Isolation.

[Lord Anglekos]

Closed to Melancor. All bunnying between characters pre-approved.

Eric Anglekos withdrew Pardolaes from the other man's stomach slowly, the silver blade dripping with the latter's blood as the bearded, older warrior stared wide-eyed into the youth's glacial eyes. Silently, his vision brimming with dispassion, black hair twisting and curling in the wintry wind flowing through the mountain pass, the youth drew the tip of the elven long sword completely from the intestines and back into the chill air, the crimson liquid dripping onto the light snow beneath their feet. His eyes glowed silently with the last vestiges of magic, electricity crackling here and there about his cloak-covered form, before the light in those eyes dimmed and the crackling was no more. With a heavy whumpf, the young warrior's opponent fell to the ground, the light snow cushioning his impact. With a soft breath that clouded the air in front of him, Eric slowly sheathed the masterfully crafted weapon back within the confines of it's oaken scabbard, the dim light atop the mountain shining along the Raiaerian lettering decorated along the sharp edge, giving the blade it's name. Adjusting the mythril shield on his left arm so that, light as it was, it lay more comfortably upon him, the swordsman stared about him at the bodies strewn around him. Some were cut in half, some missing limbs, some missing heads, but the fact remained the same. Atop the chill cliff leading to the pass below, the only thing alive was the boy with equally icy eyes.

One by one, they had come, each having visited the Citadel for the same purpose; to prove their might in the most famous of battlefields. One by one, they had met their end at the hand of the warrior with crystalline eyes and raven hair, flickering like a dark flame in the howling wind. Despite the immense chill, he barely had felt it; a combination of the fierce adrenaline pumping through his veins and the magic imbuing him with supernatural power that allowed him to cut through his opponents like the wind itself. Cloaked in cloth as dark as the midnight locks upon his head, the warrior had appeared to the others like a dark reaper with his hood up above his head, covering his disturbingly calm expression as he slipped past every defense, cut down every attempt at an offense. And now, as he gazed about him with what looked to be boredom upon the soldier's face, even he was astounded at how much blood he had shed.

How long had he been here? How long had it been since he visited the Citadel, seeking to drive out the doubt in his head, the memories that surfaced at every corner? Minutes? Hours? Days? Eric didn't know at all. It seemed that he'd been atop this mountain forever, facing an army of flesh and steel alone. He knew that the bodies he saw strewn across the mountaintop were not the only ones; several warriors, retreating from his ferocious advance, had simply fallen off the edge, slaying themselves in their fear. With a heavy sigh, he now let the shield fall from his arm, feeling heavy now that the fighting was over, and he joined it slowly as he sat amongst the massacre, covering himself with his cloak so as to escape the advancing chill.

Had this been any other place than the Citadel, he doubted he would have been able to face so many men with such single-minded determination. As it was, he was disturbed at how many he'd slain so heartlessly. Was he truly a murderer at heart? Was battle the only way he could escape the demons plaguing him; to become so entrapped within the dance of death that there was no way out? God, he hoped not.

The warrior's own thoughts plaguing him, he didn't even notice when a rift suddenly appeared at his back, darkness beyond the tear in reality. A single, robed figured stepped through that tear onto the frozen ground, and the monk pulled back the robe's hood, revealing a youthful, feminine face embraced by brown locks. Equally brown eyes darted over to where Anglekos sat, and the woman coughed quietly.

Looking over his shoulder suddenly, one black eyebrow rose above one of those pale eyes as he took in the sight of the monk watching him. She nodded politely to him, and stepped forward, lifting her robe up above the bloody forms beneath her feet. She seemed unperturbed, despite the gruesome scene before her; he guessed she was used to this sort of thing, despite her age. As she came within about eight feet of him, and clasped her hands together. "So, Lord Anglekos..." She spoke softly and politely, to match her initial silent greeting. "...It seems victory is plainly in your grasp, this morning."

Morning? Time must have passed by faster than he thought; he'd entered the Citadel at night, after a restless attempt at sleeping failed miserably. Standing upon his feet, he brushed the snow from his pants before nodding back at the woman. "So it seems." He replied, his voice empty of any real emotion.

"Would you like to rest, m'lord?" She gestured over to the side, where the rift still hung, almost like a dark noose.

He grimaced at the mental image, before dropping his hands and nodding. "I suppose I should." His cold fingers brushed something soft, and he looked down to see them kissing the long strands of blonde hair tied to his steel sword. Pointedly looking away, he slid his bare hands into the pockets at his side after picking up his shield, and walked away towards the portal. "Is there no one waiting?" He casually asked the monk as she followed.

"Not at the moment." She glanced behind her at the strew of bodies littering the cold realm as her brunette hair also flickered in the wind. "And, quite simply, any more deaths would result in work backing up for us, right now." She gestured quite simply at the sheer amount of dead.

He didn't chuckle at that, nor did he even smile. For him, death wasn't a joke. As the youth silently entered the rift, the woman sighed irritably at all the work she had before her, before picking up a dismembered arm and getting started.

[Melancor]

"Owowowow oww, careful." Sylvan gave the man a quick worried glance as his hand tapped the wound with the precision only akin to the experienced monks of the citadel. His skin had already been tinted by the slow toll of age; his bald head was covered in darkened spots and scars Sylvan had wondered if the aged monk had had his share of battles in his youth. If the past had shown a violent face to this man there was no trace of that now; His unwavering eyes seemed deeper than any ocean he had ever gazed into, indeed there was to tension in his face, his was truly the face of peace.

"Thank you-" Sylvan continued hesitantely; after some strange perusal the man had finally uttered some word and clasped his hands, before his eyes Sylvan's wound began healing. Almost as if his muscles had taken a mind of their own the skin thickened, turned and twisted in together releasing a sickly scent as it went. Sylvan knew the scent, and perhaps more than anyone who'd come to the realization, he was shocked he even knew it. Burning flesh.

It wasn't the first time Sylvan had visited the infirmary. Three times already he had payed a visits, and usually they monks had been especially quick and efficient in their painless healing. That was why the burning pain took him by surprise. It was worse than anything he'd experienced before; even when his former opponent, a massive minotaur warrior, had pierced his ribcage ever so slowly, his senses had not been as aware as in that unusually dark room on the infirmary. His arm buckled under the sudden pain, and before he realized it he felt his consciousness waver. Immediately he felt an unexpected surge of adrenaline rush through his body, although even then he wondered if he was going to die, this time for good.

"You feel that?" The question was ill-received. How could he not? his skin was burning and with every passing second the pain only seemed to increase. Looking cautiously around the room he regarded the many other fighters being treated, Sylvan though all of them to have been well-seasoned warriors. He held his tongue and instead responded with an agonized frown, he feared his voice would betray him, shamefully ousting him as the weak novice he was.

"It is a good thing, that." The monk continued, "Honorable battles have become something of the past." Sylvan felt a cold hand being pressed against his side, "You can spar all you'd like kid, but the world of the Citadel wont help you understand the real world, where battles are real, where you will is your sword, and your values your shield. All this bloodshed of the Citadel- petty child play."

His voice was steady, lacking any sign of real anger or frustration, Sylvan reconsidered, it was the voice of a broken man. It had been the first time he'd heard a monk actually speak, regardless of how kind Sylvan's words had been the healers had barely cared to acknowledge with with slight nods or silent grunts, never a coherent sentence. For a long time he had questioned their humanity; most of them, especially the older ones, seemed to move to and fro the infirmary routinely mending wounds as some automated being, seemingly unimpressed by even the most gruesome of injuries. A life in the citadel took its toll on the sullen clergy, however the more detached the monks seemed to become, the more hungry their patients grew for bloodshed.

Sylvan wasn't willing to be assimilated into the gladiator mentality however. His long visit to the Citadel had been a honest approach on his part to learn; an entire year had passed since his mind was born, and still the control he had over his body seemed lacking. His body was Melacor's vehicle, and if his mind wasn't sharp enough to operate it, chances of re-awakening the deity were slim. Regardless, the monk's words were not unsound. Although for Sylvan spending days within the Citadel practicing his skill was the only way for him to learn. It was becoming more of a chore than he'd expected.

"I cannot make it easy for you this time;" the monk continued, his tone turning into one of worry, "you've been mended several times now I can tell. And you might have not realized it, but your last opponent was still not satisfied after you fell. They brought you to me in pieces." removing the hand from the wound Sylvan felt the pain, which had been lessened some, kick up again, "It shouldn't be a task for a monk to fix something of the sort, but your body doesn't seem to agree with this amount of magic being used on it; its essence seems quite frail."

The dreaded words seemed only seemed to make the situation worse. Just then he realized he had awakened already inside the dank room, there was no telling how long the monk had been working on Sylvan before he awoke, initially he'd assumed only minutes, but now after the magnitude of his injuries had been revealed to him, the idea of repairing such an old body as his with magic seemed monumental. However as soon as the monk had finished speaking the pain had begun to subside and within minutes Sylvan felt completely refreshed again. Soon enough he was back on his feet.

Feeling more exposed than ever, Sylvan hurried to dress again. his chest plate seemed to offer some comfort, even if false, it had certainly served as a crutch for his confidence. He found himself usually out of words as he finished placing his heavy cloak and fastening his bow onto his back, he would have liked to thank the monk for all his hard work, however his comments had left him slightly baffled if a little bit offended.

Noticing the tension on in his movement the monk completed, "Do what you have to do, son. But never underestimate the influence this Illusion the Citadel is can have on your soul. You should know that."

[Lord Anglekos]

Even as he sat there amongst the bodies within the infirmary, he felt the strange sensation as if his flesh were liquid, and glancing over upon his arm he found that the few small, insignificant cuts he had suffered during the massacre were closing themselves up, the tissue knitting itself back together. Eric's pale eyes flickered up to the monk who was in charge of returning him to the form he had entered the Citadel in, and found that the cloaked man was busy engaging in someone else's wounds; a fair skinned, pale haired youth, who winced in pain for some reason. The swordsman sighed as he felt his stamina returning to him, even now, and silently was impressed with the level of skill the old man had, to be able to fully restore two people at once. He was just about to get up and retrieve his things, when something surprised him; his healer had spoken. Glancing over, thinking the man's words were addressed to him, he was somewhat relieved when he found they were not. However, he found himself enraptured by the words, and listened to them, forgetting all about his troubles and worries.

Honorable battles have become something of the past. Repeating that stigma to himself, within his head, the cynical boy almost laughed aloud. Of course they had; gone were the days of charging ahead in armor on horseback, calling out your opponent's name as you dealt the final blow...or were dealt it by the other. War was Hell. And in Hell, there was little or no honor to speak of. Continuing to listen to the monk's words to the other youth, however, he found that the former began to echo his thoughts indeed, and his mild humor dissipated.
What a fool he was, Eric thought to himself bitterly, to think that he was better than those whom served here; he'd forgotten that in their own way, they were warriors as well. Petty child's play indeed, compared to reality. It was somewhat disconcerting to hear this monk repeat such cynicism, and even more so to a warrior of the Citadel. As the silver-haired youth got up from the healer's attention, Eric looked into his eyes and found them to be swimming in despairing anger, with a touch of nervousness inflected in the man's body language.

His mouth a thin, grim line, he touched Amalia's hilt gently, his fingers sifting through the blonde strands of hair that formed it's namesake, before he began to move away from the two "conversing" to one another. His footsteps were silent, muffled by the enchantment upon his greaves, so it was easy not to track attention from either the monk nor his youthful patient, who was getting dressed in armor and a cloak, much like Eric's. It was the older man's next words, however, that stopped him dead in his tracks, and he turned to look at the monk carefully.

"Do what you have to do, son. But never underestimate the influence this illusion the Citadel can have on your soul. You should know that." There was a note of warning in the man's voice, even as it quavered on a couple of words, and he thought he heard a moment of weariness belying them. Glancing down at the hilt at his side, he thought about those words, and with little surprise, he found they applied to him as well. He was becoming captured by the illusion of the Citadel; in his mad hunt for peace of mind, he was becoming the very thing he hated. A warmonger. A barbaric killer. He had slain all those men, and though he knew they would be healed, the very fact that he could do so without a moment's hesitation cut through the thin walls of his conscience. What if he became completely embraced by these walls of madness? If spilling a man's blood became so natural to him that it became second nature?

Deep within his thoughts, he glanced up and saw that the older monk had fled, leaving a baffled youth and a contemplative Anglekos standing and sitting there, respectively. Glancing at the fair-skinned warrior, he couldn't help but feel a faint bond between them, even if it was, he thought bitterly to himself, an illusion. Whatever the other's issues were, he had come to see that the monks very rarely gave advice without reason; and somehow, he felt those reasons resonated with his own. Walking slowly over to the other youth, he cleared his throat so as not to surprise the other unexpectedly, and mentally prepared as he spoke. "Would you say that he was right?" His voice was quiet, as he addressed the words to the other and the other only, despite the constant hustling and bustling in the background of the infirmary, as monks fled here and there to treat the wounded. To further give reasoning to his words, he gestured with exposed fingertips to where the monk had gone. "About this place. It being an influence upon us."

[Melancor]

The space where the monk had been was not empty, occupied only by Sylvan's gaze and the echoed words of the healer. He clenched a first. It was almost unconceivable someone could dismiss his efforts in becoming stronger so easily. It was easy for someone who had already weathered the passing of the years to pass their judgement upon the young, forgetting the idealistic mentality of their beginnings. The world had certainly changed in the Monk's lifespan; it was no longer a place when putting ones honor before their lives was considered heroic, no, the change had been brutal, and in the new world doing so would be plain stupid. Wars had ravaged the land, corrupted societies, and demoralized their inhabitants, what mattered now was not that bizarre age-old idea of honor, the essential was simple, primeval, survival.

Sylvan had been so lost on the cold words administered with the burning pain that he had failed to recognize several people around him had taken note of the monk's sullen outburst. He realized then, he was standing alone, with a few eyes silently regarding him, obviously flustering over the comments. It didn't long for someone to approach him, and as he did all the others seemed to return the attention to their tasks.

"Would you say that he was right?" the man, seemingly no older than he, clad in a similar fashion, with eyes a piercing blue that seemed to see right through Sylvan, spoke softly as if to attract no more curious attention "About this place. It being an influence upon us." He gestured to the patients, and in a swift attempt to get on the strangers page Sylvan put aside the injury to his cause and observed carefully.

All around him men and women of all shapes and sizes, faces scarred, armors pierced and weapons scratched were being tended to carefully by the healers. Most had lost their matches, Sylvan was sure, though regardless their determined gazed told of their burning desire to return, mind and weapon sharpened, to the battlefield. However enthusiastic they might have seemed, their injuries were a powerful foreboding indication that, had their struggles been taken outside the holy halls of The Citadel, all those warriors would have fallen for good, their exited faces then extinguished by a death brought upon a rashness born from the familiarity of battle. Sylvan realized then, he was one of them.

Had the man meant it or not his question had interrupted Sylvan's snowballing disdain. Sylvan had been regarded by many as a peaceful creature, and perhaps too calm for his own good; He knew better than spite, even internally, when he stood corrected. His thoughts of the monk had not only wrongfully sullied his image of the healer, but also the image he had of himself. Perhaps this circle of violence Sylvan had willingly entered was having more of an effect on him than he realized.

He returned his gaze to the dark-haired man, blue meeting blue, taking a couple seconds to articulate a reply, "His words are not unsound." Before he continued Sylvan took another minute to analyze the man, he had approached him apparently with a sincere curiosity; his subtle indication made him seem more reasonable-minded than the common lot of the Citadel. If he didn't consider himself a son of the arena, then perhaps he would not take offense at what Sylvan had in mind. He continued, tone lowered to accommodate the conversation, "they do call it the hog house." He paused again, trying to judge his reaction, then continued, a slight smile on his face, his next admission wasn't something he was exactly proud of, "... to be honest, I am yet to feel the mythical bloodlust. But perhaps that will all change once I take a life."

[Lord Anglekos]

Before Anglekos's quiet inquiry was answered, he observed his newest conversational partner struggle internally. In all reality, it was only but a few seconds, but in the swordsman's perception time seemed to slow to a crawl as he watched the incredibly subtle changes in the man. The silver haired warrior had taken offense at what the monk had said, originally; that much was obvious, by his facial cues and the way a dark tint had tainted the sea of blue within his eyes. However, as Eric watched, that tint gave way to the light of inner realization, as the monk's words truly echoed with this man's soul, and those eyes darted about at the dozens of injured warriors getting patched up in preparation for their next matches. Staying silent, Eric simply watched patiently, a quiet eagerness now consuming his curiosity as he awaited this man's answer. At first, he'd felt that the fair-skinned stranger would be antagonistic to him, and at his question, turn and leave; but this stranger was showing an impressive amount of maturity for one so young. It was this too that resonated with his own thoughts, and he resisted the urge to smile at the thought of perhaps finding a kindred soul.

When the other's eyes finally returned to the silent form of Anglekos, he found himself staring into eyes as clear and crystalline as his own. Lips parted, and a response finally flowed from the fair skin to infect the air already filled with the mutterings and chatter of the beings about the two. "His words are not unsound." Like a quiet bell ringing out clearly in the small space between the two, the swordsman blinked, surprised at how untainted it sounded; as most warriors, he'd found, had a guttural touch to them from years of battle and war. This thought was then confirmed with the other's next words, as the youth confessed his lack of experience in such vulgar acts, and his inability to feel that "mythical bloodlust".

The swordsman, honestly surprised at this, let the smallest of smiles touch his lips. It wasn't often that you found a practical virgin in the ways of death; especially in a world torn by violence, like Althanas was. Upon coming to this world three years ago from Saleria, Anglekos had found that his abilities with the blade and arrow fit in perfectly here; here, where he was not looked down upon due to his lack of magic, where he could be just a soldier. Another face amongst a sea of faces.

That hadn't lasted long, he thought somberly to himself, as he recalled the first time his magic had finally come to him. The violence of it had shocked even him, a man used to and, with his pessimistic attitude, expecting bloodshed. It had come to him in a rush, flowing through his veins like fire, before exploding through his blade and into the chest of his would-be ambusher, obviously seeking an easy kill in the middle of the night. He had no idea what had brought it forth from whatever depths it had come from within him, be it instinct, fear, or just pure adrenaline; but ever since that day, the knowledge of his new magic had hung above him like a somber guillotine.

Realizing that the man was staring at him expectantly, Anglekos gathered his attention back to what was at hand; that was then, this was now. A thin, grim smile appeared on his face, as he shook his head slightly. "It honestly depends on who you are at heart. If you seek battle for the sake of battling, then I can imagine that bloodlust being easy to find." Shrugging uncomfortably, he moved with utter silence around the man, and gestured slightly for the other to follow; seeking some solitude for their conversation. "But for those who seek battle for purpose..." He paused lightly, to put emphasis on the words; despite harboring inner doubts about his own intentions. "...they may never find it." Reaching one hand out to the other youth, he sought to find out just what kind of person this silver haired being was; and even the simplest handshake, or lack of, could tell a story.

"You look like the latter kind, to be honest, to me." He chuckled lightly as his fingers extended in expectation for the other's flesh. "The name is Anglekos. Yours?"

[Melancor]

The man had been notably amused by his confession, although masked, Sylvan felt, he couldn't exactly judge what he thought of him yet. The first line of his response came in a way that told him the stranger was not one to hide underlying meaning behind his words; he'd grown increasingly weary of those people, as he still struggled to understand the many meanings of the slight unspoken language of tone and expression. The man's casual mannerism hinted to nothing other than sincerity. It had been long since he'd found himself so interested by anyone; after just one phrase he'd found himself following the man. It was perhaps subtle details he'd unconsciously registered about the man that hinted that, perhaps, they could be more alike than anyone Sylvan had met in the dozen months he'd spent wandering. The thought lasted only a few seconds however, as the words that followed spoke with the wisdom of a warrior, something Sylvan could simply not empathize with. Regardless he was more than eager and willing to understand them.

There was a very sound truth to what he said, and what he spoke at the same time allowed him to put into perspective his outlook of a warrior. He'd sought that ability of the warrior, to make a move without wavering, to heft a weapon without regret and act with a determination that gave no room to perhaps misguided compassion. These glorified qualities, or flaws, of the human warrior had been what he'd sought for so long, however as time had passed he didn't believe he would ever be that impartial. However, like the man put it, it was perhaps because he did not live for battle that he would never truly reach that state.

Sylvan extended his hand after some fashionable consideration. Such a sudden and simple meeting encompassing only but a few words from two very different people had put a strain on his mind; never had he done so much self gazing in such a minuscule amount of time, he wouldn't say he disliked it, actually the series of the small personal epiphanies only rousted his interest all the more. Sylvan hesitated half way, suddenly an almost irrelevant thought ran through his head: In the past people had regarded his touch a cold one, so much so a few had avoided contact with him all together. To some folks, nothing spoke more of a kind person than the warmth of a handshake, and he wasn't willing to leave any strange impression.

"Sylvan." He responded, smiling, and finally embracing Angleko's hand into his own, making his best concealed attempt to match his mirth, and prevent any unpleasant chill to reach the charismatic warrior, "To be honest, you don't really strike me as the former."

[Lord Anglekos]

At first, the swordsman was surprised by just how chill the other's flesh was; it was like shaking hands with a piece of ice. Eric's eyebrow rose into his long, raven bangs, but he made no other sign that he recognized it as such, and after a couple moments, released hands with the other youth. After all, there were all sorts of creatures and beings that roamed the lands of Althanas; this "Sylvan" was just another rogue element in the scheme of things. He'd been right; shaking hands with the youth had told something about the other, something that perhaps he hadn't been entirely willing to share. His hand still burning with the cold from Sylvan's flesh, the two walked out of the infirmary and into the arched, open halls that gazed out upon the sunlit city of Radasanth, high above the ground.

With their cloaks flapping in the wind, they slowly made their way to where Eric knew the main hall was; after all, with all the commotion of those who were entering and those who were exiting, one could simply follow his ears to get out of the Citadel. His footsteps soundless upon the ivory tiles beneath their feet, he chuckled lightly at Sylvan's observation; a sound that echoed humorlessly along the plain walls, in the morning heat. Glancing over at the youth as he kept pace with Eric, he smiled. "And you'd be right." Another significant pause, as his inner doubts resurfaced in his head, fighting for dominance. "At least, I hope." He waved his hand through the air, letting the matter drop for the moment.

"So, Sylvan." Pausing by one of the great archways that formed makeshift windows to the outside world, he laid one hand upon the stone ledge that prevented would-be daredevils from "proving" their bravery, feeling the history of the tower being engraved into his skin with every rough particle. "I ask you this. Why did you come to the Citadel in the first place?" He gestured at the wide expanse before them, the city almost sparkling as the sun struck windows and pavement, blades and beauty, illuminating the land before them under the beautiful, blue sky. "With such a wide world before you, is there no other place to seek excitement; no other realm to escape the things that travel like hounds upon your heels?" With a start, he realized he was speaking from his own heart, and cleared his throat before turning to the pale youth, a somewhat tired expression upon his face.

[Melancor]

Sylvan couldn't help but laugh ever so slightly at the question, "How poetic; It would seem like you are the one who would rather be somewhere else," he continued gazing toward the beautiful vastness of the world before them, "It is a beautiful place isn't it? In a world so big I doubt this is the only sight worth seeing." Placing an elbow on the ledge, he rested his head on his knuckles, and with a large grin on his face turned to Anglekos. Sylvan guessed that being this close and under such light the true effects of his fatigue would become all the more apparent. Exhaustion had never been gentle of his face. "I don't plan on missing out on the world. Believe me, there are places I'd like to see that I have only heard of. As long as I live the mysterious wonders of Althanas will call to me, but, atleast for now, I'll have to turn a deaf ear to them; there will be a lot fo time for that, but right now, there are more important things I have to do..." The contrast made Sylvan take a couple seconds to realize his mood had changed. Suddenly he felt his face relax into a serious expression that felt as if the blood had been drain from his cheeks; it seemed as if he couldn't go more than a few minutes before remembering the daunting task before him. 'Lots of time for that?' He was only kidding himself.

It hadn't been more than a handful of months ago that he'd awakened within the sacred grove, having the most basic understanding of the world, however, lacking any idea of identity or belonging. He wandered through the grove for a few days, exploring like any new-born his surroundings though he'd never been alone; after the third day a bird of incredible plumage spoke to him. She explained to him that his body did not belong to him, in fact, it was the repaired body of a demi-god that had walked among mortals and been betrayed by his brethren. The god had been cast from his realm in a strife that consumed the oceans, and in a confusing event that not even the bird seemed to comprehend, he was stolen from his powers and forced to live the life of a mortal. For many years the deity had consulted sacred texts, exploited ancient magics and skimmed the surface of Althanas for clues that would help him regain his position, however in a cataclysmic event that enveloped the city of Radasanth he'd been found by his holy brethren and shamelessly betrayed by his trusted brother Am'aleh, struck by a holy poison that in other circumstanced would have destroyed the demigod's mind once and for all.

As he saw his body disintegrating, Mel'dchor used his remaining energy in a desperate attempt to salvage the remainder of his mind, and locked his conscious self deep within the depths of his own soul. While his body could still be repaired eventually, had Melancor lost his mind he would have cease to exist for good, however the damage he himself inflicted upon his own mind was not easily undone. In order to break Melancor's suppression seal a new consciousness was created within the body, Sylvan, a surrogate mind that, although shared the same soul, was not the true owner of the dangerous weapon that was the god's body. The bird revealed herself as being one of Iseoah's, the mother of the world, messengers. She instructed Sylvan so seek ancient powers, to reconnect with what was now broken, and fix what had come undone, It was a cryptic message that didn't tell him much about his purpose, but Sylvan had then been willing to scavenge the world to understand the meaning of the words. She had been gentle in explaining, however the underlying tone of her speech still remained, a warming tone that told him to know his place; Sylvan was meant to be dispensable, a tool for the demi-god to eventually take full conscious possession of his body. Day dreaming of the future was not a privilege Sylvan was allowed to have.

Sylvan caught himself apparently lost in his thoughts again. To explore the wholeness of the world, to see it all and enjoy what it had to offer. It was an idea he had dropped so casually, the reality was that more likely than not his time on that earth diminished by the second. Picking up on his last motion he finished the though, "... Something that I have to be strong and willing in order to complete, and it seems like I'm running out of options. So far the Citadel has been one of the most sickening experiences I've had so far, but it is only a figment of what I have to conquer before making any progress." Sylvan by now realized that he had sounded too obviously cryptic, but he didn't care to tell his new acquaintance, at least not yet; In Sylvan's mind the least people who knew of the demi-god's passing the better, however there was something unspoken about the man that painted him in his mind as a good future friend. That was yet to be proven, however.

"Forgive me, I didn't mean to sound so dramatic. I will leave that to you." A tarnished smile returned to Sylvan's face. Indeed, his situation was grave, and the lengths at which he imagined he would have to go seemed immense, but at that time he sought some distraction on the man; however big his worries seemed to him, there where always more pressing issues in this world, and throughout their meeting Anglekos emitted an air that assured Sylvan he was not the only one restless of mind. Silvan sighed slightly, a serious fixation upon his eyes, "I wasn't humoring you. You really don't look pleased when you speak of this place, and battle."

[Lord Anglekos]

At this Sylvan's somewhat cryptic answer, Anglekos repressed his first instinct; to push and inquire further as to the history behind that answer. He couldn't, for fear that this man would do the same, and his past was something that the warrior felt he couldn't truly share. Although Althanas, he'd found, was a crossroads of sorts for several different dimensional wanderers and creatures, the fact that he'd come from an entire world beyond this one was still a fact that even Eric had trouble believing. All his life, he'd thought of Saleria as his home. All his life, Saleria had been his world; his entire existence. To think of any place beyond Saleria was blasphemy. That lie had been hammered into his, and the entire nation's, minds for over sixteen years; and even after being betrayed, having his family and lover slain right before his eyes, and leading a rebellion to overthrow the king, he still had thought he was fighting for his "home". Never would he have guessed that beyond that land lay a whole new world, a new beginning. A fresh start.

If only, now, his memories would let him. Because right now, even after living years upon Althanas and spending the remainder of his transitioning age learning how to cope with the new changes, he felt like a ghost walking in someone else's flesh. Like he was nothing more than a bag of bones. Eric was sure this could be seen on his face, for despite all his attempts at deception, he felt his masks were crude and transparent. Hell, he felt transparent. He was ruled by his past, and it kept on pulling him back to the starting line no matter how far he ran, no matter how much blood he shed.

He realized this. He was a prisoner of his own heart.

As his silver-haired companion remarked upon Eric's own aura of unease at being within the walls of the Citadel, Eric looked away, off into the bright sky reflected in his pale vision. Yeah, it seemed he truly was that transparent, if a stranger who knew nothing of him could tell. He let out a quiet breath, letting a moment of silence pass between the two men; as he was sure Sylvan would let him have it, for he'd had a moment of his own just a few seconds ago. It was amazing how many thoughts could fly through a person's brain in just the short span of a few, brief seconds. He let that short time expand into what seemed forever, before Anglekos's eyes dropped from the sky above to the stone beneath his fingertips.

"I'm afraid you're right." His voice came finally from his dry throat, flowing across his cracked lips to infect the spring air around them. "I only came here to..." He paused, searching for the right word, before his eyes finally lifted and shifted to Sylvan's. "...to escape. To run, from the hounds upon my own heels." Quietly, he smiled without humor at his own phrase, just spoken a little more than a few minutes ago. "So to speak."

Stepping away from the stone wall that separated the pair from the sky, Anglekos began to slowly walk away again, fingers running through the blonde hair that dangled from his father's steel blade in that nervous habit of his. Taking comfort, once again, from a memory. Briefly, he glanced behind him at Sylvan and gave a small motion for the man to follow once more; all this talk of running and the wide open lands was making the swordsman feel restless once more. He wanted to run; even if some part of himself denied this, the proof was unmistakable.

For these days, the only times he felt truly alive was when he clutching a blade and his life was on the line.

[Melancor]

They walked several minutes through the long corridors of the citadel, almost in utter silence. For a second he wondered if the ususally bussy Citadel had been quietly evacuated; the silence was a three-instrument chorus. The clanging of Sylvan's boots, the rippling of their capes and the slight howling of the wind steadily emptying into the halls seemed to be heard. The odd silence, surprisingly, disconcerted Sylvan; he'd spent so much time at the citadel by now, it had become second nature to be weary of silence, and this man's was making him make a note of that.

Indeed he'd had enough time to explore The Citadel, perhaps too much time, and he'd been sure to spend most of it doing just that. However, there was something unfamiliar if not too slightly reminiscent of the place. He'd walked it before, he was sure, perhaps more than once, however during the day the surroundings seemed all the more detailed, all the more complex, all the more foreign.

Where was Anglekos taking him?

Sylvan's heart sunk, realizing finally, it had been that shortcut. His stepped slowed behind the draped figure who didn't seem to take notice. He wasn't ready for another one, not just yet, and specially not with his new acquaintance; battle had brought out things in people he'd admired before that were best kept hidden. This time, perhaps, he himself would not be an exception to this.

Anglekos stopped, and turning to Sylvan ever so slightly he spoke the dreaded words, "I feel in you a soul akin to mine," the sound shattered through the silence like an arrow bursting through Sylvan's thoughts, "I would like to know you better, Sylvan, though not through words; There are few things in this word that bring out the true nature of a man." Sylvan flinched ever so slightly as he notice the man's grip tighten around the peculiar sword, "One of them is through swords."

The dreaded words hit Sylvan as a cold wave that send a deep chill down his spine. There he was, standing before a man who regarded him as his equal and yet he could not help but feel ever so tiny at the mercy of his confidence. But it was perhaps of this that he could not refuse him; he would prove to himself once and for all he could be, against friend or foe, a force to reckon with.

Sylvan nodded in return. He felt by that point his words would have been lacking. And although his body seemed hesitant, his stare was nothing more than determined. He wouldn't disappoint Anglekos, he would show him who Sylvan really was.

[Lord Anglekos]

One more. Just one more, the warrior told himself, as he and the silver-haired Sylvan entered through their separate doors to the same room, guided by the words of the ever-eager hosts of the Citadel. The monks who brought them to their respective doors were utterly unlike the old, philosophical man who had so captured both Eric's and Sylvan's interest; they were all smiles and polite words, ever ready to show them their newest arena. Another thing that he happened to notice was that they were young; younger than Eric himself. Before he entered the portal to the arena, he briefly thought how sad it was that ones so young should be encouraging such acts of blood.

Then, he stepped inside the door, and all was black.


~+~

When he stepped back into the light, he stepped onto gravel. His boots crunched against the paved ground of what looked to be a road, and when Eric instinctively glanced from left to right he saw that this road, of sorts, stretched forever. The sky itself was clear and blue, free of any disturbing clouds, and like the road itself carried no remarkable features in the distance, such as mountains. On either side of the road, however, stretched an endlessly grassy plain, with stalks of grass rising high above the swordsman's head.

With a step that carried him away from the portal, he immediately headed for the thick bushes, concealing his form as he crouched low to the ground, one hand on the hilt of Pardolaes. He didn't need to worry about his own footsteps; his enchanted greaves would provide enough silence. No, he was listening for his opponent's. No matter how much he liked this Sylvan, this was still a battle, and in any battle no one wants to die.

Sure, he had said to the other that he wanted to 'know him better through blades', but truly it had been just a line for the fish to be hooked upon; and hook it did, line and sinker all. Yes, he did feel something similar within the silver haired warrior, but all that similarity did was provoke a feeling of competition within Anglekos. Not once, did Amalia cross his mind; not even the thought that he was merely fighting to get her out of his head.

This was war, and Eric was a soldier. That was all that mattered.

[Melancor]

He set foot upon the arena already expecting to have Anglekos within visible distance however, aside from himself, there was no person to be seen in the seemingly endless grass plain. It was perhaps his nervousness that made him all the more naive, but at least for a couple seconds he stood there waiting, still expecting Anglekos to materialize before him.

"Shit!" A terrible chill ran down his spine. The battle had begun already and his enemy was out of sight. Realizing the sitting duck he had become he rushed into the tall grass, almost as if to imitate his enemy. my enemy he thought, that's right, in here he is my enemy. He was fully aware the man had probably caught at least a glimpse of him; sitting there he realized how quiet the field really was. Even if he hadn't managed to see him he would most likely have heard him; in his rush he'd made more noise than he should have, and now he regretted it.

It was useless to hide for long. he would only be able to hide temporarily without letting any more sound slip, his armor and the bulk of his bow and quiver proved just too large to make any movement, even if delicate, a silent one through the grass leaves. Unlike his adversary who moved even without echo through the halls of the Citadel, there was no way Sylvan could be as furtive as him. Anglekos had the upper hand in this terrain. At least as long as Sylvan allowed him to use it as a tool.

He couldn't afford to grant him the surprise blow, Sylvan had to drive him out.

Reaching for his bow and arrow he took out to the road again, crouching as he moved along side it. There was no knowing where Anglekos was hiding but one thing seemed certain, he was ready to shoot at the slightest sound.

[Lord Anglekos]

A soft wind blew through the tall stalks of grass, sending goosebumps rolling down the swordsman's skin. He didn't dare move, even though he knew that in this silent realm, he held the advantage; he'd heard the nock of a bowstring, and knew it was his opponent's, for he'd seen the weapon upon Sylvan's back beforehand. He couldn't see too clearly through the waves of grass, for he was deep in; simply, he could gaze at mere shapes. So, truly, he was relying on sound.

Unlike himself, his opponent did not have silencing equipment like his greaves and arm-guards, and thus Sylvan's footsteps, albeit slow and careful, still cracked and clacked against the gravel of the ground, stone against metal. Eric let out a quiet breath, covering his mouth against the back of his hand to make sure his opponent would not hear. The warrior was waiting for the perfect moment, a hunter amongst this forest of grass, and as he placed his fingers against the earthen ground he counted footsteps. Ten feet away, he slowly crawled forward, careful not to disturb the grass; making sure each movement was slow, precise. Reaching behind him, he slid the mythril shield from his back and onto his left forearm holding it before him. Sylvan slowly grew closer; seven feet now, arrow nocked and ready to strike at the slightest sound. Eric held his breath, and slowly wrapped his now dirty-hand around the hilt of Pardolaes, clearing the sword within it's scabbard. Five feet; he dug the toes of his boots into the ground, and his body tensed, preparing for action.

The silver haired archer made one more step, and Eric struck, bursting forth from his emerald cover and appearing a black flash before his opponent, blue light emitting from his very body as his eyes burned with the strength of his magic. Infused with his electric power, his entire body felt light and strong, burning with the need to move. As he stepped forward with a blur of azure, he simultaneously pulled his elven blade free from it's sheath, using the momentum to continue the vertical movement directly at the bow in the silver-haired one's hands, his other arm holding the shield in front of him to deflect any incoming projectiles.

[Melancor]

Sylvan stumbled. The man seemed to have appeared from no where, he'd taken measures to avoid such a thing, but regardless of how careful he was he'd been truly at the mercy of his silent moves. A rush of adrenaline flashed through his body colder than the azure on his enemies eyes. Almost as if possessed by some crazed demon the man charged forth, unseating his blade as he went. Barely recovering from the surprise Sylvan clumsily shifted his grasp on the bow, barely still holding the arrow, he pressed his forearm against the wooden weapon to shield him against the dangerous blade. The blow was too strong, however, regardless of how tight his grasp on the center of the bow was the end in which the blade hit made the bow shift, partially cushioning the impact the blade left a slight cut on his forearm. receiving the full energy of the attack Sylvan fell from his crouched position into the ground.

Sylvan had used his own strength against the momentum of the blade in the hope it would give him enough time to recover. Instinctively he would have reached for his dagger, but the imposing cross shield at his enemies hand advised him otherwise. With the same hand he caught the ground with, Sylvan immediately called forth a spell circle. Below the two men an arrangement of letter and symbols lit up the earth in a circle that centered on Sylvan.

Unwilling to allow his enemy to release another blow he pressed against the circle with his free hand, "Soar!" With this he turned his shoulder against the man and bracing himself, praying to all gods his blade would not be on the way, he pushed the circle toward the man, propelling Sylvan's own body against the swordsman like a projectile. He closed his eyes for a moment feeling metal against metal, skin against metal, skin against skin. He could hear his own voice shouting.

Within seconds he opened his eyes to notice his position. He had pushed against the direction the man had come out of. He was perhaps thirty feet away from the blurry figure that was Anglekos, no higher than twelve feet in the air, at the fast speed he was moving it was not easy for him to see the effect the tackle had had against the man, but all he could hope for now was that it had at the very least impeded him to cover his back as he flew behind him.

Without any true sense of aim, he lashed his arm in the man's direction, releasing three sharp ice-blades and a string of blood with what strength he could muster through the soar spell. He only had a chance to hear them crying through the wind before abruptly falling into the ground, rolling for several yards, crushing grass beneath him as he went, before coming to a complete stop. His attept to escape the surprice attack had probably hurt him more than helped, but at least momentarily he had gained some distance. He laid on the ground for a couple seconds trying to shake off the effect of the fall and the tingly, static sensation throughout his body.

He had drawn out the man, and now Sylvan was again hiding amongst the tall grasses. Now all he could do was sit and wait for the man to come to him. Aware the man would be soon to retaliate, working through the pain of his bruised body, he didn't spare time re-assuming his couched prowling position, side-stepping several yards away from the crushed grass trail. He left his eyes set on the emerald wall that was the grass; It was a tool for his enemy to use, but not if it was suddenly taken away from him it would be Sylvan who would gain the element of surprice. He prepared his bow again, nervously thumbing the deep nick the blade had left on its wake; to all he gods he now prayed that his arm had been the true recipient of most of the blow, he relied too much on the wooden instrument. Regardless of how silent he was, now neither would know exactly the other was, at least if Sylvan could control his heavy panting. One time was for sure, this time, he would be expecting him.

[Lord Anglekos]

A spurt of crimson alerted Anglekos to his minor success, and the thrill of victory slid into the warrior's mind, seducing his senses with serpentine ease. The expression of fear upon Sylvan's visage appealed to the darker side of Eric, encouraging him to strike and strike again with the mad bloodlust of a berserker. As the bowman defended against the blade with skin and wood, Eric drew his sword back once more with one blindingly-fast blur of his arm, the metal point extending to the side threateningly as his cold determination mixed with the rush of power that his magic imbued him with, the aura of lightning crackling monstrously about his person. Before he could finish his strike, however, his opponent immediately called up mysterious magics of his own, crying out the intent of his spell even as he turned sideways. Left open due to his offensive nature, Eric's only defense against the mass of flesh and iron that shot his way was his cross-borne shield that he'd held for preparation, and Sylvan's mass struck the mythril with a speed that even the warrior had trouble keeping up with. Sending Eric sprawling, he instinctively curled his sword arm into himself to prevent his masterfully-crafted weapon from accidentally slicing himself open as he rolled along the gravel.

The bits and pieces of the rocks hurt, but the warrior had suffered much greater pain before, and shrugged it off before slamming his toes to the ground and standing up, stumbling backwards with the momentum of his roll. Snuffing the magic from his body immediately so as to conserve his magical power, the stumbling actually served to save his life, as suddenly three icy daggers slammed to the gravel where he'd previously lain, embedding themselves into the ground. Eric spun, the spirit of battle now truly with him, as he raised his crossed shield before him, blue eyes peering over the edge of the metal as he just managed to catch the falling form of his opponent, watching him land somewhere deep within the grasslands.

Inwardly, he cursed his naivety for allowing himself to become encompassed by the lust of battle; for his thoughts were his greatest weapons, in his opinion. But at least this brief respite from the fight could give him a few moments to fall back upon what he'd seen, and he did so gladly, stepping back into the tall locks of grass with classic silence, holding his shield and blade before him.

Sylvan obviously wasn't a close-ranged fighter, seeing as his first move had been to draw that bow of his and when the fight had been brought to his person, literally flown away. The stranger had magic of his own, but this was no real surprise to Anglekos; years of being around magic-wielders had taught him to expect such. He was simply glad that his own magical nature counteracted his opponent's, which seemed to consists of spells of ice and air. Anglekos was no scientist, but even a dull warrior like him knew the effect of electricity upon the elements; and he also knew that elementally, he held the advantage.

Still, he could end up with an arrow in his gut if he wasn't careful, and advanced through the thick grass slowly and carefully, the wind blowing through the warm realm causing all of the blades to rustle and move. Eric silently praised the wind; it would help mask his approach, as he slowly headed towards where he saw his opponent fall. If luck was truly with him, then he could end this in one stroke.

[Melancor]

Sylvan counted silently to himself, "one fishoutofwater, two fishoutofwater, three fishoutofwater..." There was no knowing exactly when the man would be within range. The best he could was anticipate the rate in which he moved and decide how many fishoutofwaters it would take his enemy to travel about thirty feet from the road into his position. He had fought close-ranged warriors before, actually, it had been the only thing he had a chance to fight and eventhough he had not been successful on all occasions, he had seen enough to know warriors were hotheaded. It was safe for Sylvan to assume the man would waste no time to spearhead his way toward his direction, unwilling to give him an opportunity to re-coup from the fall.

As long as I allow him. "four fishoutofwater, five fishoutofwater!" At the count of five Sylvan took a deep breath, closing his eyes he felt it. There was water all around him, even if not in its immediate liquid form; he was surrounded by lush grass, and within it the smallest traces of it flowed, it was a potential sole for Sylvan to tap, and he would make sure to use it. Time seemed to slow as he tuned into the t voice of the slow-moving element. It was unlike any other, it was tangible, unlike fire, it was free-flowing, unlike earth, it was constant, unlike wind. Water was perhaps the the most primordial of all the elements, it was the building block all life thrived upon. Because of this he never really felt unprotected; there was not a single place, not a single thing, not a single being completely devoid of water. However peaceful water was mistaken by most people, there was a deadly aspect about it many managed to overlook. The other's element's ability to take life was nothing like water's decision to deny it. And it was a decision only Sylvan had the ability to make.

Releasing the breath into a violent scream he made a grand sweeping gesture with his left arm. He had focused on the water within the leaves, narrowing his attention on a diameter of around twelve feet, he ripped the life from the vegetation before him. Silvan could only hope his enemy would be caught unguarded. His arm moved left to right, wrist turning as it went, and through its path the plants quickly followed. Every single cell within the green structures of the leaves quickly turned black as the water molecules were pulled from within them. A liter-worth of particles rushed into the air in the shape of a mist that vanished in a second, conglomerating into water spheres Sylvan left suspended in the air. Had he not been so pressed for haste he would have stopped to admire the spectacle, to anyone else it would appear the starts themselves had come down to mourn the foliage. Coercing water out of plants wasn't something he was keen on, it was a gateway into a corrupted path that had led cryomancers to do the unimaginable. This time, however, there was no other way he could counter his enemies stealth. He would wilt the whole damn grass field if he had to.

The dead leaves collapsed under their own weight, and instantaneously Sylvan returned the grasp to his bow, ready to strike at whatever hadn't followed. A solid figure remained, and remembering the nick, Sylvan painfully pulled the arrow-tail against the string. He released it, flying swiftly through the air with a churning screech. And then, much closer to him, there was a sharp snap.

[Lord Anglekos]

With his shield raised before him, Anglekos felt he was close; for his opponent had flown far into the grassland, but not that far. He let out a breath, as his hand wrapped tight around the hilt of the silver sword he held, and slowly brought it up until he held the hilt by the side of his head, the tip of the blade sliding over the top of the shield in his other hand in the classing piercing position. Yes, he would perform it this time; the ichigeki hissatsu. He'd heard of this during his travels, as a blade-form from a land called Akashima. While he'd never been there, the concept of the form was one that appealed to him. In the language it was written in, ichigeki hissatsu meant one thing and one thing only; one-hit kill.

Eric did not revere death, but he did find there was a certain art in wielding a blade; an art that he felt he had not achieved to this day. Wielding a sword was a lot like a dance, but not just any dance; it was a dance with death. If one made a single misstep, they were twirling not into fame and fortune but into the arms of the dark beyond. In this dance, Eric felt like he was constantly twirling into those dangerous arms, even if he wasn't truly pulled into the darkness of death; for just the touch of those cold fingers sent chills down his skin. So, for his own sake, he sought to learn the steps of that devilish dance, and felt that he was on the right track with this art that he'd heard of; the ichigeki hissatsu.

To weave through your opponent's defenses in one simple stroke, to end it all with one deadly cut. It was this art that he sought to learn and perfect. Eric was a wielder of one of the most deadly, most destructive elements of magic, he knew; he'd witnessed first hand the power of lightning in even natural storms, for after coming into his power, he did all that he could to study it's nature. And through his study, he observed that it was strong, fast, and powerful; blowing away everything in it's path with one hard stroke. It's weakness? "Lightning never strikes in the same place twice". That is why it was so important for him to learn this art of ichigeki hissatsu, if ever he wanted to both master his abilities as a swordsman and a wielder of magic.

A sharp cry cut him off from his thoughts, and briefly Anglekos inwardly cursed, gritting his teeth as he instinctively tightened his stance, feet digging into the soft, earthen ground beneath him. When did he think he had time to contemplate? This was a battle, not a philosophical debate. At least, though, he knew he was headed in the right direction, for the cry had come not fifteen feet away from where he stood. Immediately, his shield regained it's sharp tension, and he thanked his lucky stars that he had bought the armor beforehand, for seconds later an arrow shaft came flying from the mass of grass and bushes that blocked his vision and struck his mythril masterpiece with a sharp sound that resonated throughout the air, the arrow spinning off into the air somewhere.

Suddenly, the grass around him began to crackle and die, as the very moisture was sucked from their essence, and as they fell he caught a glimpse of his opponent, using the dew from the vegetation around them to gather a large amount of water. Immediately, Eric moved backwards, retreating back into the cover of the vegetation, hoping that the silver-haired Sylvan hadn't seen too much of him; but he honestly didn't expect much from his hope.

Eric bit his lip as he darted off to the side, now that his position had been revealed by what he could only imagine was a lucky shot. He had wanted to surprise his opponent once more, but even with his silencing gear upon him he guessed that he had underestimated the bowman's capabilities. In range, he had no doubt now that the greater was Sylvan; Anglekos himself barely used the bow he carried with him except when he absolutely needed to. In order for him to win, he would have to get close in once more, and smash through whatever defenses the cyromancer was preparing for him.

The bushes and grass moved wildly as he pushed through them, but it didn't matter now. With a sharp turn of his foot, he pushed off towards where the arrow had come from and darted forward, shield again held upward and his sword poised to strike. Two seconds, and he burst through dead pieces of vegetation, only to find his silver-haired opponent crouched slightly, arrow nocked, and a large bubble of water hanging above his head. Eric wasted no time in words; he would have to strike before his opponent. As his sword pierced forward in blazingly fast steel at Sylvan's exposed neck, the edges turned sideways so as to cut anything that tried to block it, the mythril blade rang as it erupted suddenly into lightning, the azure magic pouring forth from the elven steel, it's striking power elevated thrice-fold.

[Melancor]

Sylvan's determined brow melted upon the dreaded sound, shattering his composure. The bow had withstood the nick when he'd carefully strained the cord that stretched it. However the release had been too sudden for the weakened wood to withstand. As just another factor in the quick sequence of events, the end of his bow wen't flying behind him. However he couldn't preoccupy himself with that, the arrow had missed, but he'd succeeded, he caught a glimpse of the man's back disappearing into the foliage. He had to catch him.

Rendering the bow worthless, though not useless he quickly stashed it into his quiver, already reciting in his head the spell for the Toils of Hyperion, a set of water whips he'd hoped useful in stopping the man before he fled. The water spheres around the area came together in a spiraling fashion that cracked through the air, as in the makings of a sea storm. However, As soon as his focused his gaze upon his enemy, Sylvan realized the man had seized running, now he was charging, straight for him, sword drawn, an electrical aura flooding from the blade.

Lightning, it was a foe not foreign to the sea, Sylvan had seen his fair share of them both on ship and land, and he knew that with proper preparation there were ways to completely impede the massive harm it was prone doing on water contaminated with minerals. However none could be made on such a short notice, the man had been far too fast for him to keep at bay. Again time seemed to stop as the treacherous blade loomed before his eyes, ever so close, Sylvan could only hope to block or avoid it. Somehow he had to. The cold of adrenaline ran again down his spine.


In an extraordinary feat of strength, or panic, Sylvan destroyed the forming body of water that fell before the man, crossing paths with the blade. He instinctively rose his arms against himself, and in the blink of an eye a strong rattling breeze that pushed the leaves of seemingly the entire field away from Sylvan wilted, as he called forth the water of nature, and that of his own. A massive wall of water that enveloped both figures rose into the air, instantaneously freezing as soon as it came together. The block extended deep into the ground, freezing the water bed below as to give some stability to the already tick wall.

It formed around the blade, a desperate attempt to stop, if not slow its movement. The Iron-strong ice was not watch for the electric Mythril blade. The sword came at him with such a force that the ice particles themselves hissed at its touch. Sylvan was wrapped in water, and he tried his best to freeze it as soon as possible, however the lightnight speed of the blade was such, the frost-path lagged just behind it. More dangerously, however, he was shocked in place.

He stumbled backwards as a violent electric charge that literally lit up the water suddenly impacted him, setting his heart on shock, almost shattering his mental concentration, but even then the adrenaline still pushed him through the fragment of seconds. In a last desperate resort a large bubble of light surrounded Sylvan, as if to add to the layers of defiled protection he'd shrouded himself into. The Ithkimian wall. It was a very weak defense mechanism he wouldn't have ever bothered using under normal circumstances, but as the blade barreled unhindered toward his neck he could only hope one of his barriers, ice, light, or flesh and bone could save him.

[Lord Anglekos]

Sword blazing and eyes bright, Eric struck. Like the lightning he was so blessed to wield, he struck efficiently, destructively, and he struck only once. Even as water rose around his being and solidified into existence as a glacial structure, entrapping not only his own movements but his opponent's within the confines of those walls, the cold emanating through his clothing and armor did not freeze his skin, did not inhibit his bones. The heat of his magic emanating from his body, even in those few seconds between the thrust of his arm and the flaring silver striking so easily through Sylvan's barrier, was so intense that it melted the ice around him, his momentum carrying him through the shattering liquid.

The barrier had served it's purpose; it had, although not stopped the swordsman, slowed his vicious momentum enough to prolong the strike aimed at the jugular, long enough for a thin, transparent barrier to form itself around his victim's body. This irritated Eric; first one, then another. Would he break this one as well, only to find another awaiting him? However, this not stop his burning advance, and casting his own defense away he tossed his shield to the side and gripped the hilt of Pardolaes with both hands, which subsequently redirected the path of the magic within his veins. His anger grew, and so did his magic, as the lightning began to crackle furiously in simultaneous pairing with his emotions. The thin, transparent barrier of light beneath his blade gave way, shattering into nothingness, and the elven mythril in his hands plunged forth.

Time was slowed for the swordsman, if not in reality then within the mind, and every detail of the slowed blow engraved itself into his vision. The way the dead grass blew away with the force of the supernatural wind around his being; the locks of black hair flying about his face, almost an ebony mockery of Sylvan's own silver ones flowing in equal chaos. The way his feet dug into the soft ground beneath him as Sylvan fell backwards, arms held up before him in panicked defense, his eyes filled with bright and liquid fear.

Fear.

At the last second, the tip of the sword swerved, the razor-sharp edge cutting through the fabric of the cloak and to the skin beneath, blood welling up along Sylvan's shoulder. A minor injury, compared to what would have happened had Eric not averted his weapon's course. The tip plunged deep into the soft ground as the lightning extinguished from the sword and his eyes, revealing an almost terrified look of his own before it darkened into regret. Slowly, Eric stood upright, pulling the blade from it's sheath of dirt, before flicking the earth away and sealing Pardolaes away within it's scabbard.

That fear had been what stopped his blade. Eric was not a hunter; he was a warrior. Even though he dealt in guerilla tactics, he fought still with honor. There was no honor in slaying a helpless man. He would not achieve ichigeki hissatsu like this; for it was obvious to Eric that Sylvan was no soldier, no friend to war. He should not be here, Anglekos thought to himself tiredly, now that the adrenaline of magic was starting to leave his body. He should be off somewhere living his life in peace, hunting rabbits. Not here.

Slowly, one hot hand extended itself to the fallen silver-haired man, fingers open in an obvious offer to help Sylvan to his feet. In the quiet of the dead clearing, under the empty sky, Eric's voice cut through the silence with soft words.

"I must apologize." The hand not extended waved itself slightly into the air. "For this ruse. I knew you were like I, to an extent, from the very instant you spoke to me. This... exercise was not as much a necessity as it was a pleasantry. I thank you for indulging in it anyways, Sylvan." The other hand dropped. "I hope you do not think too ill of me."

[Lord Anglekos]

Double posting and bunnying by request of Melancor.
Death was, generally, a quiet thing. It came, it took life, and it went on it's merry way, unperturbed by emotions or anything human like that. And it was Death, again, that came between Anglekos and Sylvan. It didn't take a life, however; instead, it took a budding friendship.

At least, that's what went through Eric's mind as his silver-haired companion stood from the deadened ground without help of the swordsman's extended hand, fixing a metallic glare upon him before reaching down and picking up the split pieces of his bow. A pang of hurt went through Eric's chest silently, as clear and sharp as a blade itself, but he said naught to Sylvan. Words had caused enough damage as it was; would be best to hope for silence to repair that.

Without a word, Sylvan turned, a dark portal opening up and breaking the silence as it split the air apart; a great ripping sound filling the space about them. Clutching his broken weapon to him, the bowman walked through the portal and disappeared into the darkness, leaving Eric to stand alone beyond the pseudo-blue of the artificial sky above.

Slowly, he sighed, letting the loneliness fill him. Another friend lost to battle; but this time, by his own doing. With regret filling his heart, he too entered the darkened portal, letting it's absolute blackness consume his consciousness.


~+~


It was daylight still when Eric left the Citadel, seeking lodgings for the coming night. He'd come to Radasanth in search of purpose, but had only found, and lost, a friend. A saddening prospect, but he was used to it; after all, he was a soldier. In war, you lost friends left and right, and life certainly was a war.

He turned down one street, hood up as he slipped between carriages and bodies alike, looking from one street sign to another. It wasn't long before a tavern caught his eye, and he walked up to the door, ready to open it and seek refuge inside. However, before he could do so, something caught his eye; a paper, pinned to the side of the door. Warm, tired fingers extended forward and caught the edge of the fluttering notice, flapping noisily in the wind, and Eric's azure eyes read the words littered upon it.



RECRUITING

THE IXIAN KNIGHTS

Do you seek a purpose? Do you wish to defend your land with the hands of the righteous, to go out and slay terrible foes, to infiltrate castles and assassinate evil warlords? Well have no more hesitations, for we in the Ixian Knights are looking for YOU! Come down to the Ixian Castle and join up today!


Purpose. It was if this had been written specifically for Eric in mind, and for the first time since coming to Radasanth he felt a small flicker of hope flare in his heart. Perhaps, with these Knights, he could find acceptance. Perhaps he could find peace. But he wouldn't know until he tried.


Turning away, he drew his black cloak closer to him, the midday wind causing it to flutter and flare about his form silently, and he started off in search of this Ixian Castle. It was time he walked down a road of purpose once again.

[Silence Sei]

• STORY ~ 15/30 A bad pacing score offset your other two categories to make this an overall average.

• CHARACTER ~ 25/30

WRITING STYLE ~ 25/40 A bad mechanics score stopped this from being higher.

65/100
Anglekos gets 2000 exp, and 200 GP

Mel gets 1500 Exp, and 300 GP.

I decided to judge this as a quest to try and help the pacing score a little bit for you guys. Consider it a Christmas present :P