Round 1: Hotsuma Vs Grandjester

[Silence Sei]

You each have two weeks to complete your battle. May the best man win!

[Hotsuma]

Baleful eyes gazed down from the tortured effigy that hung high on the wall before him. The crowd of candles splayed throughout the cathedral’s vestibule cast a gentle glow on the statue, lending it life in the midst of shadow. The hanging god was poised in the heart of a raging inferno, with spinning flame, burning flesh, wisps of charred cloth, and an unsettling expression of serene peace, all frozen in the moment captured by the sculptor.

Griever bowed his head in prayer.

“Father…long has it been since I’ve called on you. Longer still have I missed the sound of your voice. The days have bled by, melding together into a single long and gaping wound. I wake and sleep with no other thoughts than of how I may bring you satisfaction the best that I can.” He paused, a shuddering breath. “So I have killed. Again and again, my blade is stained red by the blood of this world. All in your Name.”

“It is not enough, this life I live. I am lost, Father. I feel myself slipping away, losing my grasp. Please, I fear I have grown deaf to you.” He glanced up at the god, “Hear me now, and grant your son peace and shelter in this time of darkness.” A tear fell free. “A storm is coming. Do not let me be swept away.”

He stood, gathering himself. The pale scent of rotting parchment mingled with the rising wisps of sweet incense. Visions of history, black and bloody, painted the walls all around. Suddenly it was stifling, the high walls that climbed into blackness were too close, he couldn’t breathe. The outstretched hand of the burning god was the last sight he beheld before turning back, walking toward the door that had led him through to the enclosed sanctuary.

He emerged at the far end of the cathedral, stepping from the antechamber onto a raised dais and facing a monolith podium formed of dark stone that overlooked the rest of the church. Split apart by the stained prism windows, scintillating rays of the evening sun illuminated the main chamber in a haphazard wash of blending colors. The rows of pews closest to him basked in the warmth fermenting the air from one of the summer’s last days. Their deep mahogany glowed faintly in the direct sunlight.

Griever considered the impending bloodshed. Too much time had passed since he had fulfilled the curse that wracked his body. Bones, once vital, felt brittle. Muscles hung slack, twitching in time to the spasms of pain that haunted his every movement. And though his mind was a labyrinth of chaos, one thought shone through, one essential demand.

Pain.

He craved it, desperate and frantic. Once again, like a mad man’s incessant habit, he wished with all his being that the pain brought upon himself would bring any measure of satisfaction. The chains he bore strung by the god he served were not loosened for such an easy path however. So when the cathedral’s iron wrought doors swung open on oiled hinges he silently rejoiced, and felt the coiled hunger within him cry out its need.

Salvation was at hand.

[Grandjester]

The interior of the church allowed sound great freedom to express itself, and the musical taps of a Yorfallian's shoes as Jean walked through the cathedral's doors echoed joyfully throughout the room. It was clearly no secret that this man had intentions nothing like the sacred church he walked through, as his empty smile and cold stare betrayed all Griever needed to know. The doors closed after the man had gained entry, leaving the room closed off from the outside world. All that remained in this room was imminent bloodshed, and both men seemed perfectly fine with that. One was the dark man who desired pain, the other was the dual coloured man who desired conflict, and both would find what they seeked within each other. Make no mistake in thinking this would be anything holy, for history has given us on many an occasion great atrocities committed within the most sacred of lands. Such events taught us a valuable lesson about reality; nothing is sacred.

Before Griever's eyes would be a strange fellow, who's kind the former would have no experience with before. A Yorfallian, though he would not know the term, standing at the opposite end of the room, a straight line between them leading between the rows of pews. His purple lips seemed frozen in the meaningless smile, and black pupils stared out of a sea of white to offer nothing but a simple desire. Even without the look in Jean's eye, Griever could tell the man wanted a fight, for his hands were resting behind his back and holding horizontally a metal cue stick, clearly not about to be used for it's created purpose. The Yorfallian clicked his tap shoes on the hard floor beneath him, as though speaking to Griever in a foreign language. A silence would then take place after the tapping sounds dissolved in the air, Jean's feet coming to a rest as he stood still. Jean parted his lips to drawl towards the man ahead.

"Jean Lafitte."

He kept his manners, introducing himself before the fight, for that was how it should always go. He awaited the man before him to give his name in return, before the fight would begin.

[Hotsuma]

Absolute. Resolute. Indomitable.

Running his hands over the podium before him, those same thoughts sprang to his mind. Here was the power lead a people, or save a nation. Here, the speaker stood above a normal man, granting blessings and curses, death and life, as he so desired. Choice was his alone, to heal the sick, free the debtors, or condemn the guilty and burn the sinners.

Here, a man was god.

Griever stood behind the stone, all but shivering with the potential for power thrumming though his mind. The sinking shudder of the cathedral doors suddenly closing brought him from his reverie. He looked up. In the filtered darkness stood a man of unknown race, with what looked to be a stick as his only means of weaponry.

Griever smiled gentled.

Here was his lost lamb. Perhaps seeking a shepherd to lead a path from the shadows.

“A pleasure,” he replied to Jean’s introduction. “You may name me Griever.”

He stepped to the side of the podium and made his way down the steps toward the edge of the dais. His two blades echoed sharply in the resounding silence as they drew free. A buffet of tension sank into the air, the herald of imminent battle.

“Fear is extraordinary,” he said as he walked. “Wouldn’t you agree?

“True terror, when it sinks its talons into the heart of men, can do wondrous things. It changes a person. The line between man and animal blurs, blends, disappears all together. It steals courage and spits on honor. There is nothing but black and white, fight or flee. An yet, the mind is never faster than in those wrenching moments, thought it has only one thought.” Griever grinned. “Survival. And survival trumps right and wrong, it tramples over family and it bears our true souls. And that…that beautiful moment, when a man sees the sickened blackness of his heart stretched out before him…that is what I seek.”

He spoke the necessary words and rivers of flame lit along his back, casting supple shadows against the walls before him. A blanket of dread crushed the area around him in a complete circle. The touch of madness lurking constantly within Griever’s gaze blazed to life.

“Come. Let us delve the depths of man’s iniquity.”

[Grandjester]

Jean watched and listened to Griever, without a single change of expression or even a slight twitch, his body remaining a living statue. It would be rude to interrupt him, and ruder still to ignore his words, so he paid attention to the other man. His own mind raced in reflection of Griever's beliefs, coming up with many of his own views on the subject at hand. Fear was an emotion, and like any other emotion, it did not break a Yorfallian naturally. Therefore it was hard for Jean to understand, but the concept intruiged him. He had seen the effect of fear many he encountered in his recent travels, but almost all of it was directed at himself. He had not thought deeply on it or seeked out the reasons, but nevertheless it sparked his curiosity. If fear is so extraordinary, Jean would like to indulge in it, even if he had to force it down his own throat.

Griever then mentioned survival, an instinct present in Yorfallians just as it was in all living creatures. The desire to exist was perfectly reasonable in Jean's eyes, however he did on occasion wonder what it would be like to die. Regardless, the man before him seemed to believe that right and wrong were absolutes, which almost made him laugh. While Yorfallians differ individually on beliefs like many other races, they did not have the arrogance to believe that their beliefs were any more than personal fancy. A soul? Not something Jean believed in. He believed in the mind, and the mind was a plaything of the body. Whatever went on in our heads was a mix of chemical reactions insignificant to the outside world. That was his logical thinking kicking into gear, which while being a racial trait, was not something he enjoyed using. He stomped such thoughts down, and chose instead to focus on the fight at hand, as this man's speech was drawing to a close.

Then something rare happened, Jean felt strongly an emotion known as dread the moment Griever did something, obviously a spell of some sort. While Yorfallians did not naturally get overwhelmed by emotion, magic defied natural law and broke past his limit. The effort that supernatural effect took to simply pass that barrier was enough to help him resist the brunt of the effect, but he was not immune. Visibly effected but still standing, Jean's pupils shrank and expanded rapidly, as though the dread spreading through him was his own form of adrenaline.

"Magnificent," he drawled with wide eyes and open smile, "truly magnificent!"

It was a strange reaction to such a negative emotion, but this was Jean, a man who delved in the unknown and wished to experience all the world had to offer. He knew nothing of positives or negatives in his values, only that which was interesting and that which was not. His reactions would be dulled, but he could still fight. His speed wasn't his only strength, he had more up his sleeve than that. He was, after all, an assassin. Those of the profession prided themselves of killing their marks before they could even see the cold hand of death reaching out to them. So he remained confident amidst the dread roaming his mind.

Griever spoke words of theatricality, something Jean delighted himself with. Not one to be upstaged, Jean twirled his cue stick around from his back, latching onto it with both hands in the classic striking pose of a billiards player, and parted his purple lips to truly commence the fight.

"Aiming Line."

The odd phrase triggered a series of mental processes within Jean's mind, allowing him to initiate a move that caused him to rapidly shift the point of the cue to aim at several parts of Griever's body. The Yorfallian's pupils were changing size more wildly than ever before, what with the mixed level of concentration and dread pulsing through his body. In little time Jean found his mark, and his weapon settled on the section of Griever's chest that shielded his heart. Jean then announced his next phase of attack.

"Break Shot."

A cacophony of footsteps filled the room, as Jean rapidly moved his feet upon the ground as a means of building up his speed before charging towards Griever, his tap shoes slamming themselves on the hard floor with every step towards his foe. His cue stick was pulled back to strike, it's aim true, and his thoughts on one goal. The sheer concentration would help him overcome his dread for this attack, while also serving to distract himself from any moves Griever would make in response. His only hope was that Griever could not counter his attack, for it was the simple forward thrust it made itself out to be. No, it was a complex attack that pushed his mind and body to heights past natural limit, allowing him to do all the right movements to force the full momentum of the charge into his strike along with his natural strength. The distance of the gap closing, Jean's cue stick would be thrusted forward in time to connect the charge into the location of impact.

[Hotsuma]

The dread settled on his opponent with one of the most visible reactions he had seen. The man’s face shifted emotions as quickly and dramatically as the changing of masks. Confusion, surprise and a black pleasure all had their place. Such a bizarre affect might have seemed fitting on the face of a child, but to a man, full of the experiencing gifted by life, they had no place. He was acting as though he had never felt the emotion before. Griever briefly considered it; a man of unknown race such as the one standing before him might indeed have never had fear touch his heart--Griever looked closer at the flat deadness of Jean’s eyes--or any emotion for that matter. Regardless, the man was rocked to his core, and whether he realized the extent of the effects upon his body was what could lead him to his death. The point was soon tested as Jean snapped from his muse and uttered a short phrase under his breath, clearly preparing himself for an attack.

It came on the heels of his words.

Like a darting serpent he dove at Griever, his feet weaving a complex pattern of chaos upon the ground. The cue stick, previously laughable as a perceived danger, reared up like an onyx wyrm plunging for a kill. The fear had done its work, however. What might have been seamless, fluid movement was flawed and erred; the attacking flurry that should have meant certain death was apparent and erratic to a practiced eye. Griever let the cue stick sink past his guard for the barest second, his katana already moving to deflect the blow.

It moved like a shadow. Griever’s parry hit empty air as the cue stick seemed to vanish in the air, a masterfully maneuvered feint. Only primal instinct snapped up his wakizashi, the shorter and quicker of the two blades, deflecting the thrust to his left.

Despite his greatest effort, the lunging weapon slid into his shoulder, grating against bone as the two combatant’s bodies crashed together. Griever fell back, using his opponent’s momentum to roll to his side and bound free after planting his feet against the edge of a pew. He slashed out with his uninjured arm as he went. Hitting the floor, he immediately sprang to his feet, blades at the ready. A desperation laced his breath, left hand trembling in strain. He glanced down at the wound and his weapon. The strength was gone. He dropped the shorter blade to the ground and shifted his stance to a single blade style.

A wiser man stood straight then. Griever had underestimated his foe, a fact realized and accepted, something that would never occur again. The smile on his face was gone, replaced with a grim line of determination. He would not die, not yet.

The uttered words he knew so well drifted from bloodied lips and familiar flames burst free upon both his face and eyes. The obvious peril of burdening two prayers on his body simultaneously would not deter him. This battle would find its end soon enough.

Fury fueled his action as he tore along the polished aisle, each step seen before the next in a shattered vision, each breath pumping his heightened awareness to ever higher levels. He watched the battle unfold before it had even begun.

“For you, my Father.”

[Silence Sei]

Hotsuma advances to round 2!