand, but the swordsman seemed more than capable of defending himself even without his blade.

Worse, the paladin was beginning to feel fatigue coming on. It was early on in the fight, and the paladin had endurance in no short supply, but then he remembered;

"The geas..."

It seemed to work its way into his system whenever he exerted himself too harshly. It took a lot of the youth's energy to weild the mighty hammer effectively, and if he kept it up, the curse would make him ever weaker...

Everything logical in the paladin's mind told him to hold his ground and recover.

But, Helm Ortega never really put much stock in his mind.

"RRAAGH!" the fierce knight-initiate roared once again as he charged in for a second time. His attack was reckless, but the paladin needed to bring the fight to a close before his more agile opponent danced him into exhaustion. He closed into melee, hammer high, leaving his chainmail covered arms and legs exposed, away the plates that shielded his vital organs. On came the brave warrior, sacrificing all his defense for one sure strike against his foe's unprotected head.

Only the monks of the citadel knew who was fated to win the phantom seige that raged on around the two almost equally matched opponents, but it would be one of the two humans who decided the fate of the battle that raged, however briefly, atop the parapet.

The ornate steel mallet desended, promising only the peaceful, black embrace of unconciousness.

[Caellach]

The small gust of snow worked perfectly; it did not appear to hurt Ortega, but provided Caellach with ample time to retreat a few paces and prepare himself. He thought one or more of his ribs might be broken. The swordsman had never broken one before and did not know what the sensation felt like, but the pain in his side was not ebbing. If anything it hurt more than it did when he first fell. The throbbing in his back from the fall was already starting to lessen, but his flank seared in pain every time he took a breath.

The novice mage had become somewhat proficient at covering bleeding wounds with magical ice to staunch the flow of blood, but this injury was not bleeding. At least not bleeding on the outside; it would likely turn into a giant sickening bruise without the monk's aid. Briefly Caellach considered trying to at least numb the pain, but the blast of snow had taken more energy than he thought it would. He would need to conserve his strength for attacking.

A moment later when the frozen mist had subsided Caellach instinctively started to reach for the pair of blades on his hips. He stopped himself though, as he reasoned they would not help in defense where his long sword had failed. Despite having little experience with the shortswords, he thought he would have a greater chance in scoring a critical hit with them than with magic alone, but that was not the goal of today's battle. Leaving the sharpened steel where it was, he prepared himself for his opponent's next strike, trying to ignore the many flying projectiles overhead.

The wind had not played a very large role yet in the battle; his opponent's weapon had so much momentum behind it that the howling gale did little to slow its path. It had helped a little with Caellach's escape tactic by further scattering the small flurry, but overall Caellach found it seemed to have a smaller effect on a combatant when they were moving than when they were still. As the paladin came charging forward yet again the swordsman pushed the stray thoughts out of his mind, and stepped nimbly to his left to avoid the hammer's grand strike. If he were to be knocked over yet again he'd be more likely to roll against the battlement on the left, rather than towards the steep drop as before.

Deciding to try a new tactic, Caellach concentrated some of his remaining energy into forming a dense ball of ice, about a foot in diameter. Instead of trying to throw the frozen orb, Caellach let more energy pool behind the crystalline sphere and then let the magic rush forwards violently, propelling the ball towards his opponent's chest. Concentrating on the ball would allow it to withstand more impact, but Caellach doubted it would even dent his foe's armor; he aimed simply to knock the man over and maybe cause a bruise to match his own.

[Helm_Ortega]

Stone splintered into pebbles and flakes as the paladin's hammer strike hit nothing but the stone on which Helm's nimbler opponent was standing. The reverb from the impact echoed through the steel haft of his mighty weapon painfully through the leather grip on the inside of his gauntlets.

Helm's breath was starting to come in raspy gasps. He put all the force he could muster into the third offensive maneuver and to no avial. His usual tactic was to land a few sound attacks with his magnificent hammer, using raw power to bring bouts to a quick end. That plot didn't seem to be having the desired effect on the much more seasoned warrior, however. Helm's shoulders rose and fell quickly, and the strength needed to once again lift his weapon seemed out of reach. Had he not been looking at the ground and the sizeable dent in the stone, he would have also noticed Caellach once again summoning elemental energy. His eyes stung, his breath was overdrawn, and his muscles were growing weaker by the moment.

It seemed that the magical healing granted by the monks of the citadel only paused the assault of the vile curse that afflicted the paladin. Every time it once again took its venomous hold on him, it picked up right where it left off. Time was running out.

He saw then, the crystalline orb forming between Caellach's finger tips, and Helm knew he would not get in another blow with his weapon of choice before it was completed.

"This is going to hurt..." he thought with a visible grimace.

Between the wind and the third blast of cold, Helm was taken off his feet, falling back a few paces. The warhammer fell a few feet away, clanging to the ground out of reach. It didn't explain the shaking of the rampart though, as Helm tried his best to regain his senses, but to no avail.

Yet another catapult missile had plunged into the sturdy wall, this time taking a sizable chunk of stone and mortar with it as the invading army began to make headway on its invasion. Another good shot like that, and the entire causeway threatened to give way in that section to the rocky ground twenty feet below. Had he been able to move, he might of tried to escape to a safer battle ground, but all the paladin could manage was bringing up his left arm to protect his unarmored face once again, while his right fumbled for his lost weapon.

This looked grim for the holy knight.