In Death's Image Remade (Closed)

[Arden]

In Death's Image Remade (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aLVsdIE832c&ob=av3e)

2533


Closed to Metaldrago.

Set after Saiketsu (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?22856-Saiketsu-(Closed)) and Ryuu No Shinzou (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?23214-Ryuu-No-Shinzou-(Closed)).

I see the day so clearly,
A horizon cast in gold.
I see the day I’ll die appear,
I see when I am old.

I hear the final echo,
Of my final whispered breath,
That moment of acceptance great,
I look forwards to my death.

I love the sense of futility,
That we’ll all die round the bend,
I swear I will be happy,
In that moment of my end.

Cydney Oliver

[Arden]

War was a sickness. War was a drug. War was a way of life.

To Arden Janelle, war was everything and more.

With the wind lapping at his heels and the five inch deep bull grass swaying back and forth around his upright form he felt at one with the battlefield. Though corpses and broken limbs jutted up from beneath the encroaching blanket of life he felt renewed in the presence of such magnanimous history, such story and wonder. He scanned the infinite breadth of the horizon once more; trying to spy where the rolling knolls ended and the invisible edge of the arena began.

It was a flawless mirage, and one Blank admired with deep love for artistry and creation. Though a ruthless killer, he was also a man of the stage, and theatre and beauty ran deep in his veins. He bit his lip to check that he was not dreaming. Relieved that he was indeed standing in the Citadel’s thirteenth fighting arena, he drew the Rheilhand from its scabbard. It’s single, slender edge caught the leering sunlight as it emerged into the world, a flash of light to proclaim its arrival.

“This is the last time we shall dance my friend,” he said softly, tracing the outline of the sword’s hilt against the infinite blue skies and clumps of cumulus clouds which streamed overhead with unnatural pace.

When the sun set on this day, on this battle, the Rheilhand would be no more. It was time, Blank thought, to reforge it into its true shape. Such a change in form could only come with bloodshed, and such a reforming required a sacrifice on its keen blade. Blank was not a monster however, and he killed only for contract or honour. The Citadel provided everything he needed to turn his trusty sword into the ancient blade of legend it had once been without having to tar his conscious.

“Though I shall remember each and every step we have taken throughout many lives.”

He held it up high and tilted it so the sun caught it. It sent a sun flare across the knolls, its light catching every rusty spear tip protruding up from the farrow ground and every battered, broken shield resting just beneath the surface of the bull grass.

Apart from the discarded weapons of ancient combatants and the skeletal remains of ancient kings, the battlefield was woefully empty of any distinguishing features. By the reckoning of his one good eye, Blank guessed he was standing dead centre of the arena. His own entrance was five hundred or so feet behind him, a dark portal standing without support at the heart of an endless meadow. If his geography was correct, his opponent would enter through a door roughly five hundred feet square ahead.

“Do not let me down my friend, or we shall part on bad terms.”

He dropped the blade to his side, and let its piercing tip strike the arid ground. The sound of metal hitting dirt echoed across the meadow with a bouncy rhythm as the silent swordsmen took on his old mantle and waited. A chill yet refreshing breeze washed over his flaxen auburn hair and his mottled, battle-scared torso. In the Citadel he did not need to rely on his armour, preferring to don nothing more than his sword scabbard, his loose fitting cloth trousers and tightly wrapped sandals. The multitude of beads in his hair did not pass for clothing, but they gave him a ragtag image that suggested a hard life unlived.

“Today we commit our lives to memory,” he parted his legs and tensed his calf muscles to turn a loose stance into a ready one.

Whoever or whatever entered into the arena in challenge and uproar would be faced by the Silent Swordsman’s greatest efforts. He did not care what the outcome was, and a non-chalant, uncaring opponent was the deadliest threat of all. With one final gust of wind, and one long draft of the lemon scented bull grass air, Blank drew on his energy reserves and conjured on the tip of his tongue an opening spell to awe his opponent.

With that awe, and with his blade he needed only a single drop of blood for the pain of his inevitable defeat to be worthwhile.

[MetalDrago]

It was a day like any other day. The grass was green, the sun was shining, and there were a few white clouds dotting the otherwise blemish-free sky. In a word, it was sickeningly peaceful. Drago had returned to Corone in an attempt to take part in the so-called Corone Civil War. What a joke that turned out to be. Drago was mightily unimpressed with the efforts of both sides in this war, and chose instead to refrain, to return to his favorite place in the world for a little “R and R,” in so many words. To him, rest and relaxation meant a cold, bloody battle. His sword sang at his side as it realized where they were going. He smiled. “Yes, my faithful companion. Yes, we are returning here, to our favorite battleground. Our beloved war…”

He placed his hand on the Dragon’s Betrayal’s pommel and felt a burning desire radiate through his body. It was a thirst for blood, much like any of the others. He and the katana he currently embraced were inseparable, bonded by the very same force that had created Drago as he was now. His eyes lit up even as he thought about it. N’Jal, the Mistress of Darkness, was alive and well within him. Through him she acted, as he was one of Her Avatars on Althanas.

He entered the Citadel, his violet eyes narrowed only slightly, his muscles tense enough to cause physical discomfort bordering on pain. He looked around the white-stoned entrance hall, tapping impatiently on the hilt of his sword for Eins to appear as he always did. Eventually, as he predicted, the gaunt-faced, balding monk greeted him in typical fashion. “Master Drago, what a surprise to see you here. I thought you were busy working in Raiaera with Master Lorenor.”

“I’m here on a bit of a break, Eins. Office work tends to get rather tedious after awhile, and I want to get some of this frustration out of my system before I go about doing anything else even remotely related to my duties as a Paladin of N’Jal,” the Dragonian replied. He could tell that Eins was about to ask him something and looked him in the eyes. “Well, if you have something to say, say it.”

“It’s just… erm… A lot of the other monks are getting a bit leery around you. You’re a valuable asset and have proven quite useful to our aims in the past, but nonetheless some of them still don’t trust you. Will you swear to N’Jal that you will cause no harm to the Order or the Citadel, just to ease their worry?”

A look of comprehension passed across Drago’s face for a moment before it was replaced by annoyance. “They want me to make a promise to them on the name of my Thayne?” He looked dangerously close to becoming angry, but Eins did not back away or even flinch. It was an attribute that, even to the person Drago had been before, was admirable.

“Yes, that’s exactly what they want.”

Drago smiled slightly as he looked down at his old friend. “I swear by N’Jal not to harm the Citadel or the Order of Ai’bron, so long as they do not interfere with the affairs of the Order of N’Jal or the group known as Dissonance.” Drago solemnly put his hand over his heart and smiled wickedly at Eins. “How’s that work for ya?”

“Good enough for me, and I’ll personally vouch for you with the others, in case they think you’d break a vow made in service to your own Thayne,” the monk said, wiping his brow with a cloth he seemed to magically pull from within his robes. “Well, I’ve held you up long enough. What’s your poison for today?”

“I want a good, relaxing fight. Are any of the people in Duffy Bracken’s little group available?” Drago asked, his voice dropping to barely a whisper. He had greatly enjoyed his bout with both Duffy and the one Lilith Kazumi before, so he was hoping to find another of his friends to grind into a fine powder.

“As luck would have it, one of the Tantalum Troupe is available for a fight. This one’s a bit different than the two you are familiar with, though. He is nearly as good a swordsman as you yourself are, unless my eyes are failing me.”

At those words, Drago couldn’t help but raise one of his eyebrows just a fraction. “Oh really? Well, I can’t miss out on something like this.” He chuckled lowly and gripped his sword’s hilt tightly. “Which room?”

“It’s a classic this time, room thirteen. So, you’ll register to fight this young man then?”

“Indeed.”

“The gods grant him grace, in that case. Follow me.”

As Drago followed Eins down the first corridor, he smiled. The gods grant him grace indeed… It was not ironic humor, however, that led Drago to ask for that. He truly hoped that the young man he was to face would be able to stand up to him, at least as well as Bracken himself had. Lilith had hardly been a challenge. Her weapons had not been able to pierce his armor, much less his skin, and in the end, the environment had ended up doing more damage to him than she had.

Drago pushed open the door, not even looking back at Eins as the world around him seemed to fade to black. The descents into these otherworldly places in the Citadel were absolutely amazing. Complete sensory deprivation, a feeling of disembodiment, a feeling like your eyes were being plucked out through the back of your head, and then everything became normal once again.

Drago stood shakily for a moment, his eyes adjusting to the new field. Corpses and broken trees seemed scattered across the area. I can’t believe I haven’t been here before… it’s beautiful. Drago said, feeling the wind against his face as the smell of decomposing flesh assaulted his senses. He closed his eyes for a moment as the blood red sun beat down on him, filling his body with life-sapping warmth.

Finally opening his eyes, the dark beast of N’Jal looked upon his latest prey. “Greetings, my boy. I hope I have not kept you waiting long,” he said, not a hint of malice in his words, a slight smile playing on his lips. He kept his swords sheathed for the moment as he surveyed the young man before him. He was scarred, seemed to be a man of the world. Interesting… this one might give me much more of a challenge than that loud-mouthed fool Duffy did after all… He fixed his cape, rolling it back behind himself and locking it to the back of his armor, letting the black and blue symbiotic armor reveal itself completely, to add a little bit of drama to the opening act of this grand battle.

After all, war never changed. For some people, and Drago was lucky enough to be among them, war was the epitome of enjoyment.

[Arden]

Boy was somewhat of a misnomer, but Arden did not want to bore the creature to death with the semantics of immortality. He waited a few seconds for the question posed to fade from the echoic planes before he bowed politely.

“No sir, not long at all.”

His words were not quite the full extent of the truth, and he lied without breaking his composure. He had waited patiently at the heart of the battlefield bound in magic and myth for over an hour. The Citadel waxed and waned in popularity like all art forms. Today, for some reasons, was not a popular day to die.

“I appear to have stumbled upon a figment of either my imagination or my past.”

These words possessed more substance to them, formed as they were on a half formed memory of Duffy’s alcohol driven recollections by the warmth of the Prima Vista’s fireplace. The bard often recanted his exploits to the orphans of the troupe in the way of a bed time spectacle. Arden and Lillith often listened in, remaining silently tickled by the grandiose nature of what they considered to be mundane deeds.

“You once encountered a good friend of mine I understand?” He cocked his head, his red hair fell to one side in accordance with natural law, but his smile transcended his own sense of elation. He had the upper hand over this foe. “Duffy Bracken speaks highly of the half-dragon who wields his own hide like a weapon clutched in the claw.”

He traced the outline of the dense armour covering his opponent’s body. Though he himself wore nothing more than loose fitting mud coloured pantaloons, he had studied the art of combat long enough to see a slow but strong opponent when he saw one. The metal was difficult to penetrate, but there were glaring weak points in the joints on the limbs and in the neck grooves.

“I can only hope that I too will get to speak clearly and plainly of my encounter here today for many moons to come.” He lashed the air with his flattering tongue until he could stomach his own kindness no more. Taking a moment to compose him and to flex his muscles, Arden levelled the tip of his trusty blade at his opponent’s neck.

“My name is Arden Janelle, oft called Blank, oft called The Silent Swordsman.” He dropped the Rheilhand gingerly to his side. “The latter name will strike you with revelation soon enough.” Though once a mute, Arden had kept his namesake and turned it into a weapon sharper than any blade or dagger he could think to wield.

Mystery and fear and in turn terror were all powerful tools in warfare. Often, you could defeat an opponent without ever having to shed blood. There would be no such trickery here today, not amongst the skeletal remains of so many men who had tried to be masters of will and tactics.

“Let us put to the test the fabled strength of the metal dragon.”

He wasted no more time. With bare feet dancing delicately over the jade green grass and splintered remains of battered armour, Arden closed the gap between the two warriors with a rush of cool air and a menacing smile breaking across his face. His dark, piercing eyes glared out from beneath an auburn mane kicked into frenzy by his advance.

With his sword behind him trailing a silver streak through the Citadel’s skyline he closed in.

[MetalDrago]

Drago watched the man with avid curiosity. If it was true that he had something to do with Duffy’s Tantalum Troupe, it was going to be a most interesting round. Drago had already taken on and defeated both Duffy Bracken and the one known as Lilith Kazumi. Duffy had by far been the more dangerous challenge, but something about this Silent Swordsman screamed that he would be the greatest challenge the quarter-dragon had faced in all of his years as a fighter in the Citadel.

He drew his Dragon’s Betrayal lightly. The black serrated katana cut through the air with what seemed like a shriek as the Dragonian prepared himself for the strikes of the human man before him. He stood his ground as the man kept up with the small talk, gripping his sword tightly with both hands. His eyes locked with the man called Blank one last time before he bolted straight toward the Dragonian with his sword swinging in a long arc. He must think my armor is a disadvantage, speed-wise… Oh, how wrong he truly is.

He prepared himself for the strike in the simplest way that he possibly could. He met the young man sword for sword, pushing back with a great deal of his strength. As their swords locked, and they pushed against one another, Drago smiled wickedly. “My young friend, I suppose you think that you have me figured out by now. I suppose that your friend Lilith did not fill you in on the power I’ve gained since I fought Duffy Bracken all those moons ago.” The Dragonian released his grip on the sword with his right hand and allowed his left shoulder to dislocate as he moved quickly around the Silent Swordsman before popping his shoulder back in place with a satisfying snap.

“I’m a bit faster and more flexible than I think you give me credit for,” he said. His eyes seemed to shift color for a moment as he looked upon the man’s back from behind. You’ll find me to be more of a challenge than you think I will.

The Paladin focused inward and pulled at the energy reservoir deep within himself. With a tightened grip on his own soul, he forced his energy into the corporeal. He felt his scaled skin beginning to tingle softly as he felt the energy suffuse his body. The smell of decay seemed to intensify as the energy of his aura began to burn the atmosphere around him. He coughed lightly as the smell entered his lungs, the sound barely audible. It was as if the very battlefield upon which the two fought was lending its energy to the dark being. His eyes began to glow softly, a lighter violet than before as a sinister, crooked smile sprouted upon his face.

The wind began to shift towards Drago from all directions as he gripped his sword tightly with one hand. He channeled the energy he had been gathering into the blade. The blade began to glow with a white-hot energy and seemed to scream just as he swung forward. The wind broke around him, scattering dust and ash from the fallen bodies into the air, increasing the difficulty of breath for anyone who happened to breathe it in.

The blade released the energy in a glowing blue arc, cutting through the air with a blood curdling shriek, straight toward the young Blank. A low chuckle escaped the Paladin’s throat as he watched his signature blade skill, the Shockwave Slice, make its way quickly toward his opponent. “You’ll find I’m much more dangerous than I appear to be,” he whispered under his breath as he smile grew just a bit wider.

[Arden]

The scintillating arc of energy crossed the gap between combatants in such a short space of time that Arden had to gasp and clench his teeth and go as far as closing his eyes to urge The Aria to save him. He would not have lived the moment down if he had been slain there and then, so cruelly denied his bloodlust.

He vanished.

The blue ribbons of light danced around the sword magic as it crossed through where he had been standing only a hair’s breadth ago. The force of the attack was so strong it whisked the tendrils of energy away with it as it continued onwards into the very outer limits of the Citadel’s battle dome.

Arden would have liked to have seen the look on the monk’s faces as their magic was potentially undone by the onslaught of the dragon’s attack.

He opened his eyes.

“It’s good to be home,” he thought.

The silver sea of the heart of the Thayne Tantalus was gentle today, even though the world beyond it was turbulent and chaotic. Arden imagined the dragon’s face, a grimace of confusion, perhaps, or a roar of outrage at having been eluded once more. Duffy had made certain Arden knew of the dragon’s short temper – he would be easy to enrage, easy to trick, easy to parlay with and to beguile into a fatal mistake.

He knelt momentarily to run his fingertips over the salty jetty. Though the other realm witnessed no sound, he mouthed a prayer of thanks all the same and felt a kinship with the anti-noise that fell from his lips. Tracing the barnacles and cracks in the ancient wood had become something of a ritual for the assassin. He had walked to this place so many times he had needed the movements and the observances of the brightly coloured limpets to steel his thoughts for the troubling times ahead.

When he rose into the bright sky, he would fall back into that arena, and straight into peril.

He waited.

The sickness hit him square in the stomach and lifted him skywards. He rolled over several times, sword flailing, arms outstretched, auburn hair rolling in a fiery tumble.

A flurry of ribbon light crackled out of a small point of light, and from it Arden emerged in a blaze of glory. He swung his sword through the air and cut his own magic into shreds of spent energy in defiance of the death blow the dragon had hoped to deal.

“Taking down behemoths with pins is exactly what I specialise in,” he rasped.

With his one good eye sternly set on the dragon’s armour, he kicked forwards into a run. His back was already sweating, his breath short, his heart racing, but on wings of adrenaline he flew at his opponent sword raised.

He tucked in his right knee as he approached, dropping his stance low and bringing the sword he loved so much up and under the dragon’s guard. It’s steel tip rushed forwards, hoping to pierce the armour that looked as strong as true dragon scales with a surprise gambit.

Arden resisted the temptation to smile. He knew full well this was a wasp sting on an elephant’s back; but many stings could poison even the titans of heaven.

He had to wait, survive, and then he could remake his blade in the blood of his arrogant, foolish enemy.

[MetalDrago]

This battle is so boring. Drago concluded. His opponent was barely better than that roguish pain in the ass, Lilith Kazumi. As the sword came up with the hopes of piercing Drago’s armor, he stepped back just a couple of feet to get clear of the thrust. His cape billowed forward, ahead of him, however, and got caught against the blade of the swordsman’s sword. Drago, in a rush of pain, pulled his cape back around himself, which served to only tear through the fabric even more. He growled lightly as he threw his cape back behind him and looked at the floor.

There was a pool of blood underneath him, right below the tear in his cape. “Damn it,” he gasped. While his armor did provide him an intense amount of protection from most blades, his weakness remained the cape upon his back. As much as he hated to admit it, the cape was something of a sore point for him. In his rush to study shapeshifting magic, he had transmuted his wings into a cape that was attached to his back. However, he had not yet learned the secret to reversing this transformation. He now lacked the ability to fly and had a giant gaping hole in his defense on his back, all because in his vanity he had wanted to appear more lord like in his appearances when in public.

“I never should have used that spell before learning what I was doing with shapeshifting magic,” he said under his breath. Then, out loud, he spoke to his opponent, bending slightly at the knee, “You’re faster than I expected, and slightly more skilled. However…” he reached for his second blade, the Shadow of Light, a mythril katana from Akashima, “I’m not about to let a single lucky strike get the better of me.” He unsheathed it slowly, relishing in the sound of the blade exiting its sheath.

“I am MetalDrago, leader of the Dark Dragon Corps, Captain-Commander in rank… and wielder of three blades.” The last part he spoke as if to himself. If Blank looked carefully, the third blade was indeed sticking out behind Drago’s back, partially hidden underneath the cape, but manipulated just enough to that the grip extended out from the cape. An almost demonic presence came forth from the sword. It was Drago’s favored weapon, one that he only used when he was determined to have fun at any price.

The Captain slid the blades along the length of one another, as if letting the sister blades greet one another, the peel of the Betrayal’s unknown metal against the mythril blade of the Shadow sounding like the screech of an old hag mixing with the lilting songs of a young and vibrant woman. Then, finally, without another word, the Dragonian leapt forward, running at high speed toward the so-called Silent Swordsman.

“If you refuse to talk, I’ll make you scream…” the warrior whispered to himself as he swung his sword once, then came up with his second blade, aiming to slice his opponent open from leg to head. All the while, a demonic smile stayed upon his lips.

[Arden]

Without thinking Arden crashed his blade into the crossing swords. He felt the strength behind the creature’s strike and calculated from the tension in his calf muscles that he would not last long beneath a barrage of similar attacks. Speed was perhaps going to be his only weapon, his magic, his connection to his Thayne his only shield. He keened his gaze along the length of the Rheilhand to where the creature’s swords rested and felt a little pang of danger rose up the length of his spine. The notch in the steel may well become a breaking weakness before long.

“I will scream out only two things Drago of the Dark Dragon…” he pushed into the creature’s guard and bounced back out of the way of a retaliatory strike. With nimble footwork he danced a retreat. The gap between the two combatants quickly became disappointing, which was a distance Arden was only too comfortable to embrace.

“The first is my name – Arden Janelle, the silent swordsman. I am the Hound of the Scourge of Scara Brae.” He brought the length of his sword up to the light. He smiled at the same time the sun caught the bloodied tip.

Standing amidst a circle of broken kite shields and shattered lances, Arden took on the mantle of a brave last stand soldier; fighting to the last for his king and country. He parted his legs and lowered his stance, his sweating brow and lacquered hair adding to his wild and unfettered appearance. A breeze had grown as they had exchanged opening strikes, and it cooled the rippling muscles unadorned by cloth or armour.

“The second my good man is a promise. It is a promise to continue to surprise you to the very last.” He smiled with smarm and began his slow advance. He felt his bare feet press into the dew laden grass, and then scuff and harden on the mosaic of broken breastplates, carrion picked bones and well-worn and blood stained stones.

The wielder of three blades advanced with similar conviction and crossed both of his swords into his opponent’s advancing form. The stern glare from the half-dragon’s inhuman eyes bore Arden down as he crossed the battlefield. The ring of steel against magical blade echoed and bounced out across the green blades of grass. Arden withdrew his sword and swung it back into the cross without relenting in his advance.

Drago broke off his strike and brought his blades upwards. With a roar that spat phlegm and spit over Arden’s cheeks he brought them both down in a cleaving arc that would have shattered stone, and obliterated the flesh of a mortal man. Arden rolled sideways, span on a low crouching heel and sliced his sword across Drago’s thighs as he righted himself to his opponent’s left.

His efforts were gratified only by a flash of sparks as the blade clattered harmlessly from the armour plates. He paused regrettably just for long enough for Drago to snarl and chuckle, and deliver a well-protected fist to Arden’s dumbfounded expression. The kinetic force of the blow cracked the silent swordsman’s right cheek bone and embedded needle thin shards deep into his lower skull. He fell back and stumbled, but through his stubborn ignorance of pain and his battle hardened mind he did not cave beneath the agony.

“I will speak a third time to commend you for your expertise,” he spat blood with his head turned away from his opponent and then he wiped his bloodied jaw with his wrist. He rose slowly to glare into his opponent’s eyes, his face halfblooded, soul aflame with the bloodlust that rose in the swell of his stomach.

“It comes with the need to survive,” the half-dragon’s voice was irritated, and he made no attempt to conceal the fact that he was a behemoth being wound up by a small fly. Arden’s blows were doing nothing whatsoever, the only damage and drain on either of their forms was along the edges of their weapons – now notched from collision and near miss.

They stared each other down for a long, awkward minute.

“Your armour is quite impressive, but I think you have grown complacent behind a shield of ignorance.” He drew on the limited oratory ability he had picked up through his exposure to the dramaturgy of the Tantalum troupe. It was not as impressive as Duffy’s gait, or Ruby’s ability to manifest destiny and emotion in her display of impressive method acting, but it would suffice. Arden forsook armour most of the time because it was a liability. Wearing it, you relied less on your instinct, reflexes and parrying ability and more on the metal you spent selfishly earned gold to forge and temper into shape.

Drago clearly would not come around to his point of view. He bum-rushed Arden to show his reluctance, and crossed his left blade in an upward arc followed by a similar crossing strike from his right blade. Arden knocked the first and second aside with spiralling counter weight blows, each time he leapt back and his face disappeared in a blur of auburn strands.

At the third rotation, Arden saw an opportunity flash before his eyes. He had been shown the path to victory in his first advance, his trump card in the opening exchange of blows. The creature’s armour was impregnable, even its joists would require a delivery of a blow that Arden did not naturally possess the strength to apply. Its cloak however was a glaring hole in the vast titanic wall. The blue folds of enchanted material were a crack in the glass, a notch in the steel, a chip in the bone.

He smiled, or at least tried to. The second he did pain flashed down the right side of his neck and collided with his collar bone. The fist had done more damaged than he had anticipated, and would likely hurt and throb long after the monks had restructured his bone and stitched his skin back together with threads of light. He had one fortunate boon in his injury. He clenched his fist and levelled his blade in his left hand out as far as it would extend to his far side.

The second he finished his movement the blood stopped running down his face, and instead ran up. It swirled in little spirals of life up his tanned skin and seeped into his hair. Within a few important and imposing seconds, the majority of the thick red ichor was floating away from the top of his head. It fell in a flash as he opened his palm and like a striking serpent it darted into the back of his shoulder.

“There is a dragon hiding in all of us Drago,” which was less of a metaphor than his opponent would realise. “You just need the right catalyst to unleash it’s rage!” A red wing formed from the back rush of the blood magic’s energy. It spread it’s liquid plumes and flapped with a heavy thud. With a snap the tendril of blood from his cheek to his shoulder blade fell away, splattering sideways over his cheek to form a pattern of a downward thrust to his skin. He gritted his teeth, snarled, spat and pounced.

His need to drink blood and tear flesh with his own teeth grew to a fever pitch that he could no longer quell.

The Oni that resided in the nest of Arden Janelle’s heart exploded into existence, and with the bloody wing trailing behind him, he brought his blade up in a rising cleaving arc that he hoped would force the creature back or split him from groin to nape.

[MetalDrago]

So he will talk in battle… How interesting, the Dragonian thought as he look upon Arden after his failed assault. He was intrigued. His eyes began to glow slightly more as his bloodlust began to rise from the depths of his soul. A wicked grimace crossed his face as he backed up by a few slow paces, getting away from the battle just long enough to collect his thoughts. His cape was troubling him slightly with a shooting pain, though it also brought him a bit of pleasure to know that his opponent now knew of the weakness he kept to increase his own enjoyment of the battle.

At that point, he noticed that Arden’s blood was beginning to move, as if on its own accord, away from the wound upon his face. “Interesting…” he said as he slowly sheathed the Dragon’s Betrayal. “This kid has some form of blood magic. He shouldn’t have held out on me. I’d be taking this more seriously if I had known from the start.” He sheathed the Dragon's Betrayal and stood for a moment, considering his options before finally coming to his decision. The time for holding back was over. It was time to truly let himself go.

His hands, clad in the cold, metallic gauntlet form of his symbiotic armor, reached for his back and gripped the hilt of the Nocturne of Madness, his most dangerous weapon. As the black-bladed katana left its sheath, Drago was engulfed in an aura of dark energy, visible even to those unfamiliar with the ability of aura sight. As the aura increased in strength, stretching around Drago’s entire body and letting out a bloodcurdling scream, Drago only smiled. To him, the screeching of his blade’s power was like a symphony of beautiful melodies. The wind around his body seemed to pick up, reacting to the energies radiating from the sword, howling in sync with the sword’s own raging screams.

As Arden completed his transformation, so too did Drago. His eyes began glowing with a demonic ice-blue color as a low chuckle escaped from his lips. “There is a dragon within all of us, eh?” he asked, half laughing the sentence. “Seems more like a demon to me, but don’t worry. I have one of those inside of me as well!” As the creature Arden had become rushed him in an attempt to cleave him, he jumped back and parried with the Shadow of Light, the two blades meeting for only a moment before leaving their contact with one another.

His incessant laughter continued, even though he knew he was fighting a creature more like himself than the young man that he had been fighting would ever be able to accomplish alone. This demonic presence was flaring with energy taken from the blood of the being he was a part of. Their eyes met for only a moment as Drago pondered the situation before him. His eyes flashed evilly as he made his decision. “I don’t want this to end yet!” he yelled triumphantly. Any creature able to actually hurt him through his armor was a perfect candidate for an ongoing battle, an ongoing series of attacks.

He channeled his energy through his Shadow of Light until it began to glow with blue, eldritch energy, signifying that the attack was ready. “I’m going to spill as much of your blood as I can, Arden, just to feed the power of that beast inside of you!” He swung his blade at the creature, neither human nor demon, that stood before him, releasing the Shockwave Slice once again. That’s three… he thought through the laughter and bloodlust in his mind, only seven more remain.

Then again, depending on the length of the battle, seven more attacks like that might prove to be more than plenty.

[Arden]

The members of the Scourge often recited on old wife’s saying, straight from the streets of their beloved city. They often said that the first strike cuts the deepest. As the arc of the powerful blow struck the space around Arden, he muttered the words before clenching his teeth and tensing his lower leg muscles to fight against the impact of the searing beam. It thudded into his flesh with the force of a hurricane, breaking his sternum and rib cage open with a guttural, primal crack.

He flew back, tossed aside like a rag doll.

As he hit the battlefield with a soft thud, clattering and rolling amongst the remnants of a once shining suit of mithril armour he could only think about one thing. Why had he choked?

Arden Janelle was a murderer, a hound for crime honoured and prideful about the excellence with which he conducted himself at all moments in his life. To have done nothing in the face of danger was an alien concept. Was it something he had said? He reflected in between the spiralling and lofty heights of agony that made him want to wretch, made him want to conjure the ancient power of blood magic to incite a new life in his body – anything, no matter how unjust and amoral to be rid of the excruciating nuances of the dragon’s strike.

“A demon in one man’s eyes is a saint in another!” He roared, rolling to one side and pushing himself slowly upright. It was only with the inner strength of such a saint that he maintained consciousness, maintained life long enough to rise and turn with a stoop. The cut across his chest was deep, and blood flowed with a slow but inevitable advance down over his waist.

He realised between heavy breaths that he had choked because his opponent had touched a nerve. He was a demon, tainted and corrupted from within by an ancient and undeniable enemy that transcended time and space – it was the Komodo, the Greater Oni that waged war with Doma the Warrior of Light centuries ago. When he had been defeated, the great dragon had shattered his soul and buried his essence in the Janelle tribe who had turned to blood magic in the early days of the war.

He was still feeling the effects of his family’s failures, centuries on.

“I wish I was a better challenge for you, but it appears you have gained an upper hand,” he touched the wound with shaking fingertips, the heat of the sun and the humidity in the air made him swoon as he felt the warmth of his own life force. No amount of blood magic or arcane will could stem this particular flow – he was still weak, untrained, and unready to wield the true potential of the Janelle lineage.
“I will do you the honour,” he flinched as his heart broke into a steady arrhythmia. He knew that sensation, he had heard it in his opponent’s so many times – smelt their final breath, heard their final cry to know when it was his own time. “I will do you the honour of a glorious victory.” He skipped forwards, sword raised in an apex strike.

There was no effort in his movements, no spark, no fire, and no determination. He carried himself with dignity, even as his face congealed into a contorted mask of pain and his chest shone in the sunlight with a scarlet sheen that highlighted the impact of the dragon’s arcana strike on feeble, mortal, unprotected flesh. There was a wry contention in his half bothered smile, though. He had obtained that which he had come for – the blood of a dragon.

With one lest exhalation of rage, he brought the blade down into Drago’s guard.

Though only a feint skein on the tip of his blade, captured righteously from the feeble nick he had caused his opponent in their opening exchange of blows, it was all Arden needed to finally reforge his blade into a form worthy and capable of channelling the lofty heights of Blood Magic.

In his own death’s image, the Rheilhand would be remade.

[MetalDrago]

The young man came forward, upon MetalDrago with a final, lifeless strike. The Dragonic warrior raised his sword and blocked the strike easily, letting Arden fall to his side in pain. Blinking once, Drago surveyed the scene before him as he reflected on the battle up to this point. He laughed quietly to himself before looking down upon his opponent once more.

Pathetic. That was the single word in Drago’s mind as he surveyed the young man before him fall. Two thousand years of living had tempered Drago into something that was slightly more than most mortal races. The magic in his veins would allow him to exist further into the future than most would ever know, and he knew this. Sighing, he sheathed his blades and sat down next to the young man’s body. “You have a great power within you, kid. Perhaps as great as the power in me.” He chuckled slightly. His eyes seemed to show genuine concern, but only for a moment.

As he continued to talk to the air, he smiled. “It was a satisfying battle, all things considered. You hurt me, which is more than your friend Lilith can admit.” He looked out over the area again, taking in the sights as the blood red sun continued to set in the sky. “I honestly can’t believe that this place exists within a stone building. The power of these monks is greater than I think even they realize. I can’t help but wonder where they draw their power from.”

He got up on one knee and pushed against his leg to stand up. “Well, it was fun, and good for a little exercise. I know you probably can’t hear me, but do me a favor. Get stronger. Regardless of which side we’re on, I look forward to facing you when you develop your skills further.” He looked down on the young man and said, “I really do.” With the emphasis spoken and his own need for “social interaction” sated, he turned and walked off, humming lightly to himself in dark overtones.

While he wouldn’t admit it, even to himself, Drago had come to be quite enamored with the Tantalum. They seemed to be good people and reminded him of a better time, when he actually had something to smile about. Deep within his soul, a small seed had been planted by the three he had met. This seed might soon be the Dragonian’s salvation, or perhaps the root of his destruction.

As he reached the edge of the field, he was surprised to find that he could not yet leave. “A mistake?” he wondered aloud. No… the Ai’bron Monks would never make such a mistake. That could only mean… Son of Haidia!

He turned around to face what awaited him.

[Arden]

Blank’s strength failed him. With that failure grew a strange and twisted sense of relief. As the oni inside his soul coiled tighter around his metaphorical chi, crushing him and paining his existence with a hunger indescribable, the swordsman felt relieved. He did so knowing that he had done all that could. Blank had entered the arena with the determination he needed to collect on an old debt, and his actions had earned him interest too.

On his knees his eyes glazed over. Despite the pain blurring his keen gaze into a pale scribing mirror, they maintained their vigil of observance on the dragon’s back. He fell forwards, sword scattered to the battlefield, hopes discarded to the winds. He felt a brief moment of clarity, the soft caress of the grass as it swayed in the breeze his anchor. Serenity embraced him, until his knuckles and fingers dug into the damp soil beneath, moistened by an overnight shower and clotted with a weave of roots and blood. Everything began to seem distant and vacant, expressionless and without emotion. He gritted his teeth, steeling himself to right himself.

Whatever spirits inhabited the ancient battleground swelled within him, giving him the right to one last final push. If he had been sound enough of mind to recognise them, he could have made out the ghostly shapes of the fallen praising his bravery and clashing their silent blades against battered, shattered and broken shields. He scooped up his blade, slowly and painfully with a stoop. Its hilt was warm to the touch between his cold fingers. It was a clear sign that his heart was slowing, his blood was congealing and his life falling from his shattered body.

He meandered forwards, torso lacquered with perspiration and desperation. His odour, if he had the time to notice it was arduous, rank and succour. The spirits did not fan their fare for long, they soon fell into mist, tendrils of magic scattered to the winds of the non-existence prairie. His steps were nervous, uncertain perhaps, but he carried on towards the dragon all the same. The Rheilhand rose carefully held in both hands. Its gleaming tip pointed with accursed loathed at the point between the creature’s shoulder blades.

With his advance behind a masquerade of his opponent’s heavy footfalls and his self-congratulated thoughts, the swordsman was able to close the gap between them and rush forwards with his dying breath. He made no attempt to drive the thrust home; hoping surprise would pierce the dragon’s mettle more so than brute force.

“In a death’s image I remake this failure,” he whispered in the cold recessed of his mind.

Only his gut instinct kept him in forward motion, years of pain and suffering and exposure to the harsher elements of life spurning him to succeed. The blood ran down the blade, flying back in a comet’s trail of crimson ichors. Blank roared, gums red, eyes red, soul black, and hoped the dragon would receive the message he had been sent to deliver.

[MetalDrago]

A rising crescendo of power seemed to fill the area as Drago observed the swordsman following him from behind. The silent Arden was walking toward him, but something was different. There was no intent at all behind his movements, as though he was being driven by some outside force. His footfalls crunched through the dust and debris of the field as he approached the larger warrior. His wounds bled profusely and he stumbled forward with almost no strength.

How can he still be standing?

The blank look in his eyes told a story that caused discomfort in the draconic warrior as the blade of his sword came up against the armor of the beast before him. If his goal was to strike fear into the heart of the great beast that Drago had become, it did not work. If the intention was purely to shock him, on that note he succeeded. As the young man finally succumbed to his wounds, the Dragonian stumbled backward and fell flat on his ass.

As the exit to the false realm opened, Drago stood calmly and walked through the door. As he went through that same disorientation of entering and exiting the portals into these self contained realms, he thought back to the battle.

What is with those Tantalum people? What do they have to gain by getting up when they’re obviously beaten?

You don’t know? Odd. You used to be just like that.

What?

He received no further response as he appeared back on the other side of the door. Eins was waiting for him there. “Another victory, Master Drago?” the monk asked, his face twisted into a wry smile. He ran a few fingers through his thinning hair and motioned for the Dragonian to follow him without waiting for a response. He led him to a small room where they did standard first aid and motioned for Drago to let him examine him for any damage.

“He got you in the cape. I always told you that thing wasa glaring weak point.” He received a growl in return.

“I know. I’d undo the magic that caused this if I could. Believe me, I would,” Drago responded, squinting his eyes as the monk poured ahealing mixture over it. “I… have a question, Eins.”

“Then you’d better ask before it disappears.”

“Did I used to be like…” he couldn’t bring himself to finish the question, but didn’t have to.

“Like the Tantalum Troupe? A bit. You had different goals, a bit more lofty than I feel theirs are. However, you were just as stubborn in achieving those goals as they are, and giving up? I’d be surprised if encountering a Thayne and having to fight it would have deterred you from your goals.”

“I don’t remember,” the old warrior said. He closed his eyes slowly and sighed deeply. “I’m a villain to the people of Althanas now. A representative of N’Jal, the greatest evil the world has ever known or will know.”

“You are. However, even a Thayne can’t eliminate choice entirely, at least, not forever. One day, you’ll have to decide for yourself how to use the power you gained from contact with Her.”

“You’re right. That day will come sooner than I feared, and I don’t know which way I will choose,” he said, before grimacing again. The healing magic had finished, but soreness remained where the tear in the cape had been torn. “Maybe I should seek out the Tantalum. As many of them as I’ve fought, I’m beginning to think that my fate lies with them.”

He stood, nodded at Eins, then walked out of the healing ward and back out into Althanas proper, more unsure than ever of his future.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

Plot Construction:

For both of you, I’m going to talk in general before hitting nitty gritty details. To me, Plot is Where, When, Why and how you answered it. When is your continuity, Where your setting, and Why your story. Without these questions being answered, it leaves a reader confused and spending more time focusing on those questions instead of reading your work. Now, how you answered them…

Blank (20): You sir, have got setting nearly down. The field you created was easily envisioned in my mind, and I could tell where you were on the battlefield at all times. I could also feel Arden’s excitement that his long sought out goal was within reach and that created a nice tension and demonstrated your history well…to a point. I was left wondering mostly why this was so important. What’s the significance of this ritual, and what hardships made this task worth doing. I never knew the reasons for why you did this battle until the very end. You are a fan of theater, and you love to hide your plots in careful woven lines only to be revealed at the finale! However, in your mystique, you forget to plant the seeds of the story. I read on wondering what it was all about, until suddenly BAM!

You need to seed the plot throughout the story, even if you’re hiding the secret until the end. Which was rather confusing all things considered, but nothing out of the norm for your style of storytelling so I didn’t dock it too much. Again, this can be improved by slowly giving the reader clues to what to expect, so when it happens it’s not a punch in the face.

Drago (18) For a story that wasn’t about you, I never felt like you were an awkward player in the scenes. You did a very, very good job of establishing the reasons for why Drago went to the Citadel, and you kept me interested in him with the little insights throughout the battle. The only difference is your writing is very direct, and while it serves you well in some areas, it doesn’t elsewhere. Everything your story told me was very clearly laid out. No real surprises, no mystery. It’s hard, considering all you did was come to beat face, but a little more continuity into the matters of N’Jal’s court will serve you well. However, on a plus note, your mention of fighting Lilith and Duffy was something I never knew, so you did a good job of touching on some history with Blank’s pals and why it would be fun to fight the Tantalum. Bravo!

Characterization:

Who is your character, and what does he do? Let’s find out…

For note, I liked both characters in this. You guys are great at portraying their emotions, their depth, and their flare. Your interaction with each other was what I want from a good fight. Beyond those words, there is no higher praise I can think of, so these comments will focus on what made me scratch my head.

Blank (19): Arden’s…bi polar. For a silent swordsman, he sure did talk a lot. A LOT. You took pride in that moniker at the start of the battle, and did a full blown monologue at the end! While the prose and actions felt like they were all in tune with Arden’s personality, the actions seemed more…well Duffy Bracken. I had fought Blank before, and he never really muttered much more than three or so sentences. Duffy was the loudmouth. But towards the middle and end it felt like Duffy cut off Blank’s skin and wore it. You know your characters in and out, and you know all their traits, but each one has a uniqueness that they should keep all to themselves. Blank’s an ass kicker, Duff’s a talker, keep ‘em separated.

Drago (18): This score isn’t reflecting anything done poorly. On the contrary, you did well to show me Drago’s character. Too well. By the second post everything I needed to know of Drago was presented and done with. His character was then easily readable and his actions were not surprising at all, and never left me feeling like the next post is going to make me wonder. I’d like to see, as I said earlier, you hide a bit of the mystery to Drago. Personal reflections of how he got to where he was would have really boosted you to the next level.

I also had a bit of an issue with Drago’s personality. Don’t get me wrong, I understand him completely, but…he still says some rather off things. Like an excited warrior on his first mission. He’s been tempered by battle, forged in war, and is the Paladin of N’Jal. I would think that youthful exuberance will have disappeared by now. The reason why this bothered me is because it felt like slip ups, and not intentional writing. If he was supposed to be that way, that’s fine, but a little work will be needed to flesh that aspect out. Master this, and you’ll be soaring high in scores.

Writing Style:

Did it make sense? A great question. You both write in different styles; Blank a little more flowery, and Drago a bit more direct. Both suit the characters well, and I can see your personal takes on it. Let’s see where the line is drawn between you two. I want to add this little note for both of you to think on:

Mechanics and Clarity go hand in hand. If there are typos, or errors, or tense issues, or missing commas, the clarity score will go down with you. Little tiny slips detract from the story, takes the reader away from the world to point out the flaw in their head, before diving back in. That hurts the pacing, and when you’re describing complex situations and an error pops up it makes the reader have to go back several times to understand.

Food for thought.

Blank (23): Your writing sir, is really well done. You have so few mistakes, and you are the pinnacle of what people should strive to reach. Great descriptions, amazing use of metaphors and bringing the world alive through your writing! So…when I see in post 10 a mistake of two paragraphs being snubbed together, it makes me drop my jaw. You sir, who have told me over and over these immortal words, have forced me to say…(I can’t believe I of all people am about to say this) Proofread. Small, minor, tiny slip ups like that hurt! Beyond that, a little foreshadowing will help, and some of your actions in the battle need to be a bit more clear and concise. Those tiny tweaks, and you’re gold.

Drago(20): While nothing is really wrong with the way you write, your posts did have tiny errors in them a good once over wouldn’t hurt. The main difference in the score is that your direct approach is what gives you this grade. You need to explore more with trying out new techniques. To break up the upfront style every now and then so that all the information the reader is processing isn’t facts. Read some of your favorite books, just a chapter or two, and see how the style is.

Wildcard: Your fate is now in my hands. I liked this read, it had a good battle, some rising tension, and good drama. I really liked how Blank’s allusions at the start is about the death of a foe, but in the end it was himself. (I really should have seen that coming…) Drago’s ability to be in a thread that had nothing really to do with him shines well as I stated earlier. You never made me feel like you were awkwardly there, but had a purpose. Well done both of you.

Blank: (5) Your story was interesting, and I liked it. Beyond my first impressions of Blank to where he is now shows I have a lot of reading to catch up on!

Drago: (7) Simple, yet effective. You did a good job showing me what Drago can do. I look forward to that uncertain future you have coming up.

Both you gents, please remember I am here for your help. I want to make anything you are unclear on…well clear. Feel free to talk to me guys, you know how to find me! And now, the drum roll….



Blank: 67
Drago: 63

Congratulations to Blank for his victory!

Blank gets 1438 exp
Drago gets 431 exp

[Duffy]

EXp and GP added.