Then Begins The Path Supreme (Closed)

[Arden]

Then Begins The Path Supreme (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MyZ1TjQM47s&feature=related)

2483



Closed to Margaret.

Set following the events of A Start To Prove Himself (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?22934-A-start-to-prove-himself-(Open-to-anyone)).

I walk a different path
I do not wield it as a weapon
I walk a different path
Your beliefs I do not spit upon

I walk a different path
Though the same mountain we do climb
I walk a different path
May common ground we find in time

I walk a different path
In perfect love and trust
I walk a different path
One not trampled to dust

I walk a different path
I try to harm none
I walk a different path
And I'm not the only one

Steph N. Janusz

[Arden]

Death.

Only then begins the path supreme...

Arden Janelle was no stranger to walking along such a path. His life was a scented and broken continuance between bodies, memories, and enlightenments. In five centuries he had never encountered a woman as curious, deadly, and creatural as the one he had met in The Citadel. In a graveyard placated by shadows and obsidian flickers, he had seen an enigma, one that was forever kept alive in his mind. He still dreamt of her eye; the pearl omniscient sphere that had burnt into memory his dying moments at the tip of a shattered stave.

He had travelled the far flung reaches of Althanas as a Spirit Warder. During those times, he had quenched the thirst of the dark creatures of the spirit world with his blade, his anger, and his will. He had ventured deep into Salvar’s icy wastes as a pious Samurai, sent from Akashima to find an ancient relic stolen in war. He had been a blood mage, bent on destruction and incivility, and many more things besides. In this life, however, he was torn between many paths. He was aware of the road to salvation, but was eternally pushed from it by unseen hands.

“Was she one of them?” he asked no-one in particular. He stood before the great iron clad doors that lead to the fighting arena beyond. The smell of sweat and sand clung to his nostrils as he took a deep breath to calm his senses before entering.

His words danced through stale air until the doors broke inwards to reveal the landscape beyond. The swordsmen fell silent, cleared his mind, and stepped through the gateway into the black expanse.

“Let us see…” he whispered. If he had drawn on his contacts correctly, and if he had trodden carefully through the under croft of Radasanth, and Scara Brae’s more scrupulous planes of existence; she would be waiting for him.

Beneath his bare feet Blank admired the swirling maelstrom of a thing he might have called a galaxy, if his tongue had ever feigned to discover the meaning of the word. At its centre a bright star shone, which he recognised solely on the merit of its shape, and the illusion of warmth that softened his skin and grimace. He tapped the surface of the galaxy and it rippled like the surface of a strange magical lake. This told him that no harm would come to him, despite the infinite bleakness he could perceive beneath it.

The doors closed as he walked forwards, hands ready on the hilt of the Rheilhand, and nerves keened against the threat unseen. The arena was a vast sphere of nothingness, wonderment, and emptiness which extended into oblivion on all sides. It was illuminated like a night sky, with miniature spheres, suns, and comets. The satellites darted around the god like combatant as he neared the centre of the platform, which was a good hundred feet in diameter. The scale of the arena bedazzled Blank. Whilst he had lived long enough to have seen all the splendid things on the surface of his home, this was a new experience altogether.

It was ironic then, that in this heaven, he would tread an all too familiar path. He was a man with many names, but in every language, tongue, and metaphor he appeared he inferred death. He had become a by word in Scara Brae for undetectable end, a talented name for assassination in Akashima’s Capitol, and a wonderful metaphor for warning away fraudulent and empirical business men in Radasanth…

In the arena however, on the border line between permanent failure on the city streets and resurrection in the infirmary, he had become the personification of something altogether more terrible. He whispered the word softly as he drew his blade, its cold call to the realm of the Thayne echoing far into the scattered field of new suns and dying worlds.

“Vengeance.”

[Margaret]

"We've found him."

Margaret's single exposed quicksilver eye snapped up from the parchment it had been previously focused on, now instead gazing at at the bowler-hat wearing form of her handler, Caine. He was normally a quiet man; something that, on the best of days, the assassin could appreciate. Still, there was something about the glasses-wearing businessman that gave even the most composed of individuals a sense of unease; perhaps it was the fact that his shades were tinted just enough so anyone looking wouldn't be able to see the eyes underneath, or maybe it was simply the sinister, shark-like smile that always seemed to be plastered to the man's pale face. Either way, he even sent chills of apprehension down Margaret's spine, and she'd dealt with far more dangerous individuals than just her handler.

Of course, she also knew nothing about him, other than he worked for the Organization as well. So, who knew?

Their meeting had not been by chance; not long ago Margaret had requested that the Organization find the assassin that she'd fought in the Citadel but had failed to finish off due to the interference of a third party. A tall, gangly man who went by the spirited name of Arden Janelle, she and him had been dueling on almost even ground, and for the first time in the Citadel she'd found herself actually being matched, if not bettered, by someone else of her same profession. Granted, he was not of the Organization, but that just had made him that more mysterious; who was this free-lance assassin whom wielded primal powers and blades with equal measure? And why had the Thaynes consigned the two of them to meet in the first place within the halls of that legendary realm of battle? For almost the first time in her life, Margaret found herself wanting answers; answers that only another duel between them could provide.

It hadn't taken long for her handler to get back to her; the Organization was large, and its resources many. And, after all, she had practically given to them free information on one of their many competitors; had she gone a day longer without any word, Margaret would have been honestly shocked. As it was, it had been over a week since her last meeting with both Caine and her prey, and the huntress was feeling a restless stirring within the pits of her bowels that surprised even her. For her, killing had always been a job, a necessity; nothing more, nothing less. Emotionlessly had she slaughtered dozens upon dozens of unsuspecting men, women, and sometimes even children in order to preserve her place amongst the Organization, and not a single life taken had she regretted.

Now, however, she no longer felt naught at the thought of fighting Arden once again; an adolescent excitement rose from deep within and filled her bones with premature adrenaline, even as her single eye met the tinted glasses of her smiling benefactor sitting patiently and silently across the table. They'd chosen to meet in one of the busiest taverns in Radasanth - The Flame's Keep, it called itself - as Margaret knew that, in the hustle and bustle of the day her business would go far from noticed by anyone in particular; a fact she was correct in assuming, as no one even glanced their table's way.

As it was, the one-eyed, black-haired assassin had to raise her voice slightly to be heard over the dull buzz of conversation in the background - her attention utterly on the task at hand. "Have you now. Where is he?"

"He never moved from Radasanth, m'dear. In fact..." There was a soft chuckle as the older, leather-skinned man reached up with one hand and tipped his bowler hat in a subconscious gesture. "...It seems that, in your search for him, he has been seeking you out as well. Curious, quite curious."

Margaret let slip a frown from her normally placid visage, the scarred end of her lips gleaming silver in the low light of the packed room. She waited patiently until a waitress, a girl younger than herself with red hair, passed their table by before turning back to her handler with her single silver eye glaring with hawk-like intensity. "...You're sure of this?"

"Indeed. In fact, the place you could find him right now is one quite familiar to you, Miss Margaret." Reaching into the briefcase that seemed to be ever-present with the man, Caine drew out a single photograph; technology that Margaret had barely even heard about, lest seen in action. Sliding the single slip of paper across the table, she picked it up with thin pianist's fingers, gazing at the image before her.

It was a simple picture, but one that told her all she needed to know; an image of the back of her prey's auburn-haired head, as he strode from one step to the next up the great flight of stairs that would lead him unto the Citadel gates. Her left eye, hidden beneath the veil of cloth that was her eye-patch, pulsed in familiarity, and calmly she slid the photograph back to her handler. "I see. In that case, I shall be going; I don't want to keep him waiting." And she meant it; she'd been waiting herself for over a week now. Restless indeed.

But before she could fully stand from her table, Caine did something that surprised her; he flipped his hand up, palm forward, in the traditional human expression to stop or pause. "Hold," He said quietly, reinforcing his gesture's silent language, and he waiting until Margaret sat back down with her frown still upon her face before continuing. "I ask you this. Do you really wish to do battle with him again?"

It seemed like a silly question to the young killer, whom had never stopped herself from going through with something in her entire life. It was why she was the way she was today. "Of course."

"Even knowing full well that he holds the advantage?" Their was a quiet, disturbing tone to Caine's voice that Margaret had never heard before, and she didn't like it.

"...What do you mean?"

"In your last duel, you revealed both of your most powerful weapons to him. He has a good idea of your speed and reactionary abilities, and you cannot hope to surprise him with your hidden blade." He rattled off these facts like firearm bullets, surprising Margaret with his almost intimate knowledge of her last excursion in the Citadel. "Most importantly, he has seen your eye; he knows that he cannot hope to use it as a blind spot now. What will you do now, Miss Margaret, now that all of your cards have been put out on the table?"

She paused. In her arrogant impatience, she hadn't thought about that. After all, she fully expected to walk into that arena and come out the eventual winner. Yes, she had played all of her "cards", as Caine stated. Yes, this Arden had shown surprises of his own; but she was the Number Eighty of the Organization, and she hadn't gotten that position by sheer dumb luck. "I will simply cut him down." She replied coldly to her handler, reinforcing her own confidence with those words.

For a couple moments, Caine was silent, staring at her beneath those darkened spectacles over steeped fingers. Then, he murmured quietly, "They may call you the 'Quiet Death', Miss Margaret, but Death is never something to take lightly. You would do well to remember that." Standing in one slow, liquid motion her handler picked up his briefcase and nodded at her with that same shark-like, foreboding smile, tipping his bowling hat in the process. "Good day, Miss Margaret, and good luck in your duel."

And with that he turned on his heel and left the assassin to her stunned musings over his words. She had never heard him speak so much, nor seem to care whatsoever what she did. What had changed? It perturbed her, and she swore that when this was over she would find out. However, as she looked out the window, her thoughts turned to the Citadel once again, and before long she too was out the door and on her way.


~+~


The darkness embraced her, even as it gave way unto light. Dim light, at that, but light enough to illuminate the pale glow of her single, exposed eye. Beneath her padded feet a swirling culmination of miniature comets, planets, and other debris listlessly made a parade of silent beauty, moving subtly every time Margaret stepped forward from the embrace of the shadows and further into the glowing nexus of what she could only describe as an exposition of nighttime loveliness; a sight she'd only seen amongst the plethora of photographs Caine always seemed to carry. Reaching out slowly, she gently touched a swirling mass of rock and energy that floated by her hair, pushing it with just the slightest amount of force, and watched with dark amusement as it was sent flying away towards the miniature scale of a large, orange planet.

A galaxy... She remembered the name of this swirling mass of life and light, rolling the word over her mind's tongue with ethereal attention. She didn't know much about it, other than it was some kind of spacial term; members of the Organization were never taught true specifics, but only enough to get them by in this new age. Still, she was amazing by the sheer size and beauty of the arena before her. If this is truly what a galaxy is like, then the Thaynes are blessed indeed...

Her musings were cut short, however, by the hissed, whispered word that culminated and formed from the other end of the arena, and slowly did her eye meet the crimson one of her fellow one-eyed assassin, who stood with blade in hand and obviously awaiting her approach. Vengeance...interesting. She'd never entertained the ideal of vengeance because she'd never had anything to avenge before, but if the dark nobility of the one standing before her had anything to do with it she was quite impressed with this "vengeance" of his. Her right hand grasped the cyper sheath of her cane-blade tighter as a silent connection was made between them; from his predator's stance and vicious expression exposed in the light of the galaxy beneath him, she assumed he would go all out straight from the get-go.

Caine's words came back to haunt her. Death is never something to take lightly. Swallowing back the last bits of hesitation in her throat, Margaret put on her killer's face as she blocked out any hints of last-minute fears or reasons. Her visage became a mask of cold, cruel dispassion; her eye an orb of ice-hard steel. Without a word in greeting she drew forth the shining metal at her side, the thin katana gleaming with the promise of drawing blood, and she dropped the sheath with a light thunk of wood upon the ground at her feet.

The dance of Death had begun again.

[Arden]

Blank watched the woman enter, almost smitten with admiration for the way she moved. Her caressing thighs brought her closer to him, her end, and to the tip of his blade. He had thought long and hard about their previous encounter. In the interim time between one clash of blades and another, he had decided that the strange reeling in the pit of his stomach was not love. It was a different and parse emotion, more…an unrequited affection for the efficiency, grace, and deadly style she carried about her like an impenetrable shield.

The assassin was to him a phenomenon.

Blank was not accustomed to being in the dark. His penchant was for the motions and origins of people, he was the Hound of The Scourge after all. It was his job to know. He had asked high and low about the woman with the strange and penetrating eye, a black mark in the shadows with a sword cane, and a wicked grin. Nobody knew anything about her. There had been whispers of a silent death, a dancer who forayed through her steps, and was gone before the body hit the ground. They had remained nothing more than whispers, secrets, and unfounded rumours without substance to grasp.

The wooden sheath hit the rippling effervescence of the swirling platform. For a brief moment it held itself in place under the notion that the floor was solid, real, and resolute in its being.

“Belief keeps us aloft in times of trouble,” he said plainly and in simple Tradespeak. There were flourishes of Akashiman dialect in the syllables, but sparse and thin, and veiled beyond his long years and many lives in every part of the world. “Without it, without that bridge of hope holding us high, we tumble and fall into the abyss of doubt.” He waved his hand after the sheath as it slipped with a soft hiss through a swirl of stars. It fell spiralling and silent into the endless oblivion beneath their feet.

“I believe you and I have a future,” he stepped a single step closer, careful not to alarm her, or declare open and brash war. He had to be cautious until he had said his peace, his part, and laid his composure onto the spiralling maelstrom for all to see. “What that future has in store I cannot say. Perhaps you will drive that cane through my aching heart in eternal silence as you resign to remain. Perhaps we will do great deeds, rejoice, and end ungrateful lives in a union of silence.”

He cocked his head to the left with a strong smile, and tucked his auburn hair behind his ears. He set the many beaded strands in the matted tufts away from his eyes, so that he could focus and keep a close watch of her quicksilver reflexes. Unlike in their previous engagement, there were no true shadows or mausoleums to be maudlin in here.

“I do not expect you to speak, stranger,” except when I am at death’s door and you make a proclamation of ending my life, “but I do expect you to weave words with your blades, and tell me where you learnt your craft.”

He stepped forwards again, his eyes reflecting bright spheres of the galaxy’s centre as he came closer and closer to it. It reminded him of a hurricane’s eye, a momentary place of beauty amidst a realm of immeasurable carnage. They would be the searing winds that tore earth from the world, the gales that toppled cities and their blades the lancing screams of the dead as they scrolled across the debris laden horizon.

“A sword is nothing more than an instrument with which a swordsmen writes his legacy and name into the world.” He drove the Rheilhand into the centre of the galaxy, and it rippled with flame outwards across the platform. It echoed vibrantly. He leant forwards and pulled the blade free. His belief kept it aloft, too precious and dear to his heart to cast it so readily aside. “Some of us like to write our names into the hearts of others who refuse to share that curtsey,” he snarled, and threw away the façade of niceties and honour.

She held no such thoughts in high regard, except to ensure she had the selfish claim to his death. “I will do so eagerly over your corpse, silence or none!” he skitter leaped forwards. His sword dropped to a low left, and rose up to a high right with a cleaving arc. He declared the truth to her, and signed it with oath bound steel.

[Margaret]

As she stood upon her end of the galactic arena, Margaret held her blade with poise, the tip of the sharp sword lifted into the air before her whilst the hilt she kept at her hip's side. The words from her long-sought prey flowed elegantly from his well-practiced lips, and she indulged him in listening. It was obvious that he'd had these words in his heart ever since they'd last met, and before she gave him the swift, silent death that he so sought she believed he should let those words go. He was correct; speech was something that rarely ever left her mouth. To her comrades, and even less so to her victims. It wasn't truly an active choice, but rather Margaret never truly had much to say that couldn't be said in an exchange of blades or the meeting of a gaze. For her, actions truly spoke louder than words.

He spoke of belief, and a destiny between the two of them. Her silver eye narrowed. She believed naught in the ways of coincidence; like the Thaynes that she fought under, she did not play with dice. Each decision led to a consequence, and each consequence led to a following decision. It was an endless cycle that those bound to the stream of Time were trapped in, their mortal, finite lives quickly snuffing out in those dark rivers. In that, what she believed was her active choices had brought the two of them back together under this banner of battle, not some pre-written destiny that hung always out of material reach. She may be a pawn in the greater scheme of the Thaynes, but she was a pawn with her own free will, and damn everything if they sought to take that away from her.

He stabbed his blade into the mass of light beneath their grounded feet, and Margaret never moved a muscle as a ripple of ethereal flame cast itself over both their flesh, warm and welcoming to the touch. Hazily a moon floated by the side of her head, nearly brushing her taut cheekbones on its ignorant passage, even as a stream of what looked to be spacial dust was separated by the still edge of her sword, floating away once more into nothingness. Despite his words, her single eye had been paying attention to the way he held his blade, and watched as he did so with a possessiveness that belied his statement that blades were naught but tools. If nothing else, Margaret knew people and understood how they worked - despite this swordsman's eloquent words and statements about destiny and what lay beyond, he too was as tied to the mortal plane as she, and would protect himself accordingly.

As eloquence gave way to an animalistic snarl, a vulgar tone with which she was familiar from their previous encounter, her body tensed as the atmosphere changed. The gathered dark at her back seemed to whisper silent words of warning, ones that were completely unnecessary. He would take the offensive; both of them had learned from their prior experiences in the Citadel how the other worked, and the consequences of such.

With a short, forward leap and a low-to-high cross slash, he ended his statement with the punctuation of his blade, sweeping in a deadly arc that was no doubt aimed to unbalance her stance and force her into a defensive position. Strike one, Margaret thought with some condescending contempt. Unlike some of her comrades and fellow assassins, she was indeed a defensive swordswoman, very at peace with the idea of waiting to strike at the perfect moment. So she would let him have the offensive; it would only further solidify her position.

She did not give way before his advance. Steel met steel as sparks flew through the silent universe about them, the clang of metal upon metal ringing like a bell within that void. With her left hand she blocked his arcing strike, but not completely; only enough to slow down his swing so that she could twist her upper body backwards ever so slightly to avoid his blade's deadly point. Twisting her left wrist, she flowed with his strike instead of trying to block it altogether, swirling the thin blade in her hand until it came down and around the edge of his own sword and back to the other flattened side, letting his momentum continue further so the swing would pass harmlessly on by to the side; all the while he left himself wide open in the chest region.

Like a viper she struck at that opening; not with blade in hand, but reverting into the forms of Selene, the martial art that she had chosen to practice. Utilizing their own opponent's strength and abilities against them, one whom practiced the art was often noted to flow like water; something that Margaret could identify with clearly. Her right arm snapped forward, left still holding her blade out defensively to the side, and with cold cruelty reflected in her single, silver eye she struck at two vital points in seeming one blur; first, her fingers jabbing at his exposed throat like snake's teeth, intent on biting and then retracting, and the second an open-palmed blow at his chest. More specifically, the heart region, as she hoped her blow would not only send this Arden of Janelle stumbling backwards but maybe even damage his circulatory system; an advantage she would well use.

You wish for a taste of my blade, fellow assassin? Come then, She thought in a harsh tone in the depths of her calculating mind. Come and embrace your silent death.

[Arden]

A clash of blades rang through the heavens.

With a serpentine lunge, Margaret’s follow up blow darted towards its target and struck quite squarely, exactly where it was intended. Blank flinched with a rasp of pain slipping from his tongue, and he stumbled back like a reed in the wind of her aggression.

Not good enough…he said to his own ego.

The silent swordsman had learnt long ago to not show the true extent of his pain and doubts to the world. Though at the time that right had been denied to him, even after the curse by his zealous father had been lifted, he had wielded silence like armour. Whilst clad in such a weapon, he retained the aura of fear he had held onto for so long.

He strode backwards out of retaliation’s way and crossed his sword in the air with a satisfying rush of air. The swirl of the galaxy continued to mesmerise and twirl. The emptiness of space, open, infinite, and swamped them both with an immensity only gifted to the gods to witness. He had suffered blows much more forcibly delivered, dagger strikes to limbs, garrotting attempts, torture beneath the cobblestones in dark sewers, and the agonies of reincarnation. This was nothing to him, and to the torturous maladies inflicted upon a soul in the spirit realm.

Margaret’s barbed lancing fist and her silence were nothing more than needles to him. He ran a finger over the still tingling skin where she had struck, and looked at her with a devilish glint in his eye. It hurt, by all means, and he could feel his heart struggle to beat faster, louder, and longer to right the arrhythmia her blow had inflicted to his system.

“I do not care to know where you learnt that, nor do I care to suffer the nuisance of pretending it hurt, so stop playing a game of thrones and shadows with me. Remind me why I hunted you down, remind me why we are here?”

He leapt.

The pounce was unprecedented, sudden, and almost barbaric compared to the riposte and elegance he had displayed in their previous encounter. He had just been jesting and dancing in the myths of the graveyard then, as he favoured spars with a singular opponent and not a melee where the odds were stacked against him. Now, however, he could be who he really was; he could howl like a dire wolf, leap like a lion, and tear throats away from their necks like the savage Kami and the raging Oni.

At the crest of his ascent he brought the Rheilhand over his head and clutched it firmly with both hands, before swinging it down in a great arc that aimed to cleave her in two, or at least shatter the centre of the galaxy with its spent energy. With its attack, The Hound of the Scara Brae Scourge barked its desire to tear out the answers from her, even if it was the last thing he did.

[Margaret]

And yet, more pointless eloquence. And yet, more dull taunts flowing from his tongue to taint the darkness about them with their presence, echoing softly in the false confinement of their battleground. Why her auburn-haired foe played around with vocals as willingly as a fool she did not know, nor cared to know. Why, truth be told, 'twas more of an irritation than an advance into the duel; she felt no rush of adrenaline, no kindred burning in her heart, to meet the dancing tongue of her fellow slayer with any sort of equivalence. Nay, merely that irritation she felt reflected itself in the silent steel of her single, mercury eye, as the dancing stars at her feet glowed hesitantly upon her pallid visage and the sinister blade still grasped firmly within her palm. The orb glared coldly from beneath the veil of obsidian locks that passed across her youthful face; the hair as fine and dark as the very void the deadly duo now stood against as a backdrop to their duel.

Her blow had struck home, and that was fine and dandy. It had, however, faltered in its strength and purpose; the physical harm she'd sought to impose upon him was lacking in evidence. Either this Arden of Janelle was a remarkable actor, or her serpentine strike had been failing in necessary finesse; cynically, she doubted it was the former, and judging by the way the masculine assassin let out a bestial roar and took to the air it seemed she was correct. A lapse in judgment on her part, but her blow had been little more than instinct; he'd intruded upon her spacial awareness, and she'd sought him out of it.

At least that, then, had been successful.

Yes, this little killer was calculating, cruel. Even as the crimson-locked warrior brought his Akashiman steel overhead in a vertical, cleaving arc, the obvious desire to cut her in two dancing upon his scarred face, she remained calm. The normal rush of blood that generally accompanied a dance of life and death escaped her; her form was based upon thoughts, upon reason, not desire. Three, nay, four; she spotted multiple openings in the dual-handed swing. Perhaps she had miscalculated; perhaps this Arden was indeed of greater acting ability than she had previously assumed, and presented such openings as a trap. She was no reader of minds, however, and had little time left; the executioner's weapon was coming upon her with hideously sharp intent.

And so, she moved.

Like a silent whirlwind did she twirl, her graceful pirouette carrying her not away from her foe's falling form but, rather, towards. There was a sharp rap as with a flash of black her foot stamped upon the cyper sheath that had been laying, previously forgotten, at her right foot; the flash of movement just so to bring the ebony wood back from the void of the 'ground' and into her unarmed grasp, expertly snatching it out of the air with a practiced grip. Simultaneously, her grip upon the deadly cane-blade reversed itself; holding it backwards, like an extremely long dagger. The movement was so quick, so subtle, that in this deep darkness it would nie-impossible to catch; especially with her ebony-gloved hands masking the movement further.

Her spin carried her towards the incoming cleave, seemingly; nay, wait, there it was. A step as subtle as her movement had been, hidden beneath the flare of her formal attire as her momentum carried it along, the ends twirling with the galaxy beneath to cause it to ripple teasingly along her diminutive steps. A step as small as she, but just enough; just enough to let the cleaving edge of his steel wisp harmlessly past her, as she turned further, mercury eye hard with emotionless intent. A whisper of movement, and there was her riposte; right hand bringing the wooden, void-colored scabbard to bear as it whipped diagonally through the air at seventy-five degree angle, seeking to smash into the back of her taller opponent's exposed head.

But wait, what was this? Margaret was, if anything, efficient; she took no assumptions that her counterattack would necessarily be successful. Even as she swung forth with as much kinetic force as her frame could muster, attempting to use the blind momentum of her dance-like pirouette as payment, the reason for a change in grip upon her blade became apparent. She drew closer still, shoulder nearly touching upraised pit of the blood-locked dandy, as she swung her left arm backwards; bringing her own deadly Akashiman weapon to bear against him in an attempt to impale the other onto her weapon via entrance into his spinal region, severing the nerves at the small of his back and ending this duel as a true killer should. Quick, and without mercy.

And all the while, her silent dispassion played upon her pale visage, single exposed eye gleaming harder than the very steel she carried in the dim glow of the careless, swirling stars beneath.

[Arden]

Arden’s confidence, swagger, and enthusiasm for life faded with a sudden rush of blood to the head. It felt warm in stark contrast to the cold twang of the blade he suddenly found piercing the lower column of his spine. The grating of metal on bone irked him and he gritted his teeth with a rasp. Timely pains rose up his back, cupped his breasts, and pressed on his clavicle and temple. His body, it seemed, was ready to give in.

The Oni coiled about the once silent swordsman’s heart however, was not. He pushed back against the woman that had so simply, calmly, and expertly undone his offence and stumbled forwards. A tide of crimson liquid squirted out from the injury, pressed and pressured to greater lengths and velocity by the tension in his muscles, hips, and tendons. His heavy boots thudded against the glimmering, radiant, and mystical cosmos that held them aloft.

“Well,” he spluttered. He fell forwards, his knees smashing into the ether and disrupting the symmetrical swirl of the universe. His eyes shone, half with the ether, and half with his inner flame. “That was…” he spat blood. It, like his earlier failings, fell with a descent that was unannounced, unrecognised, and without fanfare. He stared in the direction it fell for several moments before he finally lurched to life. “Unexpected…” he finally finished his statement, and used the dramatic annunciation of his disbelief to afford himself more pause for thought.

He could sense his opponent leering at him. For Arden Janelle, this was a humiliating way to end a confrontation. His intention in this arena of mythological proportions had been to impress the one eyed dancer of death. He was anything but thus far. There was one thing for it, he thought, as he reached for the twin-bladed dagger tucked into his belt.

“I wager you have seen many things in your life m’lady.” He clasped the blade tightly, and brought it up above his head. Its tip was poised and aimed expertly at his chest, between the curvature of his ribs and the cartilage which bound his ribcage closed and his organs within.

A roar of thunder, energy, and lightning broke the calm horizon. In front of the swordsman several comets pierced the darkness. They shot down from above, and disappeared beneath the swirling maelstrom of light. He chuckled, even with the blood of his own life force dribbling down his chin, and punched the dagger called Orichalos down into his own flesh.

“I wager immortality is not one of them…” he snarled.

The cold prang of pain that broke his last remaining concentration and strength caused him to fall forwards in a slump. His head smashed against the quasi-platform, and he fell silent, along with his treasured Rheilhand, on the cusp of greatness.

“Behold…” he whispered in his thoughts. “Blood magic.”

The vial of blood concealed in the hilt of his well-wrought, magical, and ancient dagger surged into his chest cavity like an injection of ambrosia to the soul of a shattered man. It burnt through his veins, cauterised the spinal wound, and screamed in his soul for his compliance. The Oni coiled about his heart roared with power, acknowledging the providence of Akashima’s darkest secret with a sound that could pierce the heavens.

In the distance, stars exploded in testament to that acceptance.

Face down in the universe, Arden opened his eyes with a scream, a start, and an overwhelming surge of pain that crushed his dreams... The blood magic, though bountiful, took its toll on his body. His bones, contorted by his tumble snapped back into alignment. His skin, pierced by the cold steel of Margaret’s slender implement, stitched itself back to wholeness. His heart, stopped by the onset of death, once more beat in his chest.

His fingers flexed, snapped, and took a hold of his weapons once more. It did not take him long to rise, as if pulled upright on the strings of a maniacal puppeteer, and turn to face his killer. He cocked his head, and then came to rest on more physically pleasing aesthetics. The blood magic continued to course through his veins long after it appeared to end. The Oni roared, screamed, and cackled at gaining more control over its host.

Arden’s teeth elongated, his eyes glowed, and a bloodied wing burst into life from the spot of his injury.

“Try that…again…” he crossed the dagger that had returned him to life across his midriff, levelled Rheilhand at Margaret’s neck, and waited in an aura of contempt for the battle to continue. His voice was dripping with spiritual excess, mysticism, and the echo of souls sacrificed to return him to the border of life.

[Margaret]

Oh, Thaynes be damned.

Silently did the assassin curse within the depths of her mind, a curse born from shock, mostly as the corpse of her foe arose from the ground to take up weapon and life once more. The laced hem of her gown whispered through the air as she stumbled out of instinct away from the newly arisen form of Arden, her soft-booted feet cutting through the epicenter of the metaphysical nebula, causing tendrils of multicolored cosmos to follow in her wake. Wide was the single eye revealed as she watched in newfound awe and fear as the foe she'd just thought defeated lurched to his feet once more, speaking forth now not in his dramatics and careless, almost bard-like charisma but now with a full contempt and mystical authority that his vocals had not possessed beforehand.

Their blackened arena seemed to echo the subliminal power pouring from his newfound demonic aura, as the 'air' rumbled with invisible thunder and the minuscule clusters of stars erupted into light, causing Margaret to flinch back even further as her mercury stare narrowed. Her gaze had just adjusted into the beautiful darkness, illuminated barely by the swirling solar system beneath their feet; this abrupt explosion of color and light was a cursed surprise. Instinctively she raised her right hand to eye level, shielding it partially with her clothed flesh, as she continued to watch in apprehension as her foe had the gall to taunt her.

Even as he turned, she could note that the normally life-ending wound she'd inflicted upon his spine had sealed itself shut. No, wait, that wasn't it; it'd been cauterized, like something had applied an incredibly hot flame to the severance. And, as she watched, a wing of draconian shape and blood burst forth from the very wound she was examining. It flapped into the air, filling the darkness with the salty scent of sanguine, as if mocking the petite murderer further.

She let her unblinking stare focus upon the visage of her prey as he turned to face her. There were no real noteworthy changes, but she did notice the sinister glow of his blood-tainted eyes and the primal fangs that peeked from his lips. Immortal... Margaret grit her own teeth from behind her thin lips as she instinctively took up a vaguely defensive stance, sheathing her cane-katana with one smooth, practiced movement and shifting her right foot backwards, left hand still curled around the smooth hilt of the blade. She glared, muscles finally tensed from the sudden rush of adrenaline his transformation had managed to awaken within her, as she stood ready for anything; expecting him to come at her with fury and steel, carrying the scent of bloodlust with him.

But no. He surprised her once more, by rather not doing anything save taunting her further and leveling his own katana at her neck and keeping his mysterious dagger next to his stomach. This worried her. Had he finally realized that in one-on-one combat, he held the disadvantage as long as he was on the offensive? The obsidian-locked killer struggled to keep the tension from her mask, as fear threatened to break through her calm facade. She'd fought and slain dozens of creatures of different varieties, shapes, and sizes; she'd even brought her blade to the darkness of the undead and survived to slay again. But nothing, nothing she'd ever faced had managed to have their spinal cord severed and stand up like it had been nothing.

Death is never something to take lightly.

No. No, she had to remain calm. Breathe, she told herself. Just breathe. Nothing is truly immortal. Death is inevitable for all. Even the undying. He must have a weakness. In the depths of her racing thoughts she repeated that mantra to herself, her chest's heartbeat slowing to a more reasonable, steady rate; her tiny nostrils flaring in slow, almost meditative exercises. Yes, everything could die. Even she. Caine had been correct; death was to never be taken lightly. And that accounted for the man standing before her, humming with subtle, powerful energies.

And he was being so kind, so chivalrous, as to give her this time to evaluate him and find out just what his weakness was. Fool. He should have struck when she'd been caught off guard.

She would make him regret it.

Slowly, she arose to her full (yet petite) height of five-foot-five, letting her left hand fall from the hilt of her blade and to her hip. She was far from unarmed, however; in that sleeve she carried one of her razor-sharp stilettos, ready to be flicked into her grasp at a single twitch of her wrist. Playing a small, taunting simper upon her pallid lips she allowed a steady, alto chuckle to arise from her vocals, playing upon the crackling air with disdainful casualness. Slowly, she began to step off to the side, left shoulder facing her foe as she looked over at him with her steely eye. "...I must admit, that is indeed a new trick." Her words rolled forth from her tongue for the first time, soft but easily carrying across the starlit expanse between the duo. She let a contemptuous smirk fall upon her scarred lips, as she sauntered deeper into the darkness, still slowly circling the dual-blade wielding assassin like a lioness does a wounded bull; careful, but hungry.

[Arden]

The pain coursing through Arden’s body was only half the cost of his blood magic. Later that day he would have to purge his soul of the taint he had invited into his being. He would have to cleanse the corruption he had sown into his very essence. Whilst he was already possessed by the Komodo, a Greater Oni, the dagger wound had let in another creature – gibbering and cackling. It danced about the swordsman’s heart with glee. It would be a long time yet before the once silent swordsman was free of his selfish desire to survive.

For now, he would suffer.

For now, he would acquiesce.

“Tell me this, black widow,” he wiped the corner of his mouth, removing a gobbet of spit with the hem of his sleeve. “Why do you come here?” Arden levelled the question at his opponent knowing fully well she was here on his invite. What he wanted to know, however, was why she had accepted.

The cosmos swirled beneath the man’s feet, dragging with it his strength, his passion, and his determination. Even with the bloodied wing gifting him with levity, buoyancy, and an aura of terror, he could feel his stamina begin wane. A swirl of colour rose as the strands of the galaxy broke apart and shifted underfoot. At the heart of the nexus, set against a backdrop of infinite bleakness, something began to emerge. Life itself was pouring out of the universe’s nebulae epicentre.

“Why do you breathe the air? Why do you waltz through the shadows? Why do you insist on spying weakness everywhere you tread?” he stumbled to maintain composed, focussed, and defiant. Though he had expected much from her, based on their previous encounter, she had already far exceed his expectations.

As his concentration faltered his wing lost its shape. The blood fell in a torrent of congealing slime that momentarily stopped on the invisible floor. It slipped away with a rush of cold air and it too vanished into the abyss. His upright stance slipped, just enough to show he was wavering, and Arden could only grip his blade tighter, his dagger stronger, and his tenets dearly.

“You could kill me a thousand times but I do not think you would ever come to,” he smacked his lips, defeated by his parched gullet and his sweating brow, “enjoy it.” He smiled, his expression laced with contempt. “Yet, there is a relish of another sort on the tip of your tongue.” He sheathed his twin-bladed dagger, still covered in his own blood, and took Rheilhand firmly into a shaky dual-handed grip.

He took a deep breath of the stagnating air and sighed. He had been like her once, a long time ago. He had wandered aimlessly and found nothing but death, decay, and madness in the shadows. In the sound of silence he had been given the opportunity to find himself in the wider world. He had found a purpose in having a reason to live. He could only wander what hers was.

“It is the relish of the hunt, the chase, and the pursuit of the victim.” It was a relish he knew all too well. When his bare feet padded against the dark cobbles, and when his prey finally realised their time was up, Arden used to feel so alive he could vomit. “So tell me,” he twisted his blade in his sweating palms and advanced with a gait. “How was the hunt?” he snarled, his fangs elongating down from his jaw as he turned the snarl into a roar. His contempt, tethered behind a masquerade until now unfurled with them.

He slashed down across her chest, right shoulder to low left. He had one final say in their confrontation before the oni consumed him, her cold steel skewered him, and before his life gave out like a star deadened by the onset of time.

[Margaret]

Within mere minutes of her arrival, Margaret's appreciation for the other single-eyed killer had fallen from impressed to irritation, and now, finally, to dead resolution. The apprehension that had previously flooded her veins now dispersed away in a matter of seconds, as the spittle-adorned, fanged Arden of Janelle strode at a lengthy, but desperate gait towards her.

Even as he advanced, she retreated; but this was not out of fear, nay. This was just more webs lying in wait for the careless swordsman, as her petite form stepped further into the encroaching darkness surrounding the silently swirling nebula. She said nothing as he called her forth, bespeaking, pleading almost for a response from her scarred lips. She was not like him. No longer did she desire to know him, to understand just whom the crimson-haired swordsman was; he was just another obstacle in her path now, just another body waiting to fall into her trap.

And eagerly did he do so. She had expected a renewed rush of strength, perhaps a flicker of crushing power, or a utilization of that demonic energy that crackled physically about his being. But no. Merely, snarled a question of rhetoric before bringing his steel to bear in a diagonal slash at the darkness before him.

The fool.

Just as he brought his weapon downwards, perhaps the other, masculine killer would glimpse in the darkness a single, sinister golden; a gleaming, encircling ring of amber that took place where the woman's right eye was normally covered by that eye-patch. The flowing, spacial existence beneath their feet spun, illuminating the darkness briefly; showing thin cracks of black crawling along the murderess's visage, spreading from the corner of her newly-uncovered right orb. It spread into her hair as the parasite dwelling within her skull awoke, and as his weapon cut through space, seeking to cleave into her right shoulder, she moved; her expression always one of passive disinterest.

It was fortunate that he happened to be standing right in front of her; between the glowing stars and pseudo-galaxy that served as the epicenter for their "duel". For as soon as she unveiled the monster dwelling within her right eye, her visual senses erupted with color. Auras burst like flames, burning to a newfound, combustive source, as the tiny little stars became full-fledged suns in the space of a single instant. The very room lit up like an obsidian palace set to burn, and had she not have the fortune of her foe's flesh serving as a shield to this light, she may have inadvertently blinded herself. But nay, Arden of Janelle was not that lucky; he'd strode confidently into the web of the very woman he'd just called a black widow. Perhaps even he lacked the knowledge of how true that was.

With both, mismatched eyes gazing upwards at the falling blade, in that space between physical reality and mental reality she managed this thought to herself; How...slow. It was accentuated by the tiniest movement of her raven-locked head; a tiny, tiny tilt to the side. It would have been adorable had she not been a cold-blooded killer. And indeed, to her now hyper-perception, the katana fell slowly; as if trying to cut through water. The effects of her eye would be short-lived, however; even now she could feel the parasite's strain as it struggled to keep her muscles matching up with the superhuman rate of adrenaline rushing through her veins. And not two seconds had passed. Both eyes narrowed in that space of time, and then, she moved.

Defensive swordsmanship was something that Margaret obviously excelled at. She hated expelling needless effort, as Arden seemed to do so most generously, when a single cut in her foe's careless openings drew out the same, if not better, results. There was no wasted space on her part; she let the blow cross to her. Again, a single step slightly off to the side. Again, a subtle movement that could barely be caught by the naked eye, and not even taking into account the darkness from within she stood, as the cyper scabbard gleamed. A tiny, barely perceptible sway of her upper body as her gaze remained focused on her foe's snarling, twisting face; comical, even, with its slowly-transforming effects. But she did not laugh. She had no time to. The Akashiman steel, as dully passive as it appeared to be, was deadly still, even with Janelle's desperate lunge; a fact she was coldly reminded of as the very tip of the blade cut into the fabric of her gown, splitting down across her chest and cutting open the bandages she'd wrapped around her breasts. The white fabric curled and danced into the air as it was newly freed from its binding, releasing the flesh previously bound down to help her movements. Her sway had not been far enough; his diagonal cut still managed to go even further, to slice open the skin just underneath her bust before finally reaching empty again, its tip coated in her crimson lifeforce.

As true to her nature, however, she paid no mind to any of these things; barely even noting the thin cut now spreading warmth down her side. For as soon as his steel had left her flesh, her limbs were moving. Like a blur of darkness did her gloved digits wrap around the hilt of her own katana, still sheathed within the scabbard in her right hand, as her left drew it forth swiftly, without hesitation. The deadly blade sung quiet through the air as it left the confines of the cyper behind, shining metal gleaming with the last flecks of blood still staining its razor edge. There was almost an invisible hum to it as it arced upwards in a deadly crescent, the edge aiming directly for the side of the foolish dandy's exposed neck; intent clear in the gleaming flat of the blade. No being that possessed flesh and blood could survive having their head separated from the rest of themselves; at the very least, she aimed to sever his vocal cords and smite his jugular, if he somehow managed to lean back and away from the super-humanly swift cut. For she had chosen this moment for a reason; this moment when all of his momentum, his strength, was pressed forward, towards her. The moment when he was most vulnerable, most open.

A cruel mistress indeed, was she.

[Arden]

Arden had expected two possible outcomes from his overextended strike. The first was success, and a brutal wound cutting across her ample chest. The second was less fortunate, but ended with her slick withdrawal, and a heavy strike against the maelstrom of the cosmos that held them aloft in the darkness. To have considered a third would have belittled his usually confident approach to life.

He witnessed his own true death in a manner only befitting criminals, murderers, and assassins.

Arden Janelle was all three.

He felt righteous.

Margaret’s katana connected with the bulging vein of his neck with a deft strike, and cut through his sinew, bone, and blood without difficulty. His efforts to appease his guilt were like a hot knife through salty butter. Though the Hound of the Scourge had intended to lure the assassin here to recruit her, it was she that was destined to teach him a thing or two about the cold, cruel, and perilous art of death.

His corpse, bereft of a head, fell unceremoniously to its knees. The Rheilhand, a sword that had seen the end of many a man clattered to the floor. It bounced back and forth like a seesaw, rattling to a final, stable, and solitary resting place. With a rush of air, silent, deadly, and without grace the corpse fell back. The skull of auburn hair, crimson spray, and a pained expression of silent surprise rolled away from the direction of the killing blow. Three beats, heavy and hard, sounded out the slowing of the momentum of Arden’s skull.

“Good lord, she is quick,” he mouthed, watching the battle unfold through its final moments from the rickety, salty, and ancient jetty in the recesses of the plane that gave the Tantalum Troupe life. The sound of silence took away any surprise that might have uttered, if he had been alive to utter it. The mercury sea boiled, broiled, and bobbed to and forth beneath the jetty.

“Just quick enough to count,” he added, though mentally. He sat on the jetty, legs crossed and auburn hair flowing in the soft breeze that blew in from the south. “We have a future together, you and I,” he raised a non-existent champagne flute to the breeze and smiled warmly. His shimmering eyes continued to examine the unfolding drama through the vast skein of inter plane torment that marred the silver horizon. Even though he could not speak, he sang a song of triumph in the mind of the Thayne Tantalus.

His corpse, from his twisted view, twitched one last time before it finally came to rest. The blood streamed from his neck wound and fell, undeterred by the phantasmal floor that held them aloft down into the dark.

“You will do very well in the Scourge…” he mouthed, lowering his glass and pressing against his calf muscles. That, however, was for another day.

This encounter was just the very start of a long, intricate, and well woven tapestry of fate. With Arden's death, a future was drawn.

Because after death, only then begins the path supreme.

[Margaret]

Sidestep, twist, then a silver flourish of her blade; a dancer's grace in those light, quiet movements as Margaret slipped past the falling form of her former foe, flicking her katana off to the side to rid it of the dark, salty liquid that stained its length. Duo-toned eyes stared downwards, reflecting the glittering stars beneath and about, as they took in the sight of the headless corpse without notable emotion. Even now, in the wake of her victory, she wore a killer's mask; the only sound left to note being the thin, vibrating hum of her blade and the splattering of gore and ichor emerging from the assassin's body unto the metaphysical ground. She stared in silence before her right eye twitched, and her placid visage twisted and turned to a snarl, shutting her right "eye" as she could feel the parasite dwelling there beginning to stir further. It hurt; even worse than the wound she'd suffered attempting to avoid the falling blade, which still dripped her life blood down her bare mid-drift. Stifling a cry of pain on instinct by biting her lip, she waited until the creature in her skull seemed to settle down before exhaling slowly, sheathing the long Akashiman blade in her grasp with the soft movement.

That was the problem with her 'hidden' weapon. It provided a significant boost to her perception and reactionary abilities, but she could only unveil it for seconds at a time before the otherworldly creature began to strain her body. Margaret herself did not exactly know how it worked; when the monstrosity had been implanted into her wounded socket, she'd only been told that it would be a weapon. She'd suffered the side-effects on her own. Still, what was done was done; it wasn't as if she could simply have the thing removed, now.

As she stood there, enveloped finally by the silent dark and the soft glow of the starlit nexus, the cold assassin let her one-eyed gaze fall upon the corpse once more. Several thoughts traversed the vast, empty expanse that served as her partition; the void that prevented psionics from stealing those very thoughts from within her head. Passively she let her visage fall into nondescript attention once more, holding her hidden blade at her side with lithe, unconscious tension. She half expected the mutilated mess at her feet to once more arise from the ground, that mouth of his running yet again. How he'd managed to survive a severance of his spine was beyond her. At least that was something to be afraid of, and it had more than caught her off guard. But in the end, he held true to the one, common truth of all life; there was nothing infinite. Everything ended.

She stood there for a time, cloaked by the darkness, before a sound to her right caught her attention. It was soft, undisturbing; perfect for the slowly emerging glow that let through a new figure into the bloodied battleground. They were covered from head to toe in soft robes that Margaret could only guess was made of linen, with the cowl upraised just enough to prevent the murderess from noticing the features of their face. Just as well; she already knew just whom, or rather, what, this individual was.

"Congratulations on your victory." A low, masculine voice, befitting the form it originated from, traveled to her ears. Margaret of course said nothing in response; there was little to be said that wasn't obvious. "Would you like your injuries and clothing repaired, Miss?"

"Please." A single, firm syllable. She wanted out of that realm as soon as possible. She'd done her duty and seen what was left to be seen. Now, there was nothing more.

Death was never something to be taken lightly.
No spoils requested.

[Morus]

If you have any questions, please reach me through AIM or PM.

Arden Janelle
Margaret

Plot - 21 / 18

Storytelling (6/6) –
Both of you did a good job peppering in some character information during the story. However, I believe I could only follow along so easily with these characters because I had read A Start to Prove Himself (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?22934-A-start-to-prove-himself-%28Open-to-anyone%29). Arden and Margaret's strange compulsion to meet again in the Citadel isn't fully explained without browsing through the former thread, but the gist is available to the audience. Still, towards the end, Arden mentions his “invitation” that he extended to Margaret, but all he did was enter the Citadel a week after the first encounter (or at least a week after Margaret pumped her organization for more information on Arden.)

Setting (7/6) –
The setting for the battle could not have been chosen better, and both of you used it well. But Arden's descriptions, especially towards the beginning, really helped to paint a more lustrous scene of what was happening. Stabbing the center of the galaxy really brought a level of interaction to this grand and cosmic duel.

Pacing (8/6) –
Margaret, one of my biggest issues is your habit for repeating the actions of the previous post. Slim down the replay paragraphs and you could greatly improve your pacing. Other than that, both of you had some clunky word usage and typos, but neither in the abundance to truly detract too much from pacing.

Character - 18 / 22

Communication (6/7) –
Arden's dialogue was rather mundane at times, but his sword sinking into the flaming center of the galaxy and revival from death speech improved your score on this part. These acts did a lot to add depth and made Arden's constant chatter much more tolerable. Margaret, your communication was at its brightest when you stuck to stoic silence. There is a lot of power in a character who refuses the banter in a fight, and prefers to talk with her mouth, brow, eye, and blade.

Action (7/8) –
The action was appropriate most of the time, though I cannot truly understand a lot of the logic behind some of Arden's decisions. Margaret, cutting Arden's throat in twain had a ring of poetic justice to it.

Persona (5/7) –
This is the lowest score for you, Arden. At times, your character came off as manic depressive, with highs and lows that changed by the angle of Margaret's scowl. I understood pretty early on that Arden had some interest in his female counterpart, and for a while I considered this as damn near as flirting gets with knives; but the utterances of vengeance at the beginning (I'm honestly not sure why Margaret didn't ask you straight faced what that was about, because she hit you once, with a blunted wooden edge on the shoulder in the last fight) made me question what the hell he was thinking. Margaret, as I've said in Communication, you have a talent when it comes to the Stoicism. I found your monologues less intriguing than I did the narration and actions taken to really set you apart from your talkative opponent.

Prose - 23 / 18

Mechanics (8/5) –
Arden, you have a fantastic grasp of the English language, but you do still stumble at times. Make sure to proofread your threads, as a few of your posts have some rather glaring typos and continuity errors. Margaret, as I've discussed with you on aim, there are a lot of missteps here; almost enough to really be distracting. Make sure you proofread as well, and get some poor slob to double check. It never hurts.

Clarity (7/6) –
Sometimes Margaret, your actions got to the point of such complexity that they became hard to follow. This wasn't often.

Technique (8/7) –
You two are incredibly close in this respect. There were times, Margaret, when I saw subtle hints of alliteration, and your last three posts had more of a poetic prose to them, as well as some experimentation with narration I found refreshing, but ultimately an odd choice. Arden, your posts, though clunky in some places, were a pleasure to read.

Wildcard (10/10) -
Despite a number of issues I had with this thread, I felt utterly enthralled by it. Perhaps the prequel whetted my appetite, but there was certainly something engaging about this battle in the stars.


Score - 72 / 68

Arden Janelle receives 1800 EXP and 350 GP
Margaret receives 540 EXP and 175 GP

In addition, the monks of the Citadel were so impressed by your battle that they awarded each of you a small gift for keeping the spectators so entertained.

Arden receives the moon that almost smashed into Margaret's face, though only the size of a tennis ball now. There's something vaguely reminiscent about the silvery globe, though nothing particularly noteworthy about it.

Margaret receives a miniature, dim blue star. Small enough to fit into the palm of her hand, it emits a faint light with no heat. Keeping it in a pouch should prevent it from giving away your position.

[Letho]

EXP/GP added.