A start to prove himself (Open to anyone)

[Abraxos]

The yearning for Abraxos to be part of society had grown stronger and stronger even though he feared what he might find there. Then he heard word, in one of his frequent meetings with traveling tradesmen, of a place where fighters went to prove their skills in battle to possible be accepted by different factions. This is where Abraxos would take his step into the light...so to speak.

Abraxos wandered through the Citadel looking for a challenge to prove himself finally. The world has rejected me for far to long, thought Abraxos. As he wandered around seeing the various challenges that were possible he decided it he needed to fight in his own territory, someplace he felt comfortable and would have the advantage in a fight.

Abraxos went up to one of the monks and asked, "Can you lead me to a field where it is an overgrown graveyard surrounded by forest?" The monk bowed and replied, "Right this way."

As Abraxos entered to where the monk had led him he was truly in awe of the place he was in. There was a small path that led to an old rusted gate, an entrance to a surrounding fence which had been half knocked down.

Abraxos turned back to the monk and said, "Tell any adventurous fighter that a challenge waits here for them."

Abraxos studied the grounds of the graveyard and surrounding forest. The graveyard was paved with stones that formed it into a quadrant with the fence surrounding it. The forest had grown in right to the fence line but became to thick to fight in more then the first few trees so the fight would have to take place mostly amongst the tombstones. Abraxos studied the tombstones closely they were beautiful marble statues that had aged and been weathered though they were still exquisite.

As night began to fall Abraxos gathered some dead wood from the forest and started a fire right in the middle of the graveyard on some large paving stones. Abraxos knelt there with his staff propped against his shoulder and his hood up so he could warm himself.

As he sat by the fire he noticed the unmistakable noise of someone or something breathing.

[Margaret]

The Citadel. Margaret had already had her fair share of lives lost there; she had lost count of the number of times the Organization had forced her to undergo its dangerous learning curve during her torturous days as a child trainee. The pain, and fear, of death no longer hung over the ominous black spire as it first had when the assassin, young and in possession of both of her natural eyes, had gazed upon it firsthand, hands shaking as they clutched desperately at the short steel blade she'd hoped would save her flesh. Her lack of experience in battle had failed her that day, and she had lost an arm before managing to sever her foe's vital organs and almost simultaneously slipping into the sweet, cruel darkness that was death itself. Her second trip there had not fared much better; she'd been unlucky enough to face a foe that had not been as easily duped into falling upon her blade as the first, and she was rewarded the experience of having her head separated from the rest of her body; thankfully, the blow had come swift enough that she'd not had even the time to scream.

Memories of countless duels flashed through the woman's numbed mind as she stared coolly now up at the ever-present, ever-familiar tower of her former training grounds, her single exposed quicksilver eye flashing almost defiantly up at the center of the Ai'Bron's power. How many days had she spent in there, wishing to die and for once not return back to the burden of living? How many opponents had she faced as she'd grown older and slain under the alarmingly fast rate of her maturity? Margaret's fingers and toes combined could not keep track; her blades had tasted the blood of far too many victims. Yes... She sighed inwardly, feeling the throb of the familiar parasite residing within her left eye-socket as it sensed the rising bloodlust of those around her; a steady flow of individuals coming to and from the ornately crafted gates of the man-made homage to war. Far too many indeed.

However, if there was a time where she could have turned away from this path, it had come and gone quite long ago; the ways and teachings of the assassin were now ingrained within the matured Margaret, and the only thing that would deter her from this path would be the cold, familiar, and frankly welcome touch of death itself. As she stood silently beneath the constant heat of the afternoon sun, the heat being captured easily within the folds of her long, ebony gown-like cloak, the young woman closed her single exposed eye as she felt wave after wave of nostalgia fill her lithe body; as well as the constant ache in her left eye as the separate sentience within sought to be used once again. Why not? She replied silently to the being residing within her skull, not knowing (or truly caring) whether the parasitic entity could hear, or even understand, her thoughts. It will be a welcome burden to bear, at the very least; for nostalgia's sake, if naught else.

Silence greeted her thoughts, and she was quite satisfied with that. Softly, swiftly did her feet carry her upon the rough cobblestones of the Corone street way, avoiding obstacles of both individuals and their vehicles with little more than a sideways glance. In her right hand she grasped the familiar smoothness of her hidden blade, the katana sheathed within the wood of the cyper cane, the length of it sliding up along her thin arm and poking up past her shoulder comfortably as she approached the giant, ivory stairway that would lead her to where the hooded forms of the always watching Ai'Bron stood waiting for their next victims.

And speaking of victims... Her foreign eye, beneath the confines of the eye patch covering it, tugged to her left, and the woman's gaze drew itself to the scene of an ebony-and-silver stranger carrying a long, dark staff speaking to a male monk with a confident certainty about him; even at this distance, where she could not hear the details of their conversation, the assassin could observe the relaxed nature of both individuals. Feeling her symbiont companion pulse annoyingly further, she narrowed both eyes as she stood still a fair distance away, completely unnoticed yet by friend, foe or any in between. Soon, however, the cloaked man took his leave from the monk and headed off in a direction after the monk, forcing the now-curious warrioress to follow silently. Thankfully, not a single monk stepped in her path, and she stalked her prey unnoticed until both she and the cloaked stranger disappeared into the void that was the Citadel's true gates, and she welcomed its dark embrace with familiar cynicism.


~+~


With steel in her gaze and hand, the assassin watched as her prey opened the path through a pair of rusty gates leading to what seemed to be a formal graveyard overtaken by the power of nature; the surrounding forest intruding through the foreign metal and stone to create a veritable jungle. The high-pitched squeaking of the hinges masked any chance of Margaret's slow, silent advance from being heard, and she comfortably slipped into the further darkness of the natural forest about both herself and the still unnamed boy, her lithe, small form stepping around to the southern side of her victim-to-be. It was dusk; night was just beginning to fall upon the morbid arena, and that suited the ebony-haired woman just fine, as she stood comfortably upon one of the fallen colossi of trees that overlooked the graveyard. From her veritable perch, even with her one eye obscured she could see by the flickering flames below that both she and her prey were not alone; a third ripple in the continuity of existence pulsed through the air and through her veins, silently announcing the presence of a newcomer into the darkened setting. A rogue factor. Interesting. But the question remains; whom to eliminate first? The staff-carrying one, or...

The thought carried itself off into the darkness of her mind.

She could wait here; let the two of them duke it out, and finish off the weakened winner. But what use was there in slaying an already defeated foe? The Citadel was still training grounds, even to Margaret's cynical mindset; and in order to train, she had to fight opponents of at least equal standing to her. And so, in a single instant's decision, she dropped from her perch in one silent step, falling a good eight feet to the ground below and well within the confines of the graveyard's metal, spear-like fencing. She bent her knees briefly to absorb the soft impact of her boots upon the grassy ground, and holding her still-sheathed blade at her right side the assassin advanced upon the single male slowly but surely, black hair flickering like fire in the evening breeze.

[Abraxos]

Abraxos sat there studying his features watching as his muscles moved as he sat there. Abraxos had some martial skill and would be difficult to defeat in close combat...Abraxos noticed a flutter in the shadows.

Abraxos quickly stood and took his staff into a ready position. The woman had landed with no audible noise to Abraxos. As she walked forward something about the way she moved said "death". He saw what looked like a cane strapped to her side and thought, what an odd way to carry a cane. Recognizing the outline of what looked to be daggers imprinted on her body he then realized that the cane attached to her must have a thin sword hidden within in, after all a what would a woman who moved like that need with a cane.

Abraxos moved his staff into his right hand and stretched it out to the side of him, as he tiled back his head and closed his eyes. Abraxos emerged himself into his magic letting the flow run through his body from his feet through his whole body. The feeling was like raw fire running through his veins. Abraxos stood thus for a few seconds as the wind shook his hair. As his hair moved in the breeze it started shifting in colors the silver rolling across his black hair as if it were lightning moving through his locks. As the wind died Abraxos moved his arm to point the staff directly at the woman.

"May I have the pleasure of knowing the name of my true opponent?" spoke Abraxos

[Arden]

Arden Janelle wanted one thing, one last jaunt to flex the muscles and one last riposte and clash of blades before a war. Conflict came naturally to him, not just embedded in his soul, but scraped into his skin, his mood, his viewpoint about all he surveyed. Times had not been kind on him, and as he grew older, and older still, he was becoming tired and emotionless, except in those few fleeting moments of steel against steel, wits against wits, life measured against life.

“Death becomes me,” he said silently, his lips parting but no sound passing through them except a gentle breath. The cold malice of the graveyard that cast doubt on his decision to return to the Citadel was real and metaphorical, and it chilled his limbs and libido in equal measure. On his way north through Concordia, he had felt terribly cocksure of himself. After all, he had slain a Greater Oni, brought the warring clans of Scara Brae’s underworld under one fetid banner, and lived through five centuries of turmoil.

Looking stealthily around the bulk of the mausoleum he was leant against, he suddenly felt very uncertain about his reasons for coming all this way. The smell of the chill air, the temptation to rush headlong into the melee, the fiery passion in his heart that tinged his vision with a blur and his nostrils with the faint smell of blood and iron. He frowned at the first of the combatants, but it was the clandestine movements of the woman that fluttered into view that caught his curiosity first.

“<She walks the path of Akashima…>” He was certain of that, but which path, and which destination, was far beyond his ancestral recall. He watched her movements, her feline finesse and her oblivion garb cast shadows onto the shadows themselves and pulled himself back into cover. A heavy weight pressed down on his shoulders that threatened to become real leaden anvils if he did not suppress his thoughts.

He breathed deep and chemically before looking back out at the unfolding introductions. Carefully, and slowly, so as not to attract attention whilst he retained the advantage, he rested his palm on the hilt of the Rheilhand. Its familiar sense reminded him of each life he had taken, both real and illusory, and the roiling images calmed his senses against the feral nature that had grown in him of late.

“<So too do I,>” he said with more vigour and pitch than his first utterance.

He watched the flames dance in the fire pit, and admired the ghoulish shadows that pirouetted over the ageing tombstones and on the treeline that had slowly overgrown the once stout iron fence that separated the fabricated cemetery from the rest of the fabricated world. The scent of dead wood and dry pine wafted in between the cracked angel statues and long lists of war heroes, noblemen and rapists that smothered the steppes of memories that the monks had crafted.

“<I will not be one of them, not today,>” he confided to the owner of the mausoleum, a name he recognised and one that made him wonder wherever or not the arena had been crafted out of one man’s memories, or all the dead relatives and sins each of the combatants held in their heads.

When the boy by the fire asked a name of the temptress, Blank skipped out from the mausoleum’s intimidating presence and took cover behind a tall cross, wrought with gold leaf and spiralling patterns. His free hand steadied his crouching form and he moved swiftly behind a long flat sarcophagus, cracked and exposed to the elements sixty feet to the right of the boy and the left of the cane wielding woman.

He rose slowly after a sufficient break between his question, and her impending answer. His auburn hair fluttered in the breeze, and his body reflected the light of the moon, little shadows forming beneath each of the well-honed muscles and the scars which had gathered over a decade of living dangerously close to a harsh fall from living. Blank made no further movement, nor did he charge spell or brand aura that could give any one of the opponents gathered before him the wrong idea.

“<My name,> my title, for we are all your true opponents, <true death>, is Arden Janelle.” He broke his statuesque pose to bow his head, the chains about his waist tinkled as he leant, like wind chimes in the winds of progress and anticipation. He looked up at the woman first, then to the man who had asked a lady the most impolite of secrets, and then returned to a neutral stance with a polite, indignant smile.


Comments in <> are Akashiman.

[Margaret]

Any good assassin knows better than to underestimate their targets. It is when a person is backed into the corner, with no where else to run, that humanity is unafraid at showing its darker side; in the desperation to stay alive, almost anyone will do anything. Anything. It was this thought that gave the soft-stepped woman pause, and she abruptly let her movement cease a good five feet from where the cylindrical head of her prey's long stave remained pointing like an accusing finger in the air; her single quicksilver eye remaining focused on the man's bodily posture for the briefest millisecond of warning. As she watched humorlessly she could feel the Elder taint of unfamiliar magics at work both within and around her foe, a fact that was confirmed by the almost supernatural wind picking up around his body and the spread of his single streak of grey hair throughout the rest of his strands until his once darkened locks glowed with a nimbus of sickly light, Margaret processed the new addition of this factor through her mind and adjusted accordingly. 'Twould be a fool's error to hang back and seek to wear him out, She reasoned with some bitterness. I know not what sort of magics he possesses, but the best choice in action will be to step into his personal space and incapacitate him while he's still in the dark about my own capabilities.

At least, that was her plan originally, before even as her soon-to-be victim asked her of her identity with precocious authority tainting those vocal cords, there was suddenly the rustle of cloth, the rattle of metal and the interruption of polite but foreign vocals from a newcomer; presumably the third foe whose entrance into the darkening domain she noticed not too long ago. The man was tall - Thaynes, both of them were - but unlike her larger prey this so-called "Arden" carried a few points of intrigue about him. The auburn-locked stranger, like Margaret herself, also had an eye obscured by a barrier of cloth; while his lay on the right, hers was on the left. Despite his height and toned build, the assassin could have weighed the man in and being only slightly heavier than herself; perhaps something to work in her favor? And the last, yet most important, detail was also like Margaret herself this Arden character carried himself with the all-too familiar grace of one who danced with death on a regular basis; the fellow openly walked like an assassin, and it screamed danger to her veins.

All these factors sent a shiver of unnatural caution running up the young woman's spine. The appearance of another (she assumed) assassin was unprecedented, and she had long since ceased believing in things like coincidence for years now. Although only the tender, youthful age of eighteen, she knowingly possessed a cynicism beyond her years; infected into her by the very individuals she worked for. The fact that they were puppeteers and cared little, if naught whatsoever, for her well being was not unknown to her; she was a weapon, nothing more. As such, as this Arden fellow spoke in the words of unknown Akashiman tongue in his greeting, Margaret stared with a little more than just apprehension growing in her gut; was this Arden part of the Organization as well? Was he sent here to steal her rank? Or did the Organization have much darker plans for her? Questions ate away at the corners of her mind, making her grit her teeth in reality as she struggled not to let her apprehension show upon her face. For the most part, she succeeded. And then, she acted.

Margaret wasted no time in pleasant formalities like both of her foes had; time was a valuable commodity in a fight, and one that had little use being wasted on such trivialities such as introductions. She breathed, the cold scent of fresh graves beneath the mismatched cobblestones and moisturized overgrowth of the forest flowing into her nose, and as she reached her exhale she moved simultaneously, letting the breath maneuver relax her muscles so she could make optimum usage of her almost supernatural speed. With blackened clothing flowing out behind her like malleable shadow against the growing night, her booted feet crossed almost like a feather on water as the smaller woman crossed the fifteen foot gap between herself and the one named Arden within the space of almost less than two seconds, ducking into the other assassin's personal space so as to make perfect optimization of her height when compared to his. As she arose into his gut area she brought forth one of the multiple hidden weaponry decorated upon herself into her grasp and plunging forth at her foe's stomach region, the stiletto's steel gleaming like a tooth hungering to bite into flesh even as she held her sheathed cane blade in her right hand, ready to follow up with defense if need be.

Although she kept note of the other's position, the staff-wielding mage was of little consequence to her now; a minor threat when compared to the much greater one before her. She had the element of surprise on her side, she hoped, and her speed and sheer dexterity were beyond the pale when compared to other women; this she knew all too well. How well they would stack up, however, against another assassin was something she did not know; she had earned her ranking amongst the other ninety nine by credit of the Organization themselves, not by slaying the former number 80, and she had had little reason up to this point to even test her abilities against any others of her profession. But the game had changed, even if the players remained the same; if this man was an operative of the Organization, she would know soon enough.

And while the growing apprehension (and expectation) of that coming knowledge didn't show on her face, beneath the dancing shadows that cast themselves upon her still-stoic visage from the flicker of her ebony hair her single exposed, gleaming eye glowed and betrayed the adrenaline within.

[Arden]

Blank's attention and his wits sparked to life the second the sinister female launched into a lightning assault. She moved with such speed time itself lost meaning, and her grace left the swordsman pulling at every inch of his skill and determination to muster a defence. Her silence as she advanced mimicked her reluctance to speak, a stubborn notion Blank was far too fond of.

She is not without talent, or without the way of killer...

It was not an observation he wanted to make so soon into their engagement, but part of his occupation was assessing risk. The mage, his experience told, would be a story of sudden emancipating pain brought forth from the realm of manna. The woman? One mistake and he would fall, one false step, and he would dance his last beneath the moonlit, the shadows, and the romance of the night.

As quick as Margaret was, however, and as determined to deal the final and first blow to his abdomen there and then, Arden Janelle drew on a prehensile skill that was much, much quicker.

Whatever assessments she had made of him upon first crossing gazes, they were all wrong. He doubted very much that she could ever have expected him to disappear. Few did, and it was the stunned shock on their faces that made their final, fleeting seconds before his blade plunged into their hearts and souls that had become so addictive, so sycophantically noxious in the pursuit of advancing his place in Scara Brae's underbelly.

"<Oh mellow love and gentle heart>" sang an unfamiliar voice, drifting out from where the swordsman had been a hair's breadth ago, the pitch perfect melody spiralling through the dark along with the many ribbons of blue energy which fluttered briefly into existence.

Blank had used the mage's own ideas against the assassin, and claimed the world as his own with a push down into the grass. His naked feet had flexed in the second before he had drawn on The Aria, so that his momentum was directed forwards when he blinked from existence. As the stiletto rose into his vanished gut, he propelled forwards with invisible movement, to re-appear immediately behind his would be attacker.

"<Sing me a lullaby to sleep>" sang the voice once more, surrounding the swordsmen with a second swarm of ribbons and an aura of madness as he burst with a roar into the Citadel.

His hair wavered in the movement, his muscles rippled under duress, and he span as he burst back into the world on a deftly placed heel.

"<What is your name, milady?" He rasped, brandishing fangs of fury.

He drew the Rheilhand as quickly as she had drawn her stiletto from the nothingness of her personal armoury, and brought it around and into the small of her back in the same movement and under the same strength that he spiralled with. If she was as quick as he, she would simply fold from its path.

He made preparations to leap backwards out of retaliation's reach, hoping playing safety in the shadows of the unseen would keep his temper on a tight leash, and the spirits within tame lest his own anger dealt either of his opponents a telling hand.

[Abraxos]

Abraxos was surprised that someone could still sneak up on him, as the man rounded the mausoleum he introduced himself as Arden. Abraxos had known of a great forest named Arden. It had a magic of its own to enhance its own beauty. Abraxos didn’t give the man the courtesy of turning to face him or that would of meant that Abraxos had been startled by him, something Abraxos could never let himself betray.

Suddenly the still nameless woman dashed forward, ignoring Abraxos’s question. However, she was not running for him but rather Arden, twice insulted by this woman in less then a second. She moved faster then he could, at least when in the light. He would have to be careful and draw her into the shadows to gain the upper hand in defeating her.

Abraxos watched as she moved and drew out her small dagger aiming as true as she could and suddenly with a song and a burst of ribbons, which only reminded Abraxos as a party where they threw streams of paper everywhere, Arden disappeared. Abraxos was almost flabbergasted and didn’t know what to think of what had happened. Abraxos barely had time to think of what had just happened with Arden pulling a disappearance act worth of any joker or acrobat before he reappeared and was on the attack.

Abraxos didn’t stay still long enough. Abraxos drew a glass vial from his pouch as well as his sling and a stone. Abraxos dropped the vial in the fire and ran for the closest shadow he could find. Abraxos loaded his sling as he ran and as soon as he reached the edge of the shadow it opened to great him. As soon as he was consumed by the shadow his camouflage kicked in so none could see him. Abraxos turned to pick himself out a target and watch what would happen.

[Margaret]

With words drenched in the lull of a bardic tune her prey disappeared from her blade, and the steel tasted naught but air. Had she been a lesser woman she would have blinked and perhaps slowed, but thank the Thaynes she was not, and she reacted to the strange vocals emitted from her target behind her with reactions born from a lifetime of survival. She knew not what the assassin - a label she could now make with full confidence, unfortunately - spoke to her about in the silver, flowing tongue of his, but she did not let it detract from her actions. Be it taunt or question, it mattered not in the long run of this battle, and her own curious fear as to whether or not he belonged to the grips of the Organization as she did also posed no importance now; once this battle was ended, she could ask the question of her handler, Caine, and get her answers that way. Ribbons flickering almost insubstantially with azure energy and song before her in the remnants of the other assassin's trick, she didn't hesitate in continuing her momentum forward into the dissipating ribbons as she spun herself around, the ends of her long coat flaring out like a gown in the darkness around them.

As she turned, Margaret briefly made note of the taller male whom she originally been hunting making retreat into the darkness of the shadows within the forest's embrace, and as she gazed she watched as those same shadows seemed to reach out and embrace the man with an almost caressing familiarity before he fell into them and disappeared from natural sight. Her single, silver eye narrowed; she'd heard of such umbramancy, but to see it in practice was a first for her. However, it said something about the man's character as he'd chosen to flee instead of advancing upon this Arden's exposed back, as the assassin's attentions were currently focused upon her; the cowardice almost made her sick. He'd taken a perfectly good chance and wasted it.

Margaret did not have long to muse on the shadow-wielder's personality, however, as soon the one named Arden had reappeared in yet another burst of ethereal ribbons and sonomancy at her exposed back and taken a cautious rush towards it, armed with what looked to be a single-edged short sword of deadly design. Again, he spoke to her in Akashiman, and thrice she ignored it; his words mattered very little to her, even less so that she could not understand them. With her visage paved in ice and as unchanging as a mountainside, she whirled upon her foe with a viciousness that surprised even her own self, her sheathed cane sword whipping around in a black blur at his extended arm. She did not expect her blow to make contact, however, and did not press the small button that would unsheathe her bladed weapon and sever the limb, for from his approach she judged that the auburn-haired man with one eye was expecting her retaliation. What use would there be in revealing one of her secrets if she did not benefit from it?

So she would wait. The assassin was quick and lithe on his feet, as she'd expected, and for now her other prey remained safely out of sight; the former was the far more important of the duo for now. He would most likely dodge her blow - either by performing that bardic trick once again or physically moving out of its reach, even as she folded out of the path of his own blade, so she remained on the balls of her feet, ready to take movement once again, the adrenaline of the duel pounding through her veins and in step to the pulsing of the eye behind her eyepatch.

Death had come, and it was quiet.

[Arden]

There are times when a man must face his demons and times darker still when a man must best them, lest they conquer him and drag him into the pit of his own mind. As his opponent whirled in a maelstrom of wrath, Arden span himself, bringing his forward motion to an abrupt end and forcing his heel into the grass behind him to prevent himself from stumbling into a roll.

Her riposte was swift, and struck his arm as it rose to bring the Rheilhand out of its swing. His reaction was tempered only by the need to remain in control, and as the muscles in his shoulder spasmed beneath the impact of the hard wood, which could easily have broken his bones if it had been swung with more conviction, or, as Arden looked into his opponent’s eyes, less control.

Is she toying with me?

“You would fight me with wooden swords?” He cocked his head to one side as he adjusted his aching arm in its socket with rolling motions, as though he were warming up for a triathlon, or a brief sprint from a certain end. The graveyard sang silence as his question lingered in the air, the dancing lights of midnight banshees and fireflies gathered overhead and illuminated the dark uncertainty that drifted through the catacombs and stalagmite like gravestones.

“Very well,” he bowed.

He broke his gait into a solid stance and spread his feet wide apart so that he had to bend his knees to maintain his balance. With his one good right eye, which blinked unnaturally out of time with the long lame and insensitive left, he studied the woman with the astute attentions of a learned pupil attempting to best his master.

It was not an unfamiliar scenario, even one castigated by the sorrow of their surroundings. He had taken it upon himself to learn his own master’s ways, and learned to study knife fighters, assassins and targets as they went about their lives.

A weakness…there must be one.

His was his hunger, which swelled in his stomach and churned a sea of lust at the back of his mouth. The pressure of his newly formed fangs threatened to break his jaw in two for waiting so long.

“We shall play the game, dance the dance, and draw blood without familiarity.”

Arden knew there was little chance she would respond. He took a deep breath, and then cut his breathing entirely to tense his torso and flex his muscles. In the brief moment of stasis, he pinpointed two muscles that tensed in her stance and leapt forwards. He burst into motion in a lightning flash, grass leaping up with sudden release and air swirling with mystery about his waxen curvature.

One thrust, then two, both feigned attempts on her life were followed by the third and direct strike. He took his blade into both hands and felt at one with the cold hilt, cooled by the night’s chill and silent until it tasted the arbour of another life. As he lunged, he stared into that one, pale sphere; he was starting to think that their encounter, amidst cowards, traitors and demons, was more than just a fickle coincidence brought about by the monks.

As he lunged, with death that proclaimed itself with a roar, a grunt and a blunt application of steel, he vowed to find out her name. He felt the rising anger in his soul begin to take control, and the Oni named Janelle rose through the darkness of its host once more.

[Abraxos]

As soon as Abraxos hit the shadows he jumped in speed running up into the trees turning to observe if anyone was following him he saw the two combatants engaged in combat. Knowing that they were otherwise distracted Abraxos jumped from tree limb to tree limb circling the combatants to get as close as possible. Abraxos stopped on a branch less then 50 ft away and composed himself as silently as possible.

Abraxos observed the battle below him as he hid within the shadows of the trees. The girl was cunning and was superbly skilled however Arden was superior in many ways and would come out on top in a fair match between the two.

Abraxos would have to even things out between these two so as to give them and even match before they got to him.

Abraxos whirled his sling above his head and loosed the stone at Arden aiming for the center of his chest knowing that would give him the best chance to strike him.

Death from a distance. Gods all, I love it when they don’t wear armor. It leaves many soft spots, Abraxos thought to himself.

(OOC: When Abraxos fires his sling from the shadows like this the stone flies at approximately 350 mph or 508 feet per second.)

[Margaret]

Wood met flesh as Margaret's swift strike connected directly with the side of her foe's arm, but it mattered little. The blow had been weak, controlled; a test of reactions on her part. As her one-eyed opponent adjusted to the strike, stepping back out of her reach and massaging his now sore limb, he spoke again; a fact that was in itself not surprising. The factor that did, however, was that her assassin counterpart had spoken in clear, perfect Tradespeak, presumably sounding insulted that she would use a nonlethal weapon against him in what was assumed to be a duel to the death. It amused the young woman somewhat that this "Arden" character could be caught off-guard so, and if further ingrained her growing thought that he was indeed not part of the Organization after all; if he were, there wouldn't be such quips from the man's lips, for they taught that everything, from the tiniest grain of sand to the very air around them, was a deadly weapon in the hands of one whom knew how to harness them. The smallest quirk of her amusement pulled at the left side of her thin mouth, where the small scar that ran across them stretched like a white maggot along the cherry pink of those lips, before falling into silent dispassion again as Arden took her silence appropriately and continued his aggressive advance forward; this time pausing for the briefest period of time before launching into a forward leap that was a mere blur in the limited darkness around them.

Using the moonlight above and the burning of the campfire that had been set up nearby, Margaret once again entered combat with her foe. His approach this time had been far from the cautious advance she'd noted earlier; taking his short blade in both hands, the assassin's muscles rippled like a beast's before his mouth opened and let out a vocalized roar of gluttonous hunger; his single exposed eye gleaming like a vicious dog's in the low light. She was astounded by the sheer ferocity of the attack, but didn't dare let her surprise show; instead, she adjusted, as she always had. Light on her feet and swift of hand, she instinctively dodged the first two strikes he aimed; both of which were feints, she noted with some disgust. He was swift as well, and from what she could note so far he was as experienced a swordsman as she was; if only in a different style. Both of their single exposed eyes met, liquid quick-silver connected with vibrant crimson, before her foe paused briefly in his offensive; just long enough for Margaret to hear the whisper of leather in the distance.

In the shadows.

She made no attempt to warn her one-eyed foe; instincts born from survival took over once again, and she flowed like an ebony bird from her dodges of the assassin's feints away from the duel temporarily, stepping off and to the man's right side as he lunged forth like a tiger leaping upon its prey. His blade met little but air, the deadly edge of his sword briefly slicing along cloth as it tore into the fabric at her right breast, but the man's weapon cut straight through instead of catching upon the cloth and she could feel the rush of cold, night air at the pit of her arm. She paid no attention to it; instead, she continued to spin upon the balls of her feet, bringing her sheathed sword cane around in a lightning-quick horizontal swing at her prey's exposed midsection, and just as she pushed the button that would release the cyper sheath off of her razor-sharp katana she could hear the whistle of a swift projectile heading their way; presumably a rock, from the sound of it.

A combined strike, from the distance and from close up. Margaret's single eye held little compassion for the unfortunate assassin, whom was now trapped in the coincidental strike from both ends. For her, this Arden fellow was simply another victim to her cause, and he would have to perform yet another one of those strange bardic tricks from earlier in order to escape this combination of steel and stone. In which case, she was prepared; in yet her other hand she held her stiletto by the blade, ready to throw at a single moment's notice. Then, she would take care of the treacherous shadowmancer in the distance, hiding appropriately from their dance of blades within the defense of his arcane magics. They would not help him for long, however; as the throb in her left eye grew deeper, she recalled she had not yet unveiled her greatest secret.

At this rate, she would remain the victor yet; a fact that she yielded to with cold certainty.

[Arden]

There were many things Arden Janelle could simple step out of the way of.

There were many things more that he could blink out of existence to avoid.

Bullets, however, were not one of them.

Even as he lowered his blade with the sudden need to live, fate conspired against his usually compact and effective survival instincts. As she rolled around to the right, he turned with her, exposing the back of his right shoulder to the unseen assailant, flittering into existence long enough to shoot a stab in the dark.

It tore into his flesh, and he roared in pain, no longer bound by the curse of silence and not enraged enough by his own design to simply ignore the onset of agony.

He flinched, and rocked forward, his blade slipping from the guard of the woman’s counter strike and nearly far enough to allow her weapon the movement it needed to end his life there and then.

Arden vanished.

Blue ribbons flickered like dragon spirits up around her blade, suddenly relinquished of its counter weight. The incandescent strands cast their glow onto the grass and tombstones, but no song played from the crack in reality, no marching fanfare timed itself with perfection to mark the swordsman’s departure from Althanas.

He burst onto the long jetty that stood at the centre of the mercury sea in the heart of the other realm called The Aria, his feet setting down on the salty wood as his magic ceased momentarily. There was no noise here, but he still heard his scream rebound around the inside of his mind.

“Damned my eye,” he muttered to himself, reaching with a shaking hand to his shoulder. He had left the battlefield with the rock still inside his flesh, and from the force of the blow, he fully expected it to shatter bones and burst through the front of his body when he re-emerged.

“I must be more careful,” he chided himself, feeling the Oni inside him beginning to rise from the pit of his stomach even at the thought of smelling blood. His particular brand of magic was indiscriminate, it worked its charm offensive on his senses regardless of the source of the blood it needed to survive, the blood it needed to exist at all.

He waited for what seemed like an eternity, as time passed much more slowly in the realm of the Thayne Tantalus. Arden atoned for his mistakes with his head held strongly and poignantly looking out across the gentle silver waves. It was a small mercy he was very thankful for, before the inevitable carnage and chaos that was to follow his return.

He rose slightly from the jetty; it’s splintered and aged body departing like an old friend. With a rush of air, he flew up through the mists and closed his eyes.

With blue spirals of light, he re-appeared, and the pain continued.

The rock burst through the front of his shoulder and span him like a whirling storm. Blood gobbets clung to the rock as it shot on its axis towards his female assailant. Blank did not see the trajectory of the projectile, but he would have admired the third member of their battle’s deviousness if he had seen its path. He would have made a snappy comment about killing two kami with one prayer.

He fell to his knees, the Rheilhand thudding against the grass along with his bare knees as they hit the hard dirt of the well-trodden mourner’s path.

“By the wailing jurugumo’s temptation,” he snarled viciously, looking up at the woman through the auburn folds of his fringe. “There is no wrath tempered in me now…” An edge grew in his voice, like an echo that did not sound except in the mind of those who heard it.

From the entry wound, the blood poured freely, but not down the flow of his shoulder blade and spine as one might have expected.

“Oh father, summon flights of fancy, give me the strength to ascend!” He said triumphantly and manically as he pushed himself upright, the adrenaline that kept weaker man strong pumping life into his shaking limbs, folding layers of ignorance over his mind to blot out the pain.

The blood flowed up, and spiralled into strands until it gave life to a large red wing, feathered and moving and bound in the ancient will of Akashima herself.

“We are done,” he said flatly to the woman, turning on a heel and tossing his blade from his injured arm into a firm grip in his undamaged limb.

For now...

He broke into a run towards the mage, his wing flapping behind him and flexing with every adjustment of the muscles in Arden’s body as he climbed and leapt over flatbed grave and sarcophagus cracked. The inscriptions mirrored the glint of intent in his eye, but he had no intention of laying flowers next to the corpse of the coward that the Rheilhand sang for.

Driven to anger by the smell of blood, to delusion by the sting of iron in his nostrils and the carnal reminder of sacrifice on the tip of his tongue, the hunger of the Oni drove Blank towards an opponent he could only half see, could only half remember being present. It drove him, against all his experience and suffering, away from the revealed and archaic blade of the silent assassin, without a care for anything but revenge.

He opened his mouth wide to reveal his fangs, and roared a challenge into the twilight, blade raised over head, heart pounding, fear flaring in his wake.

[Abraxos]

Abraxos smiled as neither of them flinched at the incoming missile. They were to preoccupied by one another.

Fools, always pay attention to all of your enemies and not just the ones you can see, Abraxos thought to himself.

Abraxos watched as the stone sank into his flesh and at the moment it entered his body he flashed out of existence again taking the stone with him.

Oh dear that’s gonna leave a mark, Mocked Abraxos as he watched the man reappear and the stone fly out of his flesh and continued on its path out of his body.

Then something happened that Abraxos was not prepared for. The stone didn’t kill him. He was wounded certainly but the man stood back up. Abraxos packed away his sling knowing it would serve him no more against this man Worse still he spouted a single wing of blood.

The man must be demonic in nature. This isn’t going to be as fun as I thought it was going to be, Abraxos managed to think right before it happened.

As the man came at Abraxos full of rage wing flapping behind him. The vial of oil he had left in the fire chose the proper time to explode. The explosion rocked the gravestones but more importantly threw the sticks of the fire in a thousand directions.

When the sticks landed they landed throughout the graveyard and started to flicker in the death of flames. The shadows danced in the graveyard giving Abraxos the perfect playground.

Abraxos leapt out of the tree for the man charging at him. As he moved through the air his body was flashing in and out of the shadows as each time he entered the shadows he speed up and disappeared and each time he entered the light he reappeared and slowed down, Almost seeming to teleport himself from point to point across the bridges of light.

Abraxos used his advantage of height, range and speed and stabbed out his staff for the mans gut intending to pin him to the ground with it.

[Margaret]

There was the snap as the umbramancer's slung projectile connected with the back of the assassin's right shoulder, and for the briefest moment before Margaret's ever-observing quicksilver gaze it seemed as if her own blade would taste the flesh of her foe as well. The nicked, polished sheath of her hidden weapon flung itself off of her revealed katana with her spinning momentum, and her steel gleamed beautifully in the night air; no traces of dusk around to illuminate their corpse-created battleground. Yes, her steel sung with deadly intent, but to her disappointment her fellow assassin had chosen that very instant to perform the same trick as beforehand and both her body and blade spun into naught but the glowing, flowing ghost ribbons of blue origin, illuminating her surroundings briefly before, as Arden's last departure, dissipating into the nothingness of oxygen. Her ebony sheath glimmered as it landed not ten feet away, off to the relative side of herself, but Margaret made no movement to retrieve it; instead digging her heel into the ground to cut off her kinetic movement as she brought up the stiletto in her other hand, prepared to throw it at the first sign of movement before her vision. Her other hand still held the gleaming edge of her katana, arm wrapped around her stomach with shining blade pressed against her back so as to gather the potential energy necessary for yet another quick, lethal horizontal strike if need be.

Seconds passed, but there was no sign of re-emergence on Arden's end. After a couple moments Margaret realized she'd been holding her breath in expectation, and she released it in a quiet sigh of the first sign of outward emotion she'd shown yet; the corners of her mouth pulling down and creasing her flesh as her single, right eye narrowed in cold, cruel anger at the soft ground below her. Had the assassin chosen to flee as well? Was she now left only to hunt down the sniper in the darker? In the pits of her stomach, the ebony-dressed warrioress felt the absence of something important, now that she was not actively engaged in her duel, and as she touched that absence with her mind she realized that, at some primal level, she'd been enjoying the dance of death between herself and that Arden character. I am no battlemonger, but I suppose it has been quite some time since I have faced a foe that can match me on equal ground. She mused to herself with bitter amusement, the scarred corner of her lips pulling up once again into the briefest show of personal humor, before with a quick, deft spin with her left hand she sheathed her deadly knife back into the folds of her outfit, the cold metal pressing comfortably back into her skin. If only that fool mage had not interrupted...I wonder whom would have ended up the victor.

Striding both silently and swiftly to her fallen scabbard, sheathing her thin blade with an expert's grace, the professional assassin turned upon where she'd heard the swift snap of said mage's sling and glared without abandon at the shadows, holding her weapon at her side yet again as she stood stiffly idle. "All that is left is you..." She whispered cynically, her alto tone harsh and cruel. The slaying of the mage would bring her no pleasure; once she found him, it would be of little effort with which her blade would find its mark. Depressed ever so slightly by that thought, Margaret had only took one slow step in that direction, muscles poised to dodge any further incoming missiles he may be inclined to send her way, when suddenly another spiraling of light to her left caused her to pause and her eye widen. Her upper body jerked reflexively backwards, just in time for the almost silent whoosh of the mage's blood-covered stone to rush by the place where her head had been, and it went bouncing off somewhere into the darkness, rolling away into the grasp of nature. She barely noted the indirect attack on her; instead, her gaze remained focused on the kneeling form of Arden as he fell to the ground, his own steel collapsing as well.

He returns... Despite her instincts telling her to get away from him, Margaret went against her better judgment and stepped slowly forward, the adrenaline returning to her veins even though her opponent was obviously wounded. She felt glad, of all things; it was as if her dueling companion had returned at her silent behest to finish things between them. A notion inspired by the insanity caused by years of killing, no doubt, but she embraced that sick happiness as much the same way she embraced everything else; with cold determination. Her sheathed cane-sword at her side, she unconsciously ran the fingers of her left hand along its polished hilt, ready to pull forth her blade once again in a single swipe straight from the scabbard, when suddenly the man's lips parted, and words flowed through.

Normally, this would have done little to halt her advance. Pleas of mercy, promises of wealth and power, threats of death and vengeance; the female assassin had heard them all from men who were now in Arden's position. She had given in to none of them, and become exactly what the Organization had trained her to be; a silent killer. A blade herself. However, as her kneeling foe spoke, for the first time in her life she did halt in her deathlike waltz forward, as his words flowed viciously to her ears with an ominous portent that caused a shudder to ripple down her spine that had nothing to do with the graveyard's cold. A sinister wind seemed to pick up around his body as his words thrummed with a power that could not be explained by mortal means; it resonated not only within her physical perceptions but seemed to fill her mind as well, pounding with a drum-like beat along with the pulsing in her left eye. This is no magic.... Margaret thought desperately as she tried to discern the source of the rising power she could quite literally feel along the muscles in her body, and her hackles arose as she took a defensive step back with her left foot, shifting her right around until her left shoulder was facing the still-kneeling form of Arden; her fingers grasping the hilt of her blade with unadulterated fear.

What IS this? That single thought flickered like a bat trapped in cage within the confines of her mind as her single eye widened and flickered all about the now-standing form of Arden as blood seemed to coagulate and arise into the physical manifestation of a wing; a single, crimson wing protruding from his wounded shoulder and into the air like a majestic display of inhumanity. He turned upon her, and Margaret flinched, tightening her grip on her blade as she dug her heels into the ground. Thaynes, here he comes! She expected anything from him now at this point. Would he teleport yet again and strike at her unprotected back? Would he charge her directly and force her to fend him off with steel yet again? Would he use some of that primordial energy and discharge it into a projectile? She had no idea, and she half-opened her mouth to exude her mindless frustration and fear when, once again, her foe surprised her.

"We are done." His voice came flat and low to her, his single crimson eye gazing down upon her with a cruel dispassion all its own, before he turned his back on her and broke into a swift run directly where the stone had originated from, roaring his challenge up to the hidden form of the mage within the shadows. Margaret was at a loss for words. ...Done? The word whispered like an ant crawling down home, and she grit her teeth within her closed mouth. I don't think so, Arden of Janelle. The fear of his unknown strength no longer rendering her immobile, Margaret took swift, silent chase after her crimson-bearing fellow assassin, parting off to the side and into the shadows herself as she made an equally silent decision.

She still wished to do battle with this Arden one-on-one. Thaynes knew that she would even ask the Ai'Bron themselves to heal his injuries would it let them continue on. But the third cog in the wheel, the unnamed magician, was an unfortunate factor that had to be eliminated first should she have the duel she so wished for, and by proxy it seemed she and Arden would work together towards that deadly goal. As soon as she was deep enough in the shadows to where she thought she would be able to see her foe, two things happened; the passively burning campfire seemed to explode, sending dozens of burning sticks everywhere across the moonlit graveyard, and at the same time Margaret ripped off her eyepatch.

The world before her erupted into color as the parasite in her left eye socket awoke with glee.

She could see everything; the auras of the forest melted together in a beautiful blend of green and purple, life flowing through the air around the trees and pouring through the ground like miniature balloons. The explosion of flames, although she stood a good distance out of their reach, washed over her in a wave of heat, and not only could she feel that heat but see it as well, touching her flesh and outfit like a gentle lover - something she had not once experienced in her eighteen years of living. Her eyes moved over each and every vibrant aura before her, her quicksilver one shifting in natural tandem to the black-and-gold parasitical eye pulsing happily in her left, and she focused on what was important now - finding the hidden form of the umbramancer.

Just unveiling it was a strain, and she could only hold this beautiful vibrancy in her vision for a few seconds longer - but she'd gotten what she needed out of it, and even as she breathed slightly heavily from manifesting the eldritch energies necessary to power the eye a somewhat cocky smirk appeared on her thin lips. "Gotcha." She hissed to no one in particular, before running along the sides of the graveyard towards her assassin companion once again. Just as she did so, the mage seemed to reappear out of thin air, stepping out from the shadows to lunge desperately with his staff at Arden's gut.

No! She cried out viciously, the strength of her wanton emotions shocking even herself. He is my prey! Unsheathing her blade in one swift movement, she let go of the sheath yet again, dropping it to her side even as she came up on the mage's unprotected back with a silence and swiftness born from years of experience. The umbramancer may have had some experience in close combat, as was evident in his choice of engagement with the one-winged assassin, but he lacked the skills necessary to ever match up with either assassins' sheer speed and dexterity; a weakness that Margaret took full advantage of. She came up and underneath his arms, using both hands to perform a gleaming uppercut slash that cleaved diagonally towards the haft of wood like it was butter before her deadly blade, effectively attempting at severing a good four feet off of the seven-foot stave. Even as she did so, both her eyes shifted over to meet Arden's single crimson one, and she hoped she could communicate effectively what the burning adrenaline in her dual gaze was trying to say:

Take him down!

[Arden]

There was a brief moment where Arden looked at Margaret, but it was only for a minute second. The Oni inside the once silent swordsman was in control, a virulent murdering creature hell bent on the sole acquisition a blood mage required to exist, to thrive, to continue.

They needed to acquire raw, warm and achromous blood.

Though he saw her blade rise up through the monster’s stave and shatter its length, he paid her no favour or showed no sign of thanks. His heart threatened to burst his ribcage and warp his body out of all proportion, so much so that his ears throbbed and his injury, which let blood flow freely down his breast and onto the hem of his ragged trousers, continued to pulsate with pain with every flex of his muscles, with every breath from his dry, cracked lips.

In Akashima, the sight of such a creature would warrant one end. The sight of blood wielded as a weapon returned only one verdict. He would be killed, hunted like a fell creature, torn to shreds by the mob of pitchfork armament and angered flame. In the Citadel, however, Blank was a vicious combatant, the crowds adored those who held nothing back, held no quarter without all their intent focussed into the Citadel’s true purpose.

Sport.

With a half skilled swing, he pulled his one good arm back and span in a roundhouse movement. His one good eye left the darkness elemental, span past the assassin, who seemed insistent on having the last word, like any stubborn woman, and roundabout with a lift of his blade to face the tip of the creatures stave again.

His naked torso collided with the shattered end, sharpened by the assassin’s feigned salvation. As it pierced his skin, and split the abdominal wall with a soft hiss of lungs perforating and veins shredding, the Rheilhand continued under the brutal force of his simple yet efficient attack.

“Goodbye, farewell,” he snarled at the woman, then turned his head, teeth fully bared and saliva and blood welling through his once human teeth to run freely down his chin. His eyes stared into the elementals, vengeance personified in two orbs of rage, and he shook himself free at the same time as the solid edge of his weapon entered a certain vector with the creature’s neck.

He flexed the blood wing, which pulled back then flapped forwards.

He knew it was no use all the same.

“Arigato,” Arden said softly, letting the magic that kept the blood together fall away, so that it broke apart and swarmed over the assassin in a spray of gobbets, tendons and sinew.

Irony would have it that the silent swordsman was not defeated by a sword cane or a lance to the stomach.

Blank was responsible for his own death, and he would have to live with that, even if his regret was sedated by taking the creature that had wounded him down in the same relinquishing moment of life.

[Margaret]

After speaking with Abraxos personally, he made it quite clear he no longer had any wish in continuing to post in this thread. As such, it is assumed that both my own and Blank's strikes connected and I bunny his character as such for this post.
This is also the end of Part One, to be continued on in another thread.
Moonlight gleamed over the polished ebony of the mage's severed stave, as one end went flying harmlessly past Margaret's head to spin off into the darkness. Almost simultaneously, there was the sickening thunk of the now-sharpened end of the stave impaling her fellow assassin with his combined kinetic force with the mage's, and the briefest second later told the story of his own single-edged blade making first contact with the mage's exposed neck. There was the slightest resistance as the muscles underneath flexed to try and prevent it from cutting in further, but to no avail - his blow rang true, and there was the glimmer of silver steel as it continued its deadly path and severed the taller man's head from the rest of his trunk-like body. There was no victory howl from the two professionals, no crow of beautiful annihilation; it was death, and as Margaret had predicted, it was quiet. Even as the body wobbled upon its feet, a head no longer there to guide it, both of Margaret's mismatched eyes stared disdainfully at the pathetic sight, and without further adieu she, in one swift movement, she sheathed her bloodless blade within the confines of its gleaming scabbard once again and used the blunt end of the cane to imbalance their dead foe's stance, sending the large form crashing to the ground in a heavy whumpf of dust and flesh.

Just as she did so, the unnatural wing of blood that had been protruding from Arden's shoulder dissipated in a mist of blood and tendons, spraying over both their fallen opponent and herself as well, causing droplets of hot, crimson liquid to play a macabre dance over her face as she turned dispassionately to the wounded assassin. "Hold," She found herself saying, for it seemed as if her foe wished to escape into the arms of Death rather than turn and face her blade yet again. She could see the deathly haze that clambered over his single eye forming quickly, and thus broke her pact of silence with swiftness, her strange eyes coldly gazing down at the protruding staff within his stomach. "We are not finished, Arden of Janelle." Her Tradespeak was soft but, like her demeanor, cutting and sharp, and as she turned the merciless madness in her gaze told that she would not hold back, not even for wounded prey. With a huntress's stance she advanced forward upon her slowly dying foe, her parasitical eye glowing a supernatural golden in the gathered dark.

For both Arden and Margaret, the night was young, and she had no intention of letting her prey go just yet.

[Yari Rafanas]

A start to prove himself...

Blank – Solid work as always. I want to commend you for taking the bullet-sling attack like a trooper, turning it into motivation and development for your character, vs. outright ignoring it. You played true to your character's abilities and your knowledge and comfortable approach to Blank shows. Still, this comfort is your downfall. I have read and played with Blank, yet I still don't have an entire picture of him in my head. You should remember that every once in a while, new readers need to know your character a little more. Then again, this is just a battle, so I understand not revealing all that much.

Margaret – Your writing skills have certainly improved over the years, and I am impressed that you have managed to nail a new character so quickly, but remember that in battles you are writing competitively and cooperatively at the same time. You can bore the reader by repeating everybody's action with a lengthy paragraph re-describing what two other character's just wrote. A good example of this was your gargantuan post #14. Well-written, but take a look at what Blank did just after you. He followed your post with what was happening next, not what you just wrote. Wildcard was affected mainly with the poor handling of the powergaming/bunnying that happened in this thread.

Abraxos – As a newer player, I encourage you to read over your posts and run them through a spellchecker to get the most out of them. Mechanics and tiny errors can be fixed with the proper editing, and a clear read often boosts your other scores. Focus more on how your posts sound and read and you will improve in more categories. As a warning, you were powergaming your abilities here. You are not approved to fire a sling like your character did. The force and speed is too much, and you do not have any sort of aiming or markmenship skill listed in your registration. Please include that skill in your next update and you will need to request the Ability to throw stones from you sling so quickly in your next level up. This abuse was reflected in your Wildcard.

Story ~ 5 / 7/ 5 -

Strategy ~ 7 / 6/ 6.5 -

Setting ~ 7.5 / 6.5/ 6 -

Continuity ~ 6 / 6/ 6 -

Interaction ~ 6 / 6/ 3 -

Character ~ 6 / 5/ 5 -

Creativity ~ 6.5 / 6/ 3 -

Mechanics ~ 8 / 9/ 4 -

Clarity ~ 8 / 7/ 6 -

Wildcard~ 5 / 1/ 1 -

Total ~ 65 / 59.5/ 45.5

Blank wins!

Loot!:

None, but Abraxos loses his vial.

EXP:
Blank earns 550 EXP
Margaret earns 165 EXP
Abraxos earns 165 EXP

[Breaker]

EXP added. Archived.