The God's Chosen meets a Shattered Mind (Closed; Phantom Vs Chosen of the Gods)

[Phantoms-Heart]

'Wake up you bastard!!!'

With the echoing scream of a young child's voice, Reginald awoke. A low growl escaped the mage's throat, his left arm coiled around his pillow tensing up as his fingers dug into the fabric like claws. With a sudden burst of manic energy, Reginald propelled himself from his bed, and with a scathing ferocity hurled the pillow into the stone wall of his bed chamber, screeching his hatred after it.

"SHUT UP AND LET ME SLEEP!"

There was the mixed sounds of laughter of multiple voices, each with a different theme, tone and inflection. One was a young woman who chortled violently, Another an old man who wheezed his mirth, and yet another a young child who's shriek's of what may have been delight twisted into malicious mirth. The voices didn't care if the Mage was rested or not, their reasons unknowable only to themselves. They knew that the mage could do nothing to get rid of them, he needed them, and it was something Reginald knew very well.

Trembling from his barley contained anger, the feverish green eyes that shone out from the sharp angled face of Reginald Crane began to dart around the room, recognizing his surroundings. The plain stone walls met with the cracked floor and arching ceiling, with its only contents a bed and a desk. The vast emptiness of the room was filled only with the young wizards traveling gear, and recently washed robes folded on top of his pack. He was in one of the travelers quarters at the Citadel, the greatest battle arena in Althanis's history. The plainess of the room was almost maddening, without anything to really focus on, it allowed the voices to bother the mage even in sleep.

'Time to fight dear, time to RIP THE GUTS OUT OF YOUR ENEMY!'

The sweet motherly voice that spoke out quickly morphed to that of a demon spewing hellfire in the shattered corners of the mages mind, causing the young wizard to grit his teeth against the other. The sun was beginning to rise, and he hadn't even had breakfast, yet the voices compelled him to bring himself to the arena to fight and defeat whoever it was he needed to challenge.

"FINE!" Reginald snapped at the silent stone walls, reaching over and tearing his robe's away from the rest of his gear. "You want me to fight so bad, I will."
The Mage continued to grumble as he reached for his spell book, opening its pages as he scanned its contents. He needed to be prepared of his fight...hunger or no hunger.

~***~

An hour later, Reginald had entered into the illusion filled arena that an early rising monk set up for him. The poor monk was startled by Reginald's snappish manner, but quickly set up a room and a space for the young mage to challenge his opponent.

Where he stood was in the middle of a great plane of tall, yellow grass, With each breath of the breeze sending the great field rippling with each bend and sway of the area. The noon-day sun beat down upon the great savannah, causing the red robed Reginald to sweat profusely. He had to curse the Monk, he was certain that he had put him in a very open field with oppressive heat and light on purpose.

'Now deal with the suns chosen warrior'

The voices spoke again, their unconstrained glee ominously ringing through spaces between Reginald's thoughts, causing his eyes to narrow. He had to wonder if the speakers of his mind enjoyed watching him suffer.

Upon the approach of his opponent, Reginald pulled out his knife and held the beginnings of an abjuration spell upon his lips. It was time to express his frustrations of the whispers of his mind upon this individual, by flaying each and every bit of meat from his adversary bones.

[Chosen of the Gods]

Alone inside a Spartan quarters, kneeling before a window that gazed upon the beauty of Radansath from one of the towers of the Citadel prayed the desert warrior Ahk’Ran. Before him was one small bone statue of the god of the Sun, Chka, who looked like a human with eagle wings for feathers. He bowed several times, muttering his native tongue how grateful he was for the bounty of life, strength, and health. When he had finished he knelt before the idol, arms draped in front of him as he laid his bald forehead upon the cool stone of the floor, smiling as he kissed the floor and offered a silent prayer to Hebge, the god of the earth.

After finishing his morning prayers he lifted himself up and moved one muscular arm forwards to wrap his fingers around the idol, where he reverently lifted it to his chest and stood walking four paces to his leather bag. He opened the flap and placed the idol next to the other ones he brought with him from his of Far Ka’Lad and looked ton the bronze curve of his Khopesh with a nod of determination.

Ahk’Ran Kopesh had been born a warrior of the kingdom of Far Ka-Lad. Customs had dictated the first child of any noble family be given to the priests, while the second was left to the military to train from a young age. Part of his warrior pride had led him to the curiosity of challenging another foe who was not his partner, nor a member of Fallien. This dream had to be left on hold for several years, but after a series of events that the gods ordained for Ahk’Ran, testing his faith and his resolve, the man found himself with the freedom to leave the desert home he valued so much.

His first stop was to fight in the grand Citadel of Radansath, where he tested his skills in a multitude of arenas from peaceful grassy knolls, to the raging sea on a storm rattled boat. Much to his ire, however, was the foes Ahk’Ran faced those times. Both men in their own right had claimed themselves a demon. Both men had sought nothing more than the total destruction of the Fallien native. In those fights Ahk’Ran had learned that the strands that Djalf, god of trickery, wove had been all in an effort to get the warrior to see his place within the world.

Ahk’Ran truly felt that he was chosen of the gods to do their bidding, and rid the planet of demons and foul taint, for they had no purpose in the lives of the gods. So it was that Ahk’Ran had tested his mettle against several other would be demons and madmen, dispatching each with his own skill and courage. Some fights had saw him near death, a few even ending in such a result, but his resolve never wavered. He would learn all he could before moving on from the Citadel.

Finishing his morning routine, the desert warrior took his belongings and headed towards the door where he had found a woman walking down the marbled floor way. Her boots were heeled by two inches and they clicked against the floor gently with each flawless step she took. Her skin was a ghostly pale as if the Chka had yet to kiss her flesh, and she had winter white hair that draped down her shoulders to her frail frame. Ahk’Ran had always gawked to the beauty and smiled like a dolt as she slowed her gait to stop to give the Fallien native a passive smile, her glacier blue eyes casting a look of contemplation. One elegant finger lifted upwards to move her hair away from her pointed Elven ears, before lowering it to her chin as she tapped the base of her lower lip.

“Balak Sunchi…” She said slowly, almost as if she were asking a question. Ahk’Ran grinned and his face flushed slightly red as he shook his head side to side.

“Not quite,” Ahk’Ran spoke heavily as his clapped his hands together and bowed to her lightly. “Balak Shuukai is what you wanted to say.” The woman giggled as she lowered her hand back to her side, crossing her arms to just under her breasts. Her white shirt ruffled a bit as her brown knee long skirt fluttered in the soft breeze from the window.

“Oh, I thought it was the other way around,” She admitted. “Let me see if I can regain myself; did I say good evening on accident?” Ahk’Ran nodded, and she repeated the correct phrase a few times before she gestured she was moving on.

“I do appreciate the…think?” Now he felt a bit out of place as he did his best to speak what very basic common he knew.

“Thought,” She corrected lightly.

“Ah. I do appreciate the thought.” He smiled. They walked together slightly down the halls where they turned to head for the lower levels where Ahk’Ran would search for a room that held a combatant for him to test his skills against. “I have learned a new word!” He suddenly said excitedly. “You are a mahhnk…moenk…” The woman was about to lift her head and correct him, but he stopped her determined to say the word correctly. He closed his eyes as he let several incorrect pronunciations slip off his tongue in silent whispers. At last he looked to her with a smile.

“A monk!” She clapped to him as he impishly looked to a few doors and decided upon which portal he would allow to whisk him away. “You are a priestess!”

“I am no priestess, I merely tend to the duties of the Citadel. I have not even begun the full mastery the Ai’Bron monks have over the trials of life or death. I see you however are coming along quite nicely in your battles. It has been a long, long time since I’ve seen you in my medical ward. I take it you are having success?” Ahk’Ran had to take several seconds to translate what she was saying, and after a few moments he nodded.

“Yes, my gods have favored me with victory as of late. But I cannot become rested with my pride.” The Elf laughed. “What?”

“Rested? Did you mean comfortable, Ahk’Ran?” The warrior cursed in his tongue in a teasing manner as she giggled before turning to head towards a hallway Ahk’Ran had walked several times himself. Her medical ward was down those halls.

“You tease me too much! I have no proper instructor,” Ahk’Ran looked to her and she stopped turning her head and smiling to him in challenge. “Only when you have mastered my dialect will I let you correct me on mine!” he laughed.

“Well, do you propose a trade of sorts?” She inquired. Ahk’Ran nodded. Though he could feel his heart racing he knew deep down he had been wanting to ask her out for quite a while. Now was not the time to grow cold feet as he confidently looked to her with a grin.

“I do indeed. A dinner where we can discuss things in our native tongues. Of course I shall buy you.” The Elf slumped into the wall, her body shifting one of the portraits of a duel between two powerfully built warriors as she laughed. Ahk’Ran retraced his last words, trying to find what he said wrong as he grinned.

“You surely jest? Buy me?” She shook her head. “I do hope that was a mistake, good sir, for I am not a piece of meat to be purchased.” Ahk’Ran still looked confused and the Elf crossed the distance to stand before him. She was slightly taller than him in her heeled boots. “I take it you meant to buy me the food, right?”

“Yes, did I not say that?” She shook her head and pointed to her chest. Ahk’Ran realized the faux pas instantly.

“Oh my, many apologies!” The Elf lifted a hand up to his lips and silenced him.

“Tell you what,” She smiled. “If you survive today’s battle and not show up in my medical ward, I’ll have the night off and I’ll happily spend it with you. But if you lose, Ahk’Ran Kopesh, I’ll be the one to have to stay and sew you back together.”

“Than I shall not lose!” He said with determination turning right around and walking through the first door he saw. “I shall see you later, desert vixen!” Ahk’Ran teased to her with the pet name he gave her the first time she put him back together.

There was always that slight moment of discomfort that Ahk’Ran felt when moving into an arena, the sudden tug of his muscles, the pulse of his blood and the silent ache in his teeth. It was all over rather quickly and he looked upon the glorious sunlight inside a feel made of pure gold. The radiance illuminated each stalk brightly and the bronze of his weapon and armor glittered as he lifted the heavy weapon up into his grip.

He softly stepped forward, feeling each growth of fauna rub against his skin like silk. Some stalks of the golden grains had managed to find a ticklish spot upon the desert native and he let out a slight grunt of suppressed mirth. Had he knew he was about to find an opponent of sorts he would have instead started dancing in the fields, praising the gods for his luck to find a date for the evening.

But he was not some romantic klutz who easily lost sight of his goals when a woman was around. He was a warrior first and was prepared to enter the battle as one. Just because he had incentive to win did not even register in his mind as his sandal covered feet crushed the grain in his steady walk forwards. This fight would have a perk, but the real offering for victory was to the gods themselves. With that determination in mind he lifted out his Khopesh and raised it high overhead into the sky.

“<I am Ahk’Ran Kopesh! I offer my life and this fight to the gods! Praise be their names!>“ He shouted in Fallien. With his pre battle ritual out of the way he lowered the weapon and slowly began to cut the golden stalks like wheat to a scythe.

He knew not of his foe, where he was, or what he was capable of, but with the gods themselves watching how could he fail?

[Phantoms-Heart]

With the vicious voices nagging in his head how was he expected to concentrate?

Reginald continued to grumble to himself as he made his way through the yellow sea of grain and wheat, the crunching of the stalks beneath him snapping like dry bones long baked under the ever perpetual noon-day sun. He had caught the barest glimpse of his opponent a good distance away, the bright shining of his bronze armor and the great sword in his hand striking out like a beacon, while a battle cry rang through the air like a brazen bell.

Reginald's feverish green eyes narrowed in an accursed sense of recognition. While he didn't understand the language or make out all the words, he recognized the dialect and the inflection in which it was spoken. Fallien, the native language of his home country, the country he had sworn to annihilate for killing everyone in his village for nothing more then a simple rumor.

Upon opening one of the three infamous scrolls of Ullik, its dark magics and knowledge burning itself into the mages mind and sundering it, Reginald knew his purpose was to gain the power necessary to destroy the Kingdom which doomed his village. However, he needed experience, he needed to learn, he needed more power, and so he traveled through the country that had doomed him to his current state. Gathering what knowledge he could, he traveled here to the citadel to gain the ever needed experience of combat and blood shed.

It shouldn't have surprised him that another member of his home country would have traveled here, but now it only gave Reginald more incentive to mercilessly tear this man apart. They were all guilty, as far as Reginald was concerned, and each of them deserved nothing less then the most gruesome of deaths.

A low growl emanated from the mad mage's stomach. The voices had been so persistent of him to get to the fight that he had skipped breakfast. Well, perhaps the well toned meat of a warrior would quell the hunger if he could get away with it, but for now he had to get close enough to actually attack his opponent.

It had dismayed him quite a bit when he had spotted his adversary in the fact that he was not powerful or experienced enough to have fired a blast of powerful arcane doom upon his opponent from such a distance. In retrospect though, it was probably for the best, because he would have had to walk all the way over there anyway to deal with his opponent if he had taken to crawling through the golden stalks to avoid his ire.

"Burn it Down, BURN IT ALL DOWN!"

Reginald had to pause at this, It wasn't a bad idea, it would present a whole new set of problems for his opponent. For one, the benefit of having an entire field on fire would have the effect of causing his opponent to have to find some kind of cover in the open area quickly from the speeding flames devouring the dry stalks in its path. Next, the smoke in the air would seek to smother his opponent, cloying what breathable air was in the area, and screening the blood red robes of the mage himself from view of his adversary. Along with the smoke and the rapidly consuming flame would come the lack of cover as well as the exhausting heat from both the sun and the flame, wearing his opponent from heat exhaustion as well.

The downside was that Reginald might also be affected the same way...unless he was able to propel the flames and smoke away from his direction. A vile smile crept along his face, all he needed to do was a few minor spells and then the plan would begin. He wouldn't have to face his opponent directly, not yet anyway, but he would at least bring his opponent to an almost equal level physically speaking, and then Reginald's true advantage would give him the edge he needed.

Reginald focused on an area of grass about ten feet away, well within his range of influence, and began to speak the words of the spell, calling upon the power of evocation to send a small blast of fire into the area and make it spread into a long wall of flame facing in a half circle of a ten foot radius with the ends meeting on Reginald's left and right sides, the focal point in the direction of his opponent. It wouldn't be as difficult thanks to the dry grass with the scorching sun beating down upon it, allowing for less energy to be put into the spell. What he would follow up with this wall of flame would be another evocation spell, a light enough breeze to cause the fire and smoke to be pushed in the direction he wanted it to go. It would leave Reginald's vision clear and at the mage at low risk of becoming a part of the fires ever increasing hunger.

The mad mage drove all thoughts of hunger out of his mind, though the voices remained and continued to quip and screech at him while he conducted his spell. A shudder ran through Reginald's frame as he spoke the words, his already feverish eyes lighting up with the thrilling song of power coursing through his body and animating his gestures as he weaved and articulated his spell through every move of his sallow fingers. His mouth spoke with words that were both his own and yet not his own, the power of the magic both possessing him and yet guiding him to its completion. That was the thing about magic, Reginald had come to realize, it wanted to be free, it wanted to alter the world around it, and Reginald was more then willing to oblige it, so long as it aided him in his goals.

With the last few words of arcane power ringing through the air, his both of his hands close together, his index and middle fingers pointing to the area in which the first blast of flame would strike, he felt the power surge through him, up his arms and to the points of his fingers, rushing out of him in a small gout of fire. The Red hot flames burst into the grass, eagerly consuming the dry and easily catchable stalks like locusts upon the harvest. The spell was not completed however, as Reginald twisted his hands, causing the flames to arch around him into a semi-circle around him, a ten foot encompassing half circle of devouring flame surrounding him.

Reginald was trembling. Not from exhaustion as one might have expected but from the thrilling arch of power that had just run through him. It would take more casting to begin to tire him, and he wanted to carry the momentum to the next spell he was about to cast.

Focusing again quickly, his hands began to flow more easily, his words light and soft, a whisper as he exerted his influence over the wind, commanding it to his bidding. The thrill of power was just as intoxicating, as Reginald felt his power ring out through the still air and give it animation, a breeze emanating from around him in a radius, pushing itself into the flames around him, feeding the flames to new strength and pushing them forwards and away from the insane wizard.

The flames reached new heights, reaching about five feet in height thanks to the breeze and the abundance of dry grass, rapidly beginning to devour all around it in the same semi-Circle Reginald had set up for it. As with any fire in a Savannah, it spread quickly, especially with the hot breeze at its back, quickly reaching past Reginald's twenty five foot range of influence and beyond in a matter of seconds. The fire was on its own now, and the smoke billowed away from the made and towards his adversary.

The mad mage couldn't repress a smile at what he had done. Soon his opponent was going to have to deal with a force of nature, something few mortal men could ever tame. The combination of flame, smoke, and heat would be his fellow combatants enemy now, and all Reginald had to do now was wait, maybe make a few alterations should the flame or smoke attempt to be driven his way, but otherwise all he needed to do was wait for his opponent, the vast sea of gold turning into an ocean of flame before him, the blue sky and yellow sun beginning to be blotted out from the storm clouds of smoke and ash in the air.

Reginald's stomach growled again, but Reginald ignored it, though the thought of a well cooked and smoked piece of meat was defiantly an entertaining thought that ran through his mind.

((Whew, that was fun. So in a nutshell, the Savanah is now a rapidly growing ocean of Flame, and as any good Dungeon master would ask, WHAT DO YOU DO? I am excited for this))

[Chosen of the Gods]

Ahk/Ran had searched the field of grass for signs of an adversary, listening to the wind gently rustle the stalks of grain up against one another like a violin. His weapon arm came back in another wide slash that gave him an area to stand, looking for the hill areas where perhaps he could gain a better vantage of the surrounding area. Finding such a spot he nodded to himself, moving forwards as his feet crushed the long blades of fauna under heel.

This savannah like atmosphere had reminded the desert nomad much of his home, the burning sun a comforting companion. Though his lifestyle was more sand dunes and the occasional oasis, the winds a bit harsher and the terrain more harrowing for those who were not used to the blessings of the gods. Still, this atmosphere offered a unique challenge as well, the tall grass able to conceal a foe from prying eyes, and dry nature of the vegetation had offered a new conundrum that the Fallien native had not expected to encounter.

Something popped in the air and he felt his teeth softly vibrate as something made the sweat on his body tingle. It was akin to the feeling he had when he entered the arena and he knew the source vaguely: magic. Never before had Ahk’Ran faced a mage before, but before he could dwell on that a loud snapping sound, followed by a hiss, alerted to Ahk’Ran of something he was familiar with.: fire.

He easily had found the black smoke, the herald of the conflagration sticking out like the sun in the sky. It spread quickly like rats on a sinking ship, the dry blades soaking in the flames and causing them to grow. Ahk’Ran looked to the incoming inferno and cried out a curse, his eyes growing wide. His weapon lowered, the weight suddenly heavier than he last remembered and the warrior was fast thinking of options.

He had none.

He looked around himself and saw the grass surround him, the once peaceful terrain now like a pack of wolves ready to devour him in a fiery end. Wherever the grass stood he was as good as dead. He frantically looked left and right, his eyes starting to water from the heat as he lifted his purple sash to his face quickly, covering his mouth and nose. It was a terrible substitute for a proper mask, but he had scant seconds to solve the bigger concern of saving his life.

He watched as several birds took flight in the air, all squawking in gibbering hordes to be free from the flames, the sound caught his attention and he turned to see the path he had carved out. It was by no means impressive, but the idea suddenly hit him. He kicked dirt up between his sandals as he lifted his weapon to his side again, breathing heavily and frantically as he began to chop in wide arcs, spinning in a circle. He cut low, trying to take as much of the stalk as he could in his swings. One hand moved the Khopesh in violent haphazard swings, his other hand keeping the purple sash around his mouth.

He could feel his lungs starting to burn, the smoke not being fully filtered, his chest getting heavier as he willed himself to continue to cut. He moved forwards slowly, continue to chop and move as he made a very large circle around the span of seven feet. He turned back to the fire and it consumed the earth at a rapid pace, like a lion on the hunt as it greedily engulfed the golden land. When it moved towards him he held his breath and gave a silent prayer to Fumeesh, Goddess of Fire to spar his soul and save him from an end that would surely stick with him forever.

His plan had worked. The flames ate the grass, but it spread to the stalks that still stood as it rolled forwards, creating a slight barrier around the chosen of the gods. It spread to the fallen golden blades, and his arm and feet kicked them away as he coughed and wheezed. His sash arm lowered, the cloth no longer helping him now that he was in such close proximity to the conflagration. He lowered his weapon to his side, digging it into the ground as his armor started to attract the heat, the bronze heating up and scorching his skin. He cried out in pain as he looked forwards, his vision blurring as he thought of a plan.

Whoever the hell his opponent was, he was relatively safe, and that was where the desert warrior needed to be. He wiped the silk cloth over his eyes, trying to clear them as he feebly looked to find a small strip of the land where the flames had yet to consume. It was up the hill, the tallest hill he could reckon, and the upwards process had slowed the flames, if only so much. Regardless if his foe was there or not, that was where he chose to go. He ducked his head, sweat dripping down his nose as he coughed violently, his lungs feeling like a demon was clutching them tightly as he rushed forwards in a half trot, feeling the flames lick his skin and take bites out of his flesh. He cried, tears flowing down his face causing them to sting as if a thousand bees had attacked him, but he fought with everything he had. At last he managed to fall out of the worst of the flames, third degree burns upon his calf and back as he let out a violent coughing cry of anguish. His weapon arm lifted and he chopped the tinder down to size as he weakly climbed the hill.

Ahk’Ran began to wonder if his foe was in any better shape, for he was certain that in his current condition the fight would not be lasting much longer. He shook his head, though, unwilling to let down his desert vixen and his gods. If this torment was what he had to endure to come to terms and fight his rival, than so be it.

Ahk’Ran vowed to walk through the flames of hell if need be to satisfy his gods, now he was putting it literally to the test.

((Well, I think i did alright there. For the life of me I had no other idea of how to survive this. Well played good sir. Ahk'Ran has suffered severe injuries, the fire having burned his flesh in several places. His weapons and armor are actually leave singe marks in his skin, and he's coughed up half a lung. Bring. It. On.))