Almost Easy

[Symbiosis]

Almost Easy (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fi_GN1pHCVc)

http://30.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lccjzgRIrJ1qe8zf1o1_400.jpg

Closed to Blank

“I do not like what you did to me,” A voice spoke, it’s tone thick and gruff as the winter snow. The owner brought his hands up to his coat, fixing it so it settled just right, tying the knot around his waist as he breathed in a loud sigh, a breath of hot hair escaping into the colder winds. He was alone, this soul, his feet upon the path that many had walked before. He looked upwards to see the billowing banners of the prestigious Citadel of Radansanth, a scowl on his features as he tightened his coat.

“Why do you always bitch about things?” A voice replied, as carefree as the wind that blew. There was no body near the man as he walked, no sign of another entity within the area. The man who walked alone scoffed at the offending comment, his hands running right into the pockets of his evening coat, the small tails at the end fluttered like mindless appendages in the unrelenting breeze.

“You tricked me,” He replied coldly.

“No, you were an idiot,” The voice responded with equal disdain.

“I had asked you to find me a soul mate, someone who would be one with my heart and desires. I wanted love, you foul demon, not,” He took his hands out of his pocket hastily, gesturing to himself. “Not this!” He spat.

“Baxter, how many times do I have to go over this with you,” The voice strained in frustration. “You asked me to find you your soul mate. I told you I knew someone who could mesh with your soul and become one with you. You, like the total idiot you are, greedily accepted. Now I’m in your brain, and I don’t know how much more I can be meshed with your soul.”

“I wanted love,” The man mumbled.

“In a twisted way you got it,” The voice reckoned. “Love is compromises and doing things for your significant other, even if you don’t want to, right?”

“So when will you do something for me you don’t want to do?” His Salvarian accent was thick with sarcasm. There was a dark chuckle that filled the trees.

“I put up being inside your head, that’s enough compromise to last me a life time.” The man merely blew hot hair as he continued to stomp his way to the citadel.

Baxter Arlington, middle class pen-write for the Salvarian Herald in Knife’s Edge, had a small human flaw. He loved to much. He had just been dumped four weeks ago by the woman he claimed was his eternal muse, his eternal torchlight, the woman he wanted to marry and spend eternity with. The woman had no inclination to do such things. She dated him long enough to swipe a small fortune in gold, get to rub elbows with some nobility, and move up in the ranks of the hierarchy. She thanked him, and then handed him a restraining order. She thought ahead, that one did. Baxter would have been crawling after her for years.

So alone he was, crying like a baby that had been stripped of its bottle, and muttering incoherently when something began to whisper in his ear. It promised him to make him forget all about what’s her name, to find the thing he wanted the most. Baxter, in a childish fashion, wept about how he would never find love like that again. He wanted a soul mate, the real deal. He wanted someone who would appreciate his love, understand his passion! The voice offered him the stars and the moon, and promised that if he would buy a ticket to ferry over to Corone, he would be shown this wonderful soul.

That soul was the voice. That voice, to be more politically correct, was a pile of goop that trundled along carrying the very essence of a demon. A very cranky demon at that. Symbiote was the name he gave, and he fulfilled all of the promise. Baxter’s soul now was sharing room with the demon’s, and he was finding his will easily pushed down to enforce the new parasite. He had rued the day he had made that deal with the devil, but Symbiote cared not. He got what he wanted.

“Why are we even heading to such a barbaric institution?” Baxter mumbled.

“Because, you cry baby, I need to do some hunting for a guy I know. I’m thinking he may want to test out some of his toys in a setting that won’t attract to much attention, if you get my drift.”

“I know nothing of fighting,” Baxter grumbled. Symbiote sighed heavily.

“I sorta knew that already, don’t worry your pretty little head about the details. Just do as I say, and we’ll be fine. By the way, you may want to stop talking to me like a circus freak now, somebody’s coming.” Baxter felt something slimy shift within his brain, the tell tale sign that the demon within him was slithering down into his chest. The human gave out a slight sigh of relief. He did always hate interacting with the demon that possessed him.

Sure enough though, Symbiote was right. The Citadel doors shifted open and two warriors stepped out, both looking worse for the wear but in good sprits as they trundled down the stairs at a heavy gait. Baxter moved aside to give them room, and for being polite Symbiote put pressure on his lungs to make him breath heavier.

“You got to stop being such a goodie tooshoo,” Symbiote thought to Baxter. “We’re in a den of warriors, and any sign of weakness will show.”

“I will show my weaknesses, because it’s plain as day that I don’t belong here!” Baxter swore under his breath walking into the marbled floors of the grand building. Murals of battles hung on the walls, and weapons of all different shapes and makes littered the walls like wallpaper, each encased within an enchanted glass contained with a small plaque that read what the weapon was and the region it originated from. Baxter gulped as Symbiote looked to the wall.

“Not bad, not bad at all, hey you see that long whip with the thorns! I’ve seen a buddy of mine killed by one of those. Choked the life out of him, bleeding out his neck like a stuck pig! When he tried to rip at the rope he cut himself up something fierce. Don’t see those used much anymore,” Baxter feigned being ill. “Ouu, a war maul, those are fun. No skill required, just smash! Just the kind of tool you could use!”

“I do not think I can wield a weapon that is as tall as me,” Baxter murmured.

“Well, what would you wield if you could?”

“My wit, my intellect, you fool. Not every battle needs to be won with brawn,” Baxter said academically. Symbiote laughed inside Baxter’s mind, a high pitched wail of mirth as the very idea made him explode into a fit of giggles. Baxter rubbed his head in sympathy as he waited for the demon to calm itself. “I do not know why you find such a notion ill conceived. The right words, the right mannerisms, the right respect can calm even a mighty bear. I am sure of this, I watched my uncle with only his wit defeat a stronger opponent. He never touched him once, as well.”

Now Symbiote was rolling inside Baxter’s mind with laughter, his chuckles escaping into the real world causing a few heads to turn. Baxter looked to them nervously as he waited for the demon to get his jollies in. After he finished, taking several minutes to do so, he let out a pitiful whine of laughter as he spoke in a joyful manner to Baxter directly.

“You really think you can stop just anyone with flowery speech and rainbow farts?” Baxter nodded. “Fuck, I’m game. Prove it. Shove your money where your mouth is and prove to me you don’t need to resort to…my methods…of fighting to win a battle. Hell, you succeed and I’ll tell you what…”

“You’ll begone of me forever?”

“Hell no, but I will tell you this. I’ll actually find you that chick. Fight for love, Baxter boy. Er, talk for love, and if you defeat your opponent I’ll find you the girl of your dreams, this time the real deal.”

Baxter thought about it. Then with a nod he approached the Monks sitting behind a large countertop filing papers and writing upon a long scroll. Baxter waited patiently, not making a peep as he respectfully waited for monk to serve him. Seconds turned to minutes in the time and Symbiote coughed loudly, catching the monks attention much to Baxter’s chagrin.

“I would like to do battle within these halls,” Baxter said politely. Symbiote let out a fat raspberry sound, causing the monk to look at the human oddly.

“I suppose that is why people come here, yes,” The monk said in an off manner. “Did you have a room requirement?”

“I am new to this, can you explain how it works?” Baxter asked. The monk gave him a long blank stare before he gestured to the large scroll above him. Upon it were letters that magically appeared and disappeared showing off room numbers and vacancies. As someone entered the room the names would appear upon the parchment and the room would show a lock next to it. Baxter also could see a quick description of the room just under the name and room number.

“I see,” Baxter said in awe. “I would like to rent one of your rooms for a spar, and I would like to make the arena to resemble an ancient theatre like the Rovan theatres of Salvar. An outdoor amphitheatre if you would call it. Raked seating no more than fifteen levels high, and made of pure stone. I would like two podiums set into the stone, like the way debates took place before an audience. Yes. That should do.”

“Did you want a fucking cherry on top?” Symbiote blurted. The monk looked to Baxter with wide eyes as he slowly scrawled the room and the details before he pushed the paper, gently and still looking to the man like he were off, and pointing down the hall.

“Thank you my good man,” Baxter tapped the table and dropped off a few gold coins.

“Baxter you really know how to offend other cultures, don’t you? The Ai’Bron monks of Radansanth don’t charge for you to use the citadel! H’moragh strike us down with a thunder bolt here and now, I pray you have to fight a bloodthirsty savage!” Symbiote shouted.

“Are uh, you sane of mind, sir?” The monk asked gently, pushing the coins back neatly. Baxter sheepishly turned to the monk.

“I assure you I am,” Baxter said with a wink, a feeble one that made him look slightly ill minded. “My companion not so much,” He joked heading towards his arena. Symbiote sighed loudly.

“I… see, thank you,” The monk said watching him leave, before he shook his head in disbelief, watched Baxter again, and then shook his head again going back to his business.

[Arden]

Blank stood on a podium, not entirely sure what to make of it.

The silent swordsman had battled in many strange and illustrious arenas in his short life, from open plains where the skies rained down freely, to Menuhin graveyards where needle rocks jutted up like jagged teeth from the arid dirt. Each had proven to be useful, purposeful, and tactful and engrained in the spirit of war which ran like a divine wind through the many domes and hallways of the Citadel.

This, however, was more befitting of a lecture, and he was more than used to long and one sided 'conversations' from his sister.

"What are they going to do, talk me to death?" He said aloud, chuckling to himself as he tossed his hair flamboyantly from his eyes.

Whilst well-travelled, having explored the Concordia countryside, the Comb Mountains of Akashima and the far flung reaches of Raiera in his many lives, Blank had never been to the harsh winter heart of Salvar. Thus, the importance of this place, its grandiose architecture and the seating fifteen rings deep was entirely lost on him.

With a curious expression on his weary face, the swordsman looked up through the non-existent roof at the stars above. He traced out the familiar constellations, and named those he could not recognise, and pieced together the astrological implications and omens as they sparkled solemnly, sparkled bright.

"Strange..." he said, biting his lip in contemplation.

He had been used to tense atmospheres, harsh kindling of fear and reaction in the pit of his stomach as he had entered a fighting plane. When he had stepped up onto the podium he had felt...happy? That was not perhaps the right word, but he felt strangely content and not scared.

"What lies in store for me?" He settled his gaze onto the far door, where his opponent would enter fashionably late and no doubt in dramatic style.

He looked back at the opposite podium, and with a slight shadow of doubt and a mournfulness to his smile, he half expected Duffy to waltz in with a twist of irony to do battle with words and recantations of past exploits. It was well within the bard's capability to think so highly of him to warrant fighting with words instead of a more blunt application of steel to a throat.

"No..." he mumbled, "that would be almost too easy."

He let his words echo through the amphitheatre, and then fell into waiting silence, his eyes set back onto the heavy ironwork of the door. The well-worn gateway to the dusty corridor laden with sweat and blood and the terror of ages stood in stark contrast to the golden hue of his surroundings, cracked, rusted and scuffed against the polished stone and the tapestries of many colours which fluttered in the gentle breeze.

"Far far too easy..." he pursed his lips, and drew Orichalos to chip a kanji into the podium's polished surface as he waited. It read <Honour>, and he added <Blood> and <Sacrifice> to it; it mirrored the omens he had read in the night sky, and mirrored the growing rage in his heart, touched as it was by the Oni themselves and the hunger of aeons.


Comments and words in <> are Akashiman.

[Symbiosis]

“You gonna watch him forever, stalker, or you actually going to fight him?” Symbiote spoke dryly, shifting around inside Baxter‘s chest with utter boredom. “We could have jumped him and had the edge by now…”

“I am merely observing my opponent. Even warrior’s do that I hear. Nothing wrong with a little peek at what I’m up against. By the look of things he seems a pleasant enough fellow. Oh! There, look!” Baxter said hiding behind a large rock at the top of the podium. “Akashiman kanji, I don’t know what it reads, but it shows an intelligent mind. People from that culture are very respectful. If you took time to observe the world, you could see and discern this kind of information. If I am not mistaken I think he is using a ninth dynasty dialect. I do wonder what it reads.”

“I know what it reads,” The demon muttered.

“Oh, and what does it say,” Baxter looked to his own chest smartly as he waited. Symbiote remained quiet. There was a long pause before the human sighed. He waited, foot tapping ever so softly for the answer. He waited and waited for an answer, a full minute passed allowing the swordsman to finish writing in the final words. “Not going to tell me?” He asked at last, the silence unbearable any more as he released his jacket tie and let it flow to his side.

“You wouldn’t like what it read, goes against your friendship lolly pop fighting style.”

“Do me a favor, and please keep your thoughts to yourself this fight. If I am to prove my intellect is superior to your fighting I will need to do so without your interruption, unless of course you plan to cheat.”

“Demon’s don’t cheat, we just let you hang yourselves.” Baxter stepped forwards at the top of the raked seating, dusting the dirt from his knees as he looked to his foe and nodded once taking in a deep breath. He lifted his arm up to his mouth, cupping it as he waved with the other to catch the warrior’s attention.

“Hello there sir! I do say, hello! Over here! I am Baxter Arlington, scholar of Salvar and pen write for the herald! Would you please describe to me what the purpose of inscribing those symbols meant? Was it some warrior ritual?”

“Oh Baxter boy, you are so gonna get it,” Symbiote sighed.

[Arden]

Blank’s one good eye snapped to meet the intruder, every muscle in his body snapped right along with it. He judged the distance to be a valuable enough barrier to not respond with more force, and smiled politely. His opponent, it seemed, was the curious sort. Whilst he had thought Duffy might’ve made a grander entrance, he could tell from the mannerisms of his opponent that there would still be amateur dramatics and far too much lingering between minced words.

“It says Blood, Honour, Sacrifice,” he forced the first syllable of each word, as if the kanji somehow brought them to life with personification.

He drew the tip of his dagger with force over the podium’s surface, scratching a line underneath each symbol like a raking hand over a polished chalkboard. Blank stepped to one side and revealed his full figure to the man, and as was customary in Akashima, and in many hierarchical cultures on Althanas, he bowed with a stoop and a polite dagger laden hand tucking in his toned stomach.

Pen write…Arden thought to himself, the corner of his mouth curling with a half-contained bemusement. Not quite Duffy, but just as likeable and prone to death at the end of a well-timed sword.

“I am afraid that I am not familiar with the culture of the snow wastes,” he spat, too weary and too eager to spill blood to flatter the man on the merits of his many titles. They were as meaningless to him as he assumed his own would be to Baxter. “However, I am Arden Janelle; I will not be seated in this amphitheatre or dealt deathblows by pleasantries.”

The night sky cast down an ominous chill that danced across Arden’s skin, making the hairs on the back of his neck bristle with excitement and mystery. The man was, odd, to the say the least and he could read nothing from his stance, composure or demeanour except etiquette, most likely misguided principles and a mountain of uncertainty. He was not sure if it was because the man was scared, or because he was afraid for Blank.

“As for the meaning of the inscription,” he waved to the podium, but took several steps towards his opponent with the same motion, circling its height to come to stand in front of it. “It is a keening brand, born of a magic a thousand years old of a tradition called Saiketsu.” He doubted Baxter, a self-titled investigator of snow tribes and Sway rituals knew what it meant, so he added an addendum. “It means drawing blood,” he said it with an ominous canker, and smiled maliciously.

Drawing blood from his opponent, or himself, it did not matter. Blood Arcana was indiscriminate, lacking morals or guidance beyond hunger and greed. He let the words fall into Baxter’s ears and waited, before levelling his double bladed dagger to his opponent’s nape. He withdrew his second and held it in reverse in his left hand with a gentle grip, as if he were caressing a woman’s breast, before bowing once more.

“It is an omen for you sir, and an inspiration for me,” he took a deep breath and let the promise of a blood feast lengthen his canines so that they perturbed just enough through his smile to reveal his bestial nature, and then waved the man to dare to cross the gap between them.

[Symbiosis]

Baxter remained speechless as his knees began to tremble, listening to the man with one functioning eye tell him of his intentions to do harm. He took a large gulp of air, paused for three seconds and then nodded softly as he began to pace around the edge of the raked seating area, keeping the distance between the two wide. He watched the man brandishing his weapons, and decided to ignore his request to close the distance. His leering smile of vicious intent was also a very unsettling manner all together. While the warrior was happy to come to grips and let true combat begin, Baxter was plenty happy in the back of the amphitheater.

“I see,” Baxter managed to squeak out feebly. He took another gulp and added a bit of courage to his speech as he spoke again. “I see,” He said again, his tone deeper and showing all the weakness he had inside his frail frame. Symbiote sighed again, a growing occurrence whenever Baxter made a move in the fight. The ill trained pen write took those sighs as a sign that he was doing the right thing, and emboldened that the demon was afraid of actually losing he spoke with a bit more arrogance than the situation called for.

“You have a fine hand with script, and a scholar’s brain. Warrior’s of Akashima are legendary for more than just their fighting prowess! Much like the Skjald’s of Salvar in ancient times, they would brandish the blood of their parent’s when going to war upon their forehead to gain the fighting spirit of their ancestor’s to lend strength to their swings. Some of the shamans would paint an all seeing eye upon the brow, a ward of magicks and what they called ’weird’.”

Baxter clapped his hands together like a teacher moving to his next point in the lecture halls of the school of Dunglington. He could already tell his companion would be interested in his words, and so long as he kept speaking and enrapturing his new colleague he was sure the man would lower his weapons. A sensible man like this Arden fellow would surely not strike him down for educating him on an area of learning he yearned to explore. Baxter would be his intellectual outlet, and through this calm his warrior spirit and claim victory.

“Congratualtions, Baxter, you’ll be the first man in history to bore someone to death.” The demon swirled within Baxter’s chest with an impatience of a warrior who was waiting for battle, but Baxter paid him no heed. All was going according to plan.

“The Skjald’s were also known very far in the land as excellent story tellers, and most tribal king’s from the pre civilized times would request for them to recount one of their, sagas as they called it, at the dinner banquets. I would assume this is similar to something in Akashiman culture?”

[Arden]

Blank listened to the further addendum’s to the curious man’s oratory, and bit his lip to maintain composed enough to not leap across the boundary that divided them and cleave his head from his infuriating torso.

“Well…” he stood up straight, as if he were a professor who had been asked an intriguing question.

“I am not versed in Akashiman culture enough to be able to comment,” a lie, to answer a half truth, he thought.

In truth, Blank, even in his past lives, had never been part of the hierarchy of Akashima. The Spirit Warders lived very much on the fringes of society, even though they were respected, legendary, fable given flesh. He had not lived in any luxury, nor had he dined at banquets.

Kill...a voice in his head roared.

“I know how they kill, and I can tell you a thousand names and show you a thousand symbols for the many infuriating and subtle ways I can kill you where you stand.” His voice took on an edge that was different, but certainly not his own.

“In many cultures, however, this is a universal symbol,” he sheathed his daggers and pulled the Rheilhand from its honorary place at his side. “The sword, be it curved, or gigantic, or tempered with flame, means death, honour.” He lifted it so that his high temper flowed along its blade to its tip. It allowed the assassin to channel his rising desire to end the conflict here and then, to tear the man’s…blood…his head mumbled, the Oni in his heart breaking free of the four sheltered chambers that kept it silent.

“It is on its tip, this tip,” he snarled, “that you shall know the meaning of those symbols. Sacrifice your pious need to parlay, and fight!”

He leapt into a run, slicing a cross through the air which invigorated his limbs and pushed adrenaline into every far flung corner of his extremities. Blank lingered on the edges of his own mind, curious as to why he had let the Oni beat him with its perverse hunger so easily. Perhaps the dandy reminded him so much of Duffy, he just had to put a smile on his face by shutting up the diatribe before it turned into one long soliloquy.

[Symbiosis]

Symbiote watched as the nameless opponent began to softly stalk over, a sinister intent to rip the heart out of Baxter prevalent. There was the small part of the demon that truly felt for the inexperienced human, but the larger half could do nothing but laugh at the impending doom for the pacifist preacher.

"He's going to kill me!" Baxter shouted incredulously. The opponent was only seventeen paces away as he swiftly climbed the raked seating. Paralyzed by fear the pen write shivered in cold sweat.

"He's going to kill you," Symbiote confirmed in a bored fashion. Baxter could just imagine the demon looking to his nails for dirt.

"Why?" Baxter shrieked, eyes widening to two copper coins as the Akashiman cultural freak was twelve paces away.

"'Cause you bother him," Symbiote said plainly. "You're an annoying fly that arrogantly thought you could tame his desire to shed blood." Seven paces away.

"I, I," Baxter stuttered as he turned to run. His coattails swished upwards as he began to flee, but in his haste one foot collided awkwardly with the other and he collapsed. He managed to put twelve paces back between them.

"Do you know why you failed?" Symbiote asked, his timing making Baxter's head swirl in confusion. "You're in a den of jackals, Baxter. This is a fortress designed to hone people's skill in the arts of death. The Citadel is not a place to temper people's wrath. It's a place to let it go!" The enemy was in five paces.

"You're all animals! The both of you!"

"Want my help?" Symbiote asked, his tone solemn as the energy of the demon swirled inside the Salvarian native. Baxter looked to those blood hungry eyes of the opponent, seeing nothing within them that would indicate his willingness to stop this madness. Baxter's cowardice made his body tremble, the cold sweat on his brow dripping down the side of his face like dew in the morning sun. The demon waited, patiently, as his energy moved like a snake under his skin. He had one second to decide.

"Yes!" Baxter screamed, his voice cracking.

Coldness enveloped his body. The feeling of ice ran along his veins as the demon howled in laughter, pumping adrenaline down into the pen writes feet. He felt his muscles flex as his toes curled and up he went, leaping eight feet up and over his enemy.

His body was rapidly changing as he descended down, the muscles in his arms feeling like they were ripped asunder as they increased in magnitude to resemble tiny cannons. His chest heaved as the snapping of bones filled the air; his lungs drawing in a deep agonizing pain as Baxter's eyes rolled into the back of his, soulless milky white orbs replacing them. His jaw cracked and distended like a snakes, a slithering tongue licking the air as his teeth grew into sharp fangs. Cold liquid dripped out his pores making a clear sheen coat over his skin, his clothing long since ripped apart in the grotesque transformation. As he neared the stage where the podiums rested his body awkwardly hit and rolled before coming to a skidding stop on all fours.

Baxter felt his skin crawling with infernal power and he gazed upon his hands and chest, lightly patting himself to feel the new changes.

"School time is over!" Symbiote spoke through Baxter's mouth, the sound like two voices slightly off key. "Time to hand over your lunch money and get ready for your beating!"

[Arden]

Blank pulled on his own reigns, a double take to steel the senses against the idiocy of a brash mind. Where once had been a vibrant, talkative and irritating fool about to die at the edge of a high tempered steel tip, now there was something altogether more threatening, altogether more worth the silent swordsman’s attention. He skidded to a halt at the edge of the stage, sword pulled back, hair eschew, heart racing with inner fire and painful pangs of over eagerness.

“What in the Dagger’s Peaks…” he mumbled.

The sudden exegesis of form scared him, and being scared was not something Blank was accustomed to. Moments ago, he had been staring down a weak and feeble man, possessing nothing more in his mind than a desire to shut him the hell up. Now, on the other hand, Blank wanted to run very quickly away. He had lived on the streets of Scara Brae and been part of its underworld long enough to know when you were outnumbered, outgunned, and outweighed against uneven odds.

In the Citadel, however, you couldn’t truly die.

“Oh what the hell,” he rasped, before leaping off the edge of the glittering golden amphitheatre into the moat-like recess that divided podium and seating. His bare feet slapped against the cold stone, which quickly warmed beneath his advance.

He crossed his blade over his midriff, and as he neared the hulking creature, scraped the tip of the Rheilhand along the stone, sparking it with a scratch, before swinging it up from low left to high right directly through an arc that aimed to cut through the creature’s cackling throat, or at least push it back to allow a swift follow up and a guttural, almost creatural end to its horrifying existence.

Without thinking, he let his hunger take over once more, and slipped into a ferocious and intimidating melange of scowls and muscular flexes as he neared. Man vs. man, demon vs. demon, rage vs. rage; this was a battle in the Citadel as it should be.

[Symbiosis]

Baxter felt the changes as his fingers poked at the clear gel like coat over his skin, the squish sound making his insides churn. The transformation had always taken him by surprise even though he had experienced it before, but this was the first time he had to fight someone who had a clue as to how to fight. The first time the metamorphosis happened the pen write was upon a cruise liner heading to Corone, an old warlock by the name Alexsi Karmanov had used a similar power that Symbiote imbued upon Baxter. He did not enjoy the changes then, and he certainly was not thrilled now to be using then again.

His opponent however, had lost the dramatic pause of uncertainty. He charged now with a reckless spirit, as if he consigned himself to whatever the fates had in store. His blade moved upwards in a graceful arc, and the demon howled in challenge as Baxter thought about fleeing.

“No time to run, just bring both hands up and let him strike your hands. Cover your face, Baxter! Cover your god damn face!” Symbiote shouted as fast and obnoxiously as he could. Baxter did as he was told, his brain trying to process the order, but his fear had rooted him. His lifting hands made his bulky frame look silly as he turned to shy away from the blow. When blade met flesh the demon infused human let out a roar of torment that echoed in the amphitheatre. Blood caked down his fingers as his palms and forearms were leaking like a stuck pig, his eyes widening into two large milky white coins. His extended tongue licked the air as the demon angrily was shouting at him to do something, but the pain was just too much for the Salvarian to take. He was unused to battle, and this man had wanted only blood.

With pain fueled thoughts he had not even registered that his foe was coming up with a second strike, the weapon’s cold metal tip piercing through his hand and grazing his neck. Whatever torments he felt before were replaced by agonized panic. Shock took over his rational thoughts and clumsily he pulled back, his hand wrenching free of the blade as he pirouetted into one of the podiums, knocking the whole thing over as the two pieces rolled to a stop at the cliff edge. The cool stone wall braced him and the rock that joined him, and he could feel the fresh rush of adrenaline run through his wounds.

“Pull yourself together!” Symbiote snarled, roaring to keep the man at bay like a wounded beast in a corner. Baxter cradled his injured hand near his chest, feeling the steady dripping of blood from his many wounds. “We got scant seconds to make this work, now grab that rock chunk and throw it like it’s the end of the world!” Baxter nodded feebly as he turned to the upheavaled podium, his weakened hand bracing it as his other hand gripped it. His body lifted and spun, like a discus thrower as he let out an agonizing scream of frustration and rage, the demon howling with him as it pumped as much strength into his back and arms for the throw.

The rocky lecture stand lifted up to his chest as his foot slid to give him maximum swing, blindly tossing it behind him at the last known spot his opponent was.

((Incoming!))

[Arden]

Though Blank had always understood the use of words, he had never really grasped just how powerful they could be. The lecture stand approached at such a speed and it was thrown with such finesse and ease, he barely had time to commend his opponent before it collided with his chest and knocked him flying back. He had expected some sort of witty retaliation as the Rheilhand perforated skin and palm and muscle and sinew with quicksilver ease and wrath, but there was a limit to the irony he could take.

Wind rushed through his hair as it folded forwards, covering his gaze of pained resentment. He flew up back onto the stage and came to a stop with the broken fragments of the literary projectile heaped atop him and falling down around him like a landslide. The corner of the rugged stand had dug into his chest, crushing the bone that held his ribcage together and breaking the two lower rungs in the process.

Ouch.

He wheezed and coughed and spluttered and writhed, and cleared the remnants from his body with desperate arms, as if he were fighting off a swarm of insects in the dark of night. Exposed, in pain and with the familiar scent of his opponent’s blood in his nostrils and his own on his tongue, spilling up from the perforations in his throat, the silent swordsman rose slowly. He maintained a stoop to his stance, careful not to make any erratic movements lest he wrench something free that would be difficult for anyone but the monks to put back.

“Interesting,” he said. It was a simple observation that said a thousand words in one.

Though he had intended to rend his opponent’s head from its feeble body, the transformation both of body and mind, and indeed, of circumstance had robbed any hope of departing quickly. With heavy breaths, slumped shoulders and a grimace on his face, Arden looked around at his feet for signs of his weapon, which had fled from his flailing fingertips in his brief ascent. It had come to rest twenty or so feet to the right, blade still bloodied and a spiral pattern of Baxter’s blood etched like an omen onto the stone floor.

In the golden radiance of the amphitheatre, it appeared to be bronze ink, or perhaps slag fresh from a furnace, cooling into a permanent piece of elegantly wrought art work depicting a momentary fall. Blank stepped over the rubble, it’s shards digging into his naked feet with sharp reminders of humanity until he stooped and picked it up.

“Argh,” he wheezed, the pressure on his lower ribs pushing them further beyond repair.

The cold steel and red leather hilt of his weapon calmed him, and he stood and turned with an expression that had intimidated lesser men to servitude, and greater men to their deaths.

“Why the charade, creature? You speak of honour and warrior tradition from the far flung corners of Althanas, yet hold no such code of conduct in your clearly addled head.” His trade speak became more superfluous, less graceful, and possessing the slight twang of Scarabrian common folk which had seeped into every corner of Blank’s life since he had been reborn in its maze like streets.

With his question hanging in the air as a portent of one final epitaph before they drew blades to a certain end, Arden Janelle pulled the last ounce of strength from the dredges of his soul and smiled weakly as the blood from his chest and mouth spiralled as if controlled by magic up and over his shoulder. It flew from his blade, too, until a great bloody wing sat on his left shoulder, flowing with life as if it were made of red ink.

"<Tell me, before the Oni drags the answer from you...>" he whispered.

He flexed it softly, and it’s beating echoed up into the halcyon rafters.

[Symbiosis]

"Oh god I killed him," Baxter whispered, bringing his bloody hand upwards to his mouth in shock. He watched as the man lay limp, his lips dribbling blood like a drooling baby. The demon growled in a leopard like fashion, before speaking in a grumbling fashion.

"He isn't done yet," The demon muttered. Baxter looked to his chest in awe. The very notion his opponent lived confused him as he was certain that would have killed a normal human, or any creature for that matter.

"How can anyone live through that?" Baxter spoke with a high pitch of utter confusion, but as if to seal the demon's point, the foe slowly rose, blood caked chest and raspy breath all indicators that he was very much alive, but not well.

Then, he did something that caught both the pen write and the demon off guard. He started chastising them, his calm and dark tone altering heavily into a very thick Scara Braen accent. Yet his words took a moment to register before Baxter started bellowing incoherently.

"I am so, so sorry! Are you okay? I swear I did not mean to cause you such harm, it was an accident, this is all very new to me!"

"Oh can it, cry baby!" Symbiote roared. "And you!" The demon forced a hand up and pointed a solitary ruined talon at the opponent. "Shut your hypocritical mouth as well! Droning on and on like a broken record about honor," Symbiote laughed, a wet humor that echoed and boomed. "Where the hell is the honor in striking a weak pen write? If he hadn't had me you'd have killed a defenseless twerp." Symbioses' demonic mask grinned with sadistic pleasure as the milky white eyes narrowed. *"And let's not point the finger about demons, buddy, unless you want to talk about yours."

"I think I'd like to quit this now," Baxter whined. Symbiote ignored his plea.

"Alright then, Baxter, the foe is weakened, let's knock his head in and don't stop until the grim reaper sings!"

"I'd really rather not. We both could use a break," Baxter rubbed his sore fingers gently as he looked with a grimace to the hole in his hand.

Symbiote roared and gripped Baxter's heart within his chest. Unwillingly the Salvarian native let out a pitiful cry of battle and charged forwards, arms getting ready for a vicious back hand strike.

[Arden]

The back hand blow struck, but only air. Blank had remained vigilant, and eternally patience whilst the strange man spoke in riddled voices, perhaps possessed, perhaps deranged, waiting for his moment to unleash a surprise revelation of his own. When the demon broke into a run, Blank tensed his muscles and at the same time as the first swung at him, he leapt into The Aria as he stepped straight towards his opponent.

Blue ribbons of light swarmed outwards and danced around the rippled musculature of Baxter Arlington. They curled up between his legs, around his arms and then danced up into the golden stratosphere of the amphitheatre, weaving elegant lines into the very fabric of the air as the melodic accompaniment of a Scara Braen waltz bounced over the rubble strewn stage.

He re-appeared two seconds later, half broken into a forward leap and landing on the stage with a delicate and painful flap of his feet. With a spiralling, agonising twist of his hip, he utilised the sweat on his heels and the smooth, polished stone to bring himself around with alarming speed, like a ballerina at the Grand Salvarian Theatre, or a surprised merchant about to lose more than his purse.

The Rheilhand came down in a vicious slice from high right to low left, directly into Baxter’s hulking and bewildered form. It severed the second pulse of ribboned light and cut through the display of magic like a knife through wind strewn silk. With the motion, however, came pain on top of pain, and despite his resilience and endurance to the hardships of the street, he felt sickness spin in his stomach and his limbs shook as they brought his blade back and stepped out of retaliation’s way.

Lay the fuck down, he said in his spinning head, momentarily blinded with nausea and too concerned with his own health to see if he had cleaved off the daemon’s head before the daemon followed up on his promise to cleave off his.

[Symbiosis]

Baxter watched as the blood thirsty opponent trundled forward with a deadly gait, his eyes flashing in murderous intent. Then the ribbons of blue began to nimbly entwine themselves around his body, like the wrapping vines of a deadly snare tree in the jungles off the coast of Fallien. When he was all but consumed the body suddenly vanished, a very awkward waltz from the Scara Braen symphony.

"Hey!" Symbiote said excitedly. "He can teleport," Baxter looked to his chest. Symbiote swirled to a rest just under the rib cage. The demon chuckled lightly. "Yep," His tone changed to a darker, dry sarcastic tune. "We're screwed."

"What do you mean we're- Gyeah!" Baxter felt his flesh rent apart but the sharpened edge of the steel, his knees instantly buckling as his eyes popped open. A jagged cut ran the length of his extended back, cutting him deeply as blood rushed forwards and sprayed out in globs that soaked the floor. His neck also suffered painful shooting pains as the blade severed through nerves near the collarbone, the katana cutting clear through the bone.

Baxter let out a mighty roar of agony, the demon howling with him as both voices mixed in a cacophony of meaningless noise. He attempted to stand, his feet slipping in his own blood as he turned and collapsed onto his side, splashing blood everywhere in a circle. His fingers scraped against the stage floor, creating trenches for the crimson liquid to run through as he let out a gasp of shock, the Salvarian unable to cope with the crippling pain.

A second time he tried to rise, his knees quaking and arms trembling as he planted one foot on the stone surface, teeth chattering as his soulless eyes looked upon the body of Blank. "This is what real combat is like," Symbiote hissed. "Do you think now he'd want to talk about the Skaldj's of Salvar?"

Baxter narrowed his eyes in anger as the demon began to egg it on, rushing adrenaline to dull the pains, but one step forward dropped the beast to his knees, eyes lighting up as the pain was insurmountable.

"Let go of your idiot customs, your stupid gentlemanly ways for five god damn minutes, and let's just go nuts! Because if you don't," Symbiote moved inside Baxter's head and rested behind his right ear. "He will."

Baxter watched as Blank started to regain himself. Now was the deciding moment. The pen write did not want to give in to the demon, but he was right. The man wanted blood and he spilled quite a bit of it already, the rational parts of his mind concluding that he would wan to spill more. He looked to Kanji he scribbled onto the wall, and narrowed his eyes. He slowly lifted himself up and aimed for Blank's torso and hips.

"I think I've had enough of this," Baxter mumbled through blood flecked lips, his teeth discolored as the crimson life force dripped through his spider web like saliva.

"Now we're talking about something I'm interested in!" Symbiote laughed as he pushed the muscles in the Salvarian's feet and calfs to perform another jump, this time at his foe in an attempt to pin him to his stupid beliefs and omens. To hell with the Akashiman culture and the social graces, a warrior from one land was a warrior from another, and all they wanted was blood. Yet before he made the vault he paused.

Baxter Arlington was not a warrior. He was a pen write, a proud one at that. He was a scholar first, gentleman second, and never thought about the path of shedding blood. He would not give into Symbiote's trap to make him a killer.

Symbiote, however, was a demon. A very bitter, and chaos motivated being. He never had a notion to give up once the fun started, and forced the Salvarian to launch himself at the enemy, the demon laughing maniacally.

[Arden]

The demon bore down on Blank before he could conjure the resurgence of power he needed to slip away into the other world once more. With a thud, which sent pain deep into his bones and deeper still into his soul, he fell back and slammed into the rubble strewn floor of the amphitheatre.

“Ayah and <damn you!>” He roared, the last of the wind in his lungs stolen from him before he could continue into another line of turgid cursing.

Baxter leapt back, leaving the swordsmen writhing, back arced and sword sweeping rock aside feebly in a bitter attempt to strike up, at anything resembling flesh.

It dawned on Blank, and indeed, on the Oni that drove him to such foolish heights that this fight was over. He could feel, as he moved and rolled to try and right himself the blood pouring from the bruises and tears that ran up his back. Shards of rubble dug into his skin without mercy, and the spinal and rib cage injury from the vaulted lectern returned full force to great his senses like a relative from the mist, unwelcomed, unexpected, unannounced.

The shame of this defeat, in Akashima, would have spelt a death sentence of a peculiar and unruly kind. Blank doubted they had similar customs to the hara-kiri in Salvar, but he imagined the barbaric tribes of the frozen tundra would look upon his shame with equal disgust, rejection and sadness.

He leant upright as much as he could, and settled his bloody gaze onto the pen write. The daemonic visage, contorted musculature and haggard expression had stripped away the swordsman’s first impressions of a weak and feeble man, and now it was he who felt useless. He had been bested, without question, and as he dropped the Rheilhand with a clatter and let his head drop with a hard knock to the floor, he reflected on the reasons.

It did not really matter, in the end, as he unsheathed Gerhard from beneath the tight wrap of his red sash waistband, and held it firmly with the last of his strength. He did not possess the reach to drive his katana through his stomach, but in this half-contorted realm of broken morals and schismatic allegiances, a dagger to the sternum, torn upwards as soon as its tip hit the hard stone beneath his spine to end any hope of a slow death would have to suffice.

Blank would not give up on his customs as easily as Baxter Arlington, despite his many failings and his corrupt associations in Scara Brae and lands far beyond the reach and gaze of Corone, he was a man of honour, integrity, and to have been severed from those ties by someone so repulsively cowardly...well, it would have been almost too easy.

With one last twitch and spasm Arden Janelle fell silent, a pool of blood slowly draining from his injuries onto the lecture hall as the last light of death faded from his pupils. His hand remained upright, propped with on setting rigor mortis for several minutes afterwards, until It wavered softly like a flag of surrender in the spring breeze, and then fell unceremoniously with a crack of worn knuckles on diamond hard and golden marble.

[Symbiosis]

Baxter watched with sudden clarity that the man before him was performing an ancient right to regain lost honor, the Akashiman three cuts; Hari Kari. He looked to the pen write with a knowing look as he slowly died, the stare in his eyes a silent telling that Baxter had given up on his own beliefs.

In a way, the man was right.

Baxter looked to the blood that drained out Blank’s body, the demon swirling within his own chest as it chuckled cruelly. The Salvarian left his mouth gaping, the sticky salvia dripping from his maw slowly as his eyes narrowed in confusion. He thought about the custom, the practice behind the three cuts, and then angrily let out a snarl of conflicted emotions.

“I don’t get it!” Baxter spat. “How did he lose honor? What did I do to him that made him lose face in his honor? I just don’t get it! He’s the clear victor if we’re discussing honor bound warriors! I was the one who asked you for help,” He shouted to his chest. “I gave up my honor to keep myself alive, and in the end I killed him!”

“Looks like he did a good job about it too,” Symbiote whistled lowly. “Usually they need a buddy to chop their head off when things get sour and they’re just bleeding to death. But nope,” Symbiote haphazardly swirled to the side like an otter playing in water. “Cleanly cut. I think I can whiff his voided bowls…”

“Do you have to be so crass?” Baxter seethed. “Must you be so disrespectful to the dead? He showed me what a true warrior was like, and that is something I can never be, nor do I want to be! This is your hand that caused this disaster!”

To that comment Symbiote actually let out a laugh, his essence moving towards Baxter’s head. “I do think we need a little re-education lesson here. Was it not you, Baxter, that presented the idea of a bloodless fight? Using your words to encourage an enraged warrior to calm down and give up his angry ways? Hmm?” Baxter said nothing. “Was it not you who insisted to me to start this fight in the first place?”

“You dragged me to the citadel, you wanted me to fight!”

“Yes, but not any old warrior,” Symbiote chuckled. “Just one’s that have been influenced by the wizard prick I’m searching for. You were the one who wanted to prove your point so bad you made this room, this hell on earth! And then, little Baxter, you couldn’t control him. He wanted to shed your blood, and he didn’t mind killing an innocent Salvarian pen write to do it. So what did you do, Baxter?”

The Salvarian native remained quiet, his eyes looking to Blank with sorrow as he turned his back on the dead man, limping painfully towards the edge of the stage. Symbiote laughed for a moment, his talons gripping Baxter’s heart softly and lightly dragging his nails over the organ.

“It’s okay, Baxter,” Symbiote said smoothly. “You did very well today.” Baxter shook his head. “Oh, come on, you killed a guy.”

“He killed himself,” Baxter muttered darkly. “To keep what shred of honor he had left.”

“But how did he even lose it?” Symbiote asked lightly, as if this was an afterthought he just came up with. Baxter remained bitterly quite as his face narrowed.

“I,” Baxter’s fingers clenched tightly. “I don’t know, okay! He must have felt I dishonored him! I just… I just…just leave me alone!” Baxter shouted uncomfortably. The demon swirled again in glee as his chuckles pierced the darkness. The clear coat of demon skin fell off of Baxter in a manner like a bucket had poured over his body. Every wound he suffered suddenly magnified as Symbiote with drew his power, and Baxter’ smouth screamed in silent agony before the shock of his laceration caused him to drop to his knees in pain, his body hunching over in the fetal position as he wallowed in pain in the same spot he shed his own blood.

“He lost honor,” Symbiote whispered. “Because he couldn’t defeat someone who corrupted their own morals.” Baxter let the thought pickle in his mind as darkness started to creep between his sight at the edges. The more he thought about, the more the images played out in his mind. The transformation, the primal rage to kill, the feeling to hurt Blank for no other reason than to crush him.

Baxter realized he became the very thing he sought to fight, and damned himself as he softly whimpered, tears staining his cheeks as he passed out from the pain. And as he rested Symbiote made sure his every sentient thought while he slept was of his own horrible crimes.

[Amen]

Almost Easy

by Symbiosis and Blank

Hey again, guys. I’m going to do a full rubric with some light commentary here and there as you requested, but for the most part I’ve judged threads by each of you recently and much of what I said there applies here. I’ll try not to repeat myself too much.

Symbiosis will be red and Blank will be blue.

Plot Construction (13/30) (13/30)

Story – (5/10) (4/10)

Baxter’s story arc was simple, but intriguing. I like that when Symbiosis writes a battle, there’s some sort of overarching theme or idea before it that gets carried through to the last post. Still, I’m left wanting more! It may be a symptom of the short thread and you guys did well with the space you’ve given yourselves, but a high story score should reflect a significant and effective look into the lives of your characters.

Strategy – (4/10) (4/10)

Not much happens here. When you guys did use your abilities it was well-described and the effects were understood. When I started reading, I was actually pretty intrigued at the prospect of Baxter succeeding – how was he going to convince Blank not to gut him?

Setting - (4/10) (5/10)

Remember your surroundings! Remind me throughout the thread. Is the air chill? I like that Duffy mentions the stones being warmed by his passing feet. When you guys describe things, you both tend to do so well, so giving more attention to your surroundings would do a lot to bring the thread’s events into focus for a reader.

Characterization – (16/30) (16/30)

Continuity – (5/10) (6/10)

Considering this is a Citadel battle, you both did well to bring in Greater Althanas. I like that you guys had something to say about Salvar and Akashima, respectively. The way your characters behave as the thread progresses makes a lot of sense.

Interaction – (5/10) (5/10)

Character – (6/10) (5/10)

I think this is stuff I’ve been over with each of you. Love Baxter, love Symbiote, but I can only basically envision them physically. Their characters are utterly consistent all the way through, and it’s a joy to read their interactions. I can always count on chuckling once or twice. Duffy, I’m pleased to read another of your characters, because your narrative voice shifts depending on who you’re writing and that’s extremely pleasing to me. Duffy and Blank have completely different energy levels and mindsets and I can almost see you, the writer, mentally donning those characteristics when you sit down to put words to page. From both of you, the physical descriptions tend to be tantalizing details: one good eye, whipping coattails, long hair, a writhing tongue. I’m left wanting more!

Writing Style – (15/30) (17/30)

Creativity – (5/10) (5/10)

Symbiosis, you used the simile “like a stuck pig” at one point, and it absolutely worked, but I’ve seen that simile a thousand times. It’s gruesome and visceral when I stop to consider what it would actually mean, but I’ve seen it so often that I just glaze over it and the impact is lost. When someone pulls out a unique metaphor or simile that says something similar in a new way, it leaps out at me and brings back that queasy feeling. I’ve seen flashes in your writing that imply you could become incredibly good at producing effective similes and metaphors. If I were asked direct for a few of the best ways to make you a truly draw-dropping storyteller, I would point you toward developing this skill.

Mechanics – (4/10) (7/10)

I treaded this ground a bit with you in Symbiote v. Glass, Symbiosis, I won’t beat a dead horse until I read something current. Apostrophes, commas, and in post #11 you use the word “fashion” twice in rapid succession. I obviously don’t know for sure, but I would guess you write your posts very fast, or maybe they tumble out of you in a jumble onto the page. That’s a viable way to write (and I love it when I can write that way), but make sure you’re going back over that jumble with a fine-toothed comb and sprucing it up.

Duffy, same thing. Mechanically you actually did very well here, what I would point to for improvement is careful word choice. There were some awkward words here and the meanings didn’t always click (“canker” in #4, for example, and especially your use of “exegesis” in #8).

Clarity – (6/10) (5/10)

Symbiosis, you present a very clear written picture when mechanical errors don’t trip you up. Duffy, same thing, except it’s cumbersome sentences or awkward word use. I had to reread to fully understand that Blank had committed suicide.

Wildcard – (6/10) (5/10)

Totals

Symbiosis: 50
Blank: 51


BLANK gains 560 EXP and 700 GP.
SYMBIOSIS gains 168 EXP and 800 GP.

[Breaker]

EXP / GP added, thread archived.