Semi-finals: Amen Vs. Amber Eyes

[Silence Sei]

You have 2 weeks to complete your battle. Good luck.

[Amber Eyes]

'Exciting journey' did not quite cover what had happened thus far in Kyla’s tournament Career. So far she had missed the first two rounds to teach a young child magic and to fight some strange figment of her imagination in the Citadel.

She had somehow still been allowed to compete in an invitational tournament she never received an invite for, and her first battle had been complete chaos. Kyla and her opponent had never even struck one another, as the battleground around them seemed to change every few minutes. Then, when her challenger finally attempted a strike the entire world seemed to fade to nothingness.

Kyla awoke several hours later to obnoxiously loud whispers coming from the far end of a large medical room. Before she even opened her eyes she could pinpoint the voices. Yes, nearly the entire Orlouge clan had apparently made the trip to Serenti to watch their youngest warrior in her 'exciting journey'. That phrase was tossed around at least a dozen times as she hugged each of her five uncles, all smiling widely as they chatted happily amongst each other.

Kyla took it all in; the drab pale blues and whites adorning the walls and curtains respectively, the single bed she had no idea how she ended up in, and the surprise of half her family waiting for her when she woke up. The young girl shifted ucomfortably in the best, her clothes slightly damp from sleeping in them. She reached out for some sort of drink, finding the salvation for her dried throat in a glass of water handed to her by one of her relatives.

“What happened in my last battle?” Kyla whispered the words to her closest uncle, Sei Orlouge, looking into his pale blue eyes while drinking the water. She never quite realized how dry her throat got whenever she passed out.

“You won of course. That’s what we Orlouge’s do, we win,” Ciato Orlouge, the rotund and well dressed, uncle standing directly to Sei’s left interjected quickly.

Sei smiled and raised his eyebrows in what she knew was a promise to explain later. He reached in and gave the young woman a tight hug before gesturing towards the hallway. Kyla allowed him to lead her into the large passageway, his steady hand on the small of her back giving her a much needed constant during this otherwise quite confusing moment.

She left the room, giving a final smile back at all of her family, she turned and faced Sei.

“Now can you please explain what happened?”

Sei grinned even larger, ”All in good time Kylana, first there is something I need to show you.” He gestured for her to turn around and there stood her grandfather, Tinerad Orlouge, speaking to someone she could not see.

“Grandpa!” She squealed, rushing towards him as he turned around and gave her a huge smile. He held his arms out and she ran into them, being lifted off the ground just as he had done when she was a small child. She closed her eyes tightly and let herself sink into him. When she opened them she was looking over his shoulders at the man he had spoken to mere moments ago.

There before her stood her father.

Kyla pushed herself from her grandfather’s large arms and peered around his body as though she had seen a ghost. In fact, perhaps she had. Her father had not stepped out of his home in many years. Tinerad stepped slowly out of the way so that Kyla stood face to face with Niche Orlouge.

“What are you doing here?” the surprise in the girl's voice came off rushed, impatient even.

“You aren’t happy I’ve come then?” Niche glanced at the floor and then to her face nervously. Kyla could see the blue eyes of her birth father filed with a sense of fear. Being a recluse for so long had obviously taken its toll on Niche.

“Of course I’m happy, it’s just….why…Of course I’m happy.” Her words seemed to stumble over each other in an effort to somehow explain the fear, excitement, worry, and happiness that all jumbled inside her soul.

Niche reached down and grabbed his daughter’s hands while still looking deep into her eyes. She could see the tears in his eyes, feel the heat of his breath as he began to speak once more.

“You know," Niche took a hard swallow before continuing, "the last time I left the house was for your funeral... when they found the people who had been killed, the searched the bodies and found your mother and your brothers. It was hard to bury them, but I still had hope because they never found yours. For three years I held out hope, long after everyone told me I should let go, and then one day I sat in your room holding your favorite doll and I realized I couldn’t even remember what you used to call it. That was the moment I realized I had to let go. On your eighth birthday I stood next to your mother’s grave and watched them bury that little doll below your name. The last time I left my house was to tell you goodbye. I figured I owed it to you to see who you are now. I hear you have a bit of the same spirit I had as a young boy.”

Kyla smiled and tried to think of what to say, but her thoughts were interrupted as the largest of her uncles, Steppenwolf Orlouge walked up. The mystic's large size seemed to tower over both Kyla and her father (who was not short by any means himself).

“I hate ta break up this touching moment, but we’ve gotta get going.” He placed his arm around her and began to walk her towards the building’s entrance. She took one last look back towards Niche, who was quickly surrounded by his other family members as he waved goodbye to his daughter, “You’ll be up against Marcus Book next.”

“-The- Marcus Book?" Kyla coughed as she seemed to choke on her own fear, "As in the Viceroy’s Marcus Book? Marcus Book from the Cell? You have got to be kidding!”

“I don’t see what you’re so worried about, Kylana,” Her very large uncle patted her on the back. The innocent blow sent her stumbling a few feet forward, and caused her to glare at the giant of a man for a brief moment. The larger mystic responded with a wavering grin across his features before placing one of his huge hands upon her shoulder.

“I-I’m not worried,” the girl looked down at her feet, watching them take her to the next step of her 'exciting journey'. “I’m just a little bit worried, you know? I mean, from what you’ve told me, the Orlouge family is held in high regard by all of the viceroys. This Marcus Book fellow was handpicked by Emien Harthworth himself, so when the leader of a huge military like Corone’s chooses someone to be his champion, excuse me if I start to second guess myself.”

“That’s not all of it,” Steppenwolf mumbled slightly, as if even talking about the Corone viceroys left a bad taste in his mouth, “Sei owes a debt of gratitude to all three of the viceroys.” The man ran his hand through his large pink afro, a feature that spoke volumes about the eccentric inventor. The girl raised a curious eyebrow at her uncle, her eyes quickly shifting back forward to avoid unnecessary and accidental injury.

“Well, when Sei was little, he couldn’t talk at all. Since, you know, he was born mute, and up until about five he could only communicate through sign language. It was around that time that Father started taking him to visit the viceroys regularly. I don’t know what they did, but after a year or so, Sei was using telepathy to talk. A gift like that is hard to pay back, you know? I think it’s part of the reason Sei gave up his spot on the roster this year.” A breath was inhaled after the long-winded explanation, though there seemed to be a tinge of regret in the sound as well.

“You’re saying I should give up,” Kyla’s voice sank. The two began to pass through the various buildings that made up the town of Serenti; brick establishments, populated taverns, and two story homes that seemed to accommodate the stone road well. She could feel the eyes on her from the houses; hear shades being pulled at the sight of her awkward looking uncle. At least she had intimidation going for her.

Kyla’s attention was suddenly jostled from her when her uncle swung her around; her baby blues a lighter version of his own sapphires. His lips had formed what could best be described as a scowl. The grip on her shoulder tightened a little as he opened his mouth to speak. He took in another breath, and Kyla swallowed hard, afraid that she had severely enraged what was normally a gentle giant.

“You listen to me Kyla Marie Orlouge,” Steppenwolf’s voice had become rough, a telltale sign that the inventor was serious, “You have been a thief, you have been a warrior, you have even been Sei’s little princess. You have been almost anything your heart could desire, but the one thing you can not, should not ever be is a quitter. You’re going to go into that arena, you’re going to fight Marcus Book, and you’re going to go on to win the whole damn Serenti Invitational! Do you understand?”

At this point a crowd had gathered. Steppenwolf had always been a bit loud when he spoke, and the sincerity of the topic had herded people out of the nearby buildings like sheep. The only response she had at the tense and awkward moment came in the form of a shaky nod. It was obvious that this meant a lot to Steppenwolf, so she would have to try her best not to disappoint her elder.

“One more thing,” Steppenwolf said, his voice starting to return to normal, “Marcus Book and Sei kind of teamed up together during the Cell. Essentially, you’ll be fighting someone that has saved, as well as been saved by my little brother.” Kyla’s eyes widened at her relative, she knew only that Marcus had fought in the tournament, but the details had never been mentioned. It took her a moment notice that the larger mystic’s eyes had shifted upwards. He released the girl, allowing her to turn and see the same thing he did. A crowd had formed outside of the arena, and at the forefront of it stood Emien Harthworth and Marcus Book.

“Looks like it will be a battle in the streets instead of a battle in the Serenti arena,” the girl mumbled, a black fire enveloping her right hand to form a sword. The smell of sweat from the townsfolk began to feel the air, and hushed whispers floated around as bets were made. This would be Kyla’s final test before she could go to the finals. This was her chance to prove herself, something she fully intended to do.

Not for her father, not for Sei, not even for Steppenwolf, but to herself. Kyla Orlouge needed to prove her strength to herself. Otherwise, there was no point in this 'exciting journey'.

[Amen]

The carriage found another gap in the cobblestone street, and Marcus Book silently thanked the gods for padded seats. Emien Harthworth sat across from him but was unperturbed by the turbulence, speaking unbrokenly even as his shoulder bounced off the carriage wall.

“What do you know of the Ixian Knights?” the viceroy was saying.

“Not much,” Marcus admitted. “Fringe nationalist group, as I understand.”

“It’s a little more complicated than that, but yes, they say they’re dedicated to the protection of Radasanth. There’s rumblings of a doomsday prophecy in there as well, but the assembly and their leader have a friendly history. I ask because we’re on our way to meet a girl named Kyla Orlouge.”

Marcus paused. “The name is familiar,” he said, and then he shrugged. “I’ve never had any dealings with the Ixian Knights.”

“On the contrary, actually,” Harthworth said. He and Book swayed right to left in unison, along with the rest of the cabin. “The name is familiar because you met Sei Orlouge, albeit briefly. He saved your life in The Cell.”

The templar raised his eyebrows, and then gazed thoughtfully out the window as the streets and people and alleys of Corone’s capital rushed past in a blur of activity. Harthworth’s carriage was a monster: luxurious redwood built over with thick talymer beams and dehlar plates. It was impenetrable but heavy, necessitating horses of hulking size and strength to be bred and uniquely trained to draw it, and even then the team required fifteen beasts. They were fierce animals, those horses, screaming in hellish fury despite their domestication, and the sound punctuated Book’s memories.

In all truth, his recollection of The Cell was sparse and colored by horror and the constant threat of painful death. He’d seen men burned alive that day, others shot, plenty maimed. The heat had been stifling, and there were gods in the arena that day – deadly, callous gods, dealing cruelty faster than a man could comprehend. One of those deities was a versicolor smear in Marcus’ recollection. Had he had butterfly wings? Book didn’t know, the entire memory had a surreal quality and he could not possibly separate fact from fever dream, or madness brought about from fear.

“I don’t remember,” Marcus said, and his voice was dangerous.

Emien had the good sense not to press it, though he had no fear of the templar. “It’s no matter. You simply need to know that they are relations, which makes this event…delicate.”

“What event?”

“Don’t be dense,” Harthworth sighed, and paused as the carriage bounced and his head nearly reached the ceiling. “You’re to fight Kyla as part of the Serenti ceremonies. The Knights have a very public profile in Radasanth, and Kyla’s tournament career has been somewhat storied. This is a perfect opportunity to build your image to the nation’s people.”

Marcus grunted his assent. He was accustomed to being the viceroy’s gladiator, and in truth he welcomed these skirmishes. Beyond the city walls, the Empire’s army was preparing to mobilize in a tremendous wave of brutality meant to wash the Rangers from history, and Marcus Book was intended for the front lines. Horror and a likely death awaited him there, but today he need only fight one woman and then return to the viceroy’s luxurious mansion.

The carriage leaned as the horses turned in an arc, and then Emien let himself out. Marcus followed, then half-climbed the outside of the carriage to retrieve his tools from the chests strapped to the top. A crowd was already beginning to gather, drawn by the sight of the viceroy’s guard and his intimidating vehicle.

“Good citizens of Radasanth!” Emien said, holding his arms out to his sides, palms out in a gesture of generosity and good will. “My name is Emien Harthworth, and I have the tremendous honor of serving you, the people of our great city, as viceroy.”

Marcus strapped his shield over his left shoulder, and tested the heft of his mace before securing it to his belt at his left hip. He listened with half a mind as Harthworth plied his oratory trade, digging into the chest and removing a colossal single-bladed axe. He was testing the blade’s edge as the viceroy continued: “No doubt you’ve heard of the Serenti Invitational, a tournament that draws champions from all over Althanas to do battle for the entertainment of the nobility. No longer. Today, the Serenti is a spectacle for all. Today you have the good fortune to bear witness to a clash of paragons, each of them champions – one a patriot and humanitarian, one a loyal soldier and peacekeeper.”

Book hoisted his axe up and rested the haft on his right shoulder, stepping forward.

“This man is the latter: allow me to introduce to you Marcus Book, who crushed the anarchist rebel incursion at the City Watch, and thus preserved the safety and good health of your wives and children. He is a hero in every sense, fearless and loyal, selfless and enduring.”

The templar kept his face neutral, but not without effort. Emien failed to mention that Marcus had thwarted the Ranger attack on the City Watch only because he’d been deceived as part of an elaborate test, and his loyalty went as far as Harthworth’s coin. He was Salvic, and he had no love for Corone or her people. That he even fought in their war was a bit of an aberration – he was a paladin, not a soldier.

“His opponent needs no introduction from me, for surely every man here knows the name Orlouge and the greatness inherent therein. From their clan and through that door there, I am told will emerge one Kyla Orlouge, to honor her house and our people with her beauty and grace in mortal combat. Ladies and gentlemen, prepare yourselves for a once-in-a-lifetime event, a display unlike any other! Gather around the square, and let the pride of a nation wash over you. Let the enemies of our grand Empire tremble, for this is the might we depend upon!”

The square was filling with bodies quickly, and the crowd’s murmur was growing steadily in volume. Emien’s guard deployed themselves throughout the courtyard in a square to keep the throng back, and thus the cobblestone battlefield was formed. There was a fountain in the center, bubbling merrily and obliviously. Above, the sky was overcast, and a warm, stiff wind mingled the odor of unwashed bodies with the perfume of distant rain.

Figures were beginning to emerge from the Citadel’s foyer as Emien stepped close, and his voice dropped. “She’s a pretty girl, Marcus,” Harthworth said. “Your job today is to make sure she stays that way.”

Book cocked an eyebrow, and the viceroy boldly took the axe out of his hands. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying for you, this isn’t just a fight,” the old general said, “it’s a show. And nobody wants to see a big, bald, inked-up and ugly fucker like you beat a girl’s face in. Do you understand me?”

The viceroy set the head of the axe on the cobblestones, and crossed his palms on the grip. Kyla Orlouge stepped forward on the other side of the courtyard, and Marcus considered her. She was a little shorter than he was, and a great deal thinner. She did not seem fierce or experienced – indeed she was young, maybe even soft. He took a steadying breath. This was a girl, and posed no real threat to him. Even if she fought to kill, what harm could she do him?

And then his mind returned to The Cell, where an even smaller girl called Lillian Sesthal had stood toe-to-toe with gods without fear or hesitation. As his blood went cold, Kyla summoned up a sword-like projection amidst black fire, and he felt his breathing grow shallow.

Marcus stepped forward, retrieving his shield and strapping it to his left forearm before drawing his mace. He stopped next to the fountain, and he watched her approach. Her face showed only stout determination.

“Oh hell,” he sighed to himself.

[Amber Eyes]

With the quiet mumbles of the crowd carrying the only sounds between the two warriors, Kyla now had a chance to look at her opponent. From their distance apart, the mystic estimated that Marcus Book was around her height, though definitely double her weight. She took a deep breath while eyeing each bulging muscle on the paladin's form. The man had a darkened skin, one that the young girl had very rarely seen in her time in Radasanth. He had very little on in terms of armor; a shield, a white cotton shirt that looked like it had seen better days, and a pair of pants that seemed like the warrior had worn them every day for the past week.

Leave it to Sei to save the life of someone less fortunate.

While the man's defenses seemed to be lacking, it was the mace that he wielded that sent a shiver down the mystic's spine. Combined with the rather large muscles of the paladin, Kyla could easily figure out what one decent hit from the weapon would mean for her head. A quick vision of the girl's top half being ripped from the rest of her body with a swipe of the spiked weapon flashed in her head. Needless to say, a new fear had been instilled in her, but with that fear came a strategy as simple as it was perfect (in theory).

"Just don't let him hit you, Kylana!" Steppenwolf had placed his hands around his mouth so his niece could hear him. In his warning to his relative, the giant mystic revealed Kyla's plan for the entire crowd to hear. The girl stopped in her slow advance towards Emien Harthworth's representative, letting out an exasperated sigh and closing her eyes. She opened her blue orbs and looked into the strangely golden pupils of Marcus Book. Those golden suns told a tale of worry in the larger warrior. She did not know why, but it seemed that the paladin was afraid of her. He was twice her build and -he- was scared of -her-.

"Good luck,” Kyla spoke with a nod to the warrior, who seemed to return the nod to her.

"And to you," Marcus stated, his grip tightening around the mace.

Without any more pleasantries between them, Kyla ran down the cobblestone street towards her foe. Her feet carried her as fast as she could, her dark blade rising into the air and coming down in an attempt to relieve Marcus of his mace wielding arm. Simultaneously, the mystic threw a punch with her left hand, the opera glove revealing three metal blades, positioned between her knuckles. The plan was to make Marcus defend either one arm or the other, the unguarded appendage hopefully drawing first blood in the match.

"Yes! Go Kyla!" Steppenwolf exclaimed, jumping into the air and extending an arm towards the sky. The crowd laughed at the enthusiastic titan as he cheered on the lithe girl. Even Emien Harthworth managed to crack a slight grin at the funny looking scene.

[Amen]

“Just don’t let him hit you, Kylana!”

The words rang out hard even over the din of the crowd. Listen to him, Marcus wordlessly pleaded. The thought of being himself maimed was stressing enough, but the mental image of the young mystic taking a mace blow to the braincase full-on in view of hundreds of spectators made his jaw clench. He cursed Emien Harthworth and he cursed Kyla Orlouge, and the big, eccentric man screaming and every eye trained on him.

The entire situation seemed to exemplify the prime struggle in the templar’s life: he was a heartless killing machine and a slave to his reputation. Marcus bore this girl no ill will, but he knew he could put her blood on his hands and feel no guilt for it. Take away the crowd and the Serenti and Emien Harthworth on a different day, take away Sei and the big man shouting from the Citadel – if Kyla took a swing at him with her sword on that day, he would happily break her pretty head and never think twice about it.

The guilt and the fear came not from the thought of doing evil, but from the knowledge that his lack of guilt and fear made him monstrous. For a brief moment, he recognized that he was incontrovertibly the villain in this fight. The just thing to do – the right thing to do – would be to accept his fate at her hands.

But when the sword came down, he raised his mace horizontally so that the shaft held her blade away, and he swung his shield out from his torso to batter her fist aside. Before she could mount a second attack, Marcus lunged forward. He pushed up and out with his mace in an attempt to push her sword aside, hoping that her slender frame did not belie some great supernatural level of strength, and then he raised his right leg and thrust it forward: a kick meant for Kyla’s abdomen.

Part of Marcus inwardly winced at his aggression, and silently that part prayed she was tougher than she looked. But that wasn’t his first thought.

His first thought was that Emien said she had to stay pretty, so Book would just have to break everything but her face.

[Amber Eyes]

He's fast, Kyla quickly thought as her opponent managed to not only deflect her shadow sword, but also Sophia's Mane. She could feel the hard shield slam into her left hand, causing the girl to take in a breath of pain. The young mystic could feel her gloved hand throbbing from the counter attack. Marcus Book was not just fast, he was fast and strong.

As the leg came up towards Kyla, she simply smiled in reply. His attempt to throw her sword out of her grip not only failed (due to her shadow sword being 'attached', as it were) but the counter-attack landed just a few inches in front of its intended target, making contact with what appeared to be thin air. Kyla was so close to her foe she could see the creases of the dilapidated boots he wore. She stood there for a moment, a look of excitement painted across her face. He had fallen for it.

The crowd that had gone silent just moments prior had now erupted in a roar of enthusiasm. Most people could not afford tickets into the Serenti, what with the civil war draining Corone economically, so to view one of the semi-finals right outside of the Serenti stadium was indeed a treat for the common man. Cheers for both Marcus and Kyla came from all around the combatants, bringing smiles to both Steppenwolf Orlouge and Emien Harthworth.

However, Steppenwolf and Kyla both went from the look of joy to a grimace of fear. The crowds heckles and praises were quickly drowned out by the sound of shattering glass. All over Kyla's body, the air itself cracked as if everyone was viewing her through a mirror. Once the cracks enveloped her entire body, the air itself shattered into dozens of broken glass shards. The crystalline fragments were then covered in flames, rousing the audience into a chorus of astonishment.

"Shit!" Kyla and Steppenwolf shouted simultaneously, the latter spinning around to address the immediate vicinity of the fan-made enclosure, "Everybody get down now!"

To prove how urgent the warning truly was, the large mystic grabbed three spectators in his orc-like arms and took them to the ground. The sudden tackle seemed to alert the rest of the people to the coming trouble, and they followed suit. Kyla watched the majority of the group duck onto the cobblestone road, the flaming glass from her Mystic Protection firing of in all directions.

Most of the shattered pieces of the spell flew harmlessly over the bystanders. The majority of the glass, however, was now firing straight towards Marcus Book and Emien Harthworth. Kyla turned towards where she had seen her uncle last, effectively exposing her back to her opponent.

"I am so sorry, everyone!"

[Amen]

Cracks formed in Marcus’ vision, and for the briefest instant he felt old pangs along his left side where Sei’s arcane glass carved glittering wounds in his arm and shoulder during The Cell. Even before the memory fully occurred, the templar knew what agony was bearing down on him. His eyes met Kyla’s through the fractures in thin air, and he cursed himself for not seeing the threat sooner.

And then he reacted.

The shield came up even as Marcus used his upraised leg to shove himself off the failing barrier. If there was an interval of time between that push and the explosion, it was too small for human perception. Marcus felt a sharp stinging pain around his left eye as miniscule shards dug lines in his flesh, thin as a spider’s silk, in a starburst pattern that reached back along his scalp. He ducked behind his shield and fell into a crouch, and then he spotted an angry crimson blotch in his peripheral vision. A quick glance revealed a large shard protruding from his left bicep, and he tilted his shield as he lifted his arm to pull it free with his teeth, and immediately he hissed at the unexpected heat.

Book gave himself a cursory once-over to survey the damage. His pants were old but the leather was tough. His legs were bleeding here and there from minor wounds, but the leather had prevented the shards from penetrating deep enough to cause lasting harm. His left bicep had taken the worst blow and a few thin but disquieting rivulets of blood were beginning to roll from the wound. The cuts on his head were minor annoyances, likely caused by glass exploding into miniscule shards as it met the edge of his shield as he was raising it. The real concern, however, was the heat.

Marcus growled as the cutting-pain was surpassed by the burning-pain, and he took a deep, shivering breath. The heat blessedly did not seem sufficient to melt the leather of his pants, though it blessedly was just enough to incompletely cauterize the wounds. He would bleed and it would hurt to move, but he wouldn’t bleed out and he wasn’t consumed in flame.

He shuddered at the thought, and he found that his good will had melted away almost entirely.

When he lowered his shield – which was now adorned with a layer of wicked glass spikes and gave off a thin, foul-smelling smoke – Marcus was delighted to find his foe’s back turned to him. He turned his mace around underhand as if he could stab her with it, but when he lunged forward he did not make an attempt on her exposed back. Instead he tried to wrap his right arm around her throat from behind, where he hoped surprise and his superior strength would allow him to choke her out without further pain and suffering.

His own pain and suffering, anyway.

[Amber Eyes]

The crowd had changed its tune once more after Kyla’s apology. The cheers has turned to boos, as well as an occasional yelp of pain. The girl could not blame her once captive audience from turning on her. After all, she had just sent a volley of broken glass shards towards them with almost no warning whatsoever. It was not until she saw the eyes of her uncle Steppenwolf that the young mystic had realized the mistake she had made.

A burly arm made its way around her neck, holding her tightly. Steppenwolf began to yell profanities at her opponent, and the crowd began to heckle Marcus for the underhanded move, despite the fact they had just been doing the same thing to Kyla. The girl’s eyes moved about frantically, trying to find some way to break free of her much stronger adversary. She began slapping the arm of the larger warrior, her shadow sword disappearing in her panic. If she could have screamed, she would have. Her vision began to grow darker as she set her eyes on the shadow of Marcus Book, looming over her form and projecting onto the ground.

She could feel more and more pressure being applied to her throat. She tried to swallow, but found that her foe’s strong grip was holding even her spit from going down. Her body went limp around the same time that her form began to ‘phase’ into Marcus, as it were. More accurately, Kyla was melding into the shadow that the paladin cast over their close range quarrel. Over the course of a couple of seconds, Marcus Book went from strangling the life out of a young woman, to holding thin air.

All eyes instantly shifted towards Steppenwolf, who shook his head in fervor. Whatever had just happened to make Kyla disappear, her relative had nothing to do with it. The girl had provided the spectators with a slight intermission of sorts. It seemed like forever before somebody spoke out, though in the large mass of people now gathered, it was hard to pinpoint a location.

“Did….Did she just forfeit?”

There was a silence among them all as they shifted antsy glances at one another. It would have been a very anti-climactic way to end the fight. In the eerie quiet, however, there was a sound resonating from behind Steppenwolf, in a thick cluster of common folk. The sound was that of sobbing; hysterical, desperate, unrelenting sobbing. The people began to move out of the way to see where the out of place crying was coming from. There seemed to be a unified gasp when they found Kyla Orlouge, streams of tears rolling down her delicate cheeks.

“I-I’m okay,” Kyla lied, standing up and wiping the water from her features. If her shadow step had not kicked in when it had, the girl would have lived out her greatest fear. She was scared of a lot of things, but what absolutely terrified Kyla more than anything else on Althanas was death from suffocation. Something about watching the world around her fade as she struggled to breathe caused a feeling of horror in the mystic, and Marcus was just a few seconds away from showing her what such a thing was like.

Her eyes were filled with malice, which seemed to perfectly coincide with the fear. She pointed her unwavering, gloved hand towards Marcus, an orb of white light instantly appearing in front of the paladin. A hand of inky darkness quickly grabbed the ball, grasping it with just as much ferocity as Kyla’s attacker had done to her fragile neck. Normally, there would be a short reprieve before the mystic bomb attack went off, but normally the attack was not fueled by the fear that the young girl could actually die here.

The mystic bomb exploded, hopefully taking her large assailant with it. She felt the winds created by the blast blow through her, drying some of her tears and steeling her resolve. This explosion seemed to warrant a giant ovation from the same people who despised the girl just moments ago. All it had took was for the viceroy's representative to strangle his 'weaker' opponent from behind.

Loyalty was such a fickle thing.

[Amen]

In Marcus Book’s then-limited experience, mages tended to come in three types. The first and most common was the spell-slinger, whose habit it was to rain death down exclusively from a distance. The second was the magician: a rogue like the spy Vespasian Villeneuve, who had used his magic to project illusions to distract from an all-too-real and far deadlier blade. The third, and the rarest, was, well, someone like Book himself – a being that used supernatural knowledge and skills to compliment his or her corporeal abilities. Every type tended to develop a god complex.

Kyla Orlouge managed to buck every one of these notions. She had seemed unassuming and down-to-earth just before she summoned a sword of shadows from nothing, and despite that her demeanor was that of a young woman standing defiant of unknown and unfriendly odds. Thus, Marcus had engaged her as if she was a brawler first and a mage second. When she proved herself a capable and deadly illusionist, then, he started to realize he didn’t know what he was dealing with.

So when she began to conjure up light, Marcus chose to err on the far side of caution. Between her emotional state and her well-established versatility, he thought it unwise to assume this coalescing glow was any base illusion.

Marcus ducked and shoved away from the spell with all the strength he could summon from his mangled legs, and he raised his shield defensively. There was a flare of light, and then he felt himself ripped bodily from the cobblestones and tossed brutally through the air, twisting violently even as his limbs flailed in a frantic and futile search for salvation. His senses were lost to oblivion: there was naught to see but sparks of color amidst a scene full of featureless faces and open sky that whirled around him too fast to be anything but blurry bedlam. All sound gave way to a high, persistent ringing, and beneath that was the distant sound of the wind rushing. And all he could feel was sheer concussive force.

When he regained consciousness, he was drowning. He choked and lashed, kicking wildly for the surface even though he had no concept of which direction was up, and when his head broke the surface he came up sputtering and coughing up a lungful of water even as he struggled to bring in air. He panted and cast his eyes around in a fierce search for sense, and gradually he fought down panic.

Apparently Kyla’s attack had blown him backward across the square and into the fountain, which was blessedly full. His upper back and right shoulder was one massive knot of pain, though he could move them with some effort, which suggested how he’d landed in the water and confirmed that by some god’s grace he hadn’t broken anything. He tried to push himself to his feet and his thighs immediately gave out beneath him, forcing him to clutch the edge of the fountain to keep from going under again. He coughed, and realized dully that the water was tainted red.

Most of it, he decided, was coming from his legs, which were well and truly perforated by the mystic’s first magical assault. There were new wounds now, however: a gash on his right temple, which was wetting his cheek with a fresh red river, and he felt no urge to see the no-doubt wicked scrapes on his back from the fountain floor. He found his mace beneath the crimson murk, and clutched it to his chest for a moment to steel himself. His shield was gone – just gone. He thought it hadn’t been destroyed, only ripped from him by the force of the blast, but it was nowhere to be seen. It was impossible to say.

Between the probable concussion and the full-body pain, all the templar could say for sure was that he did not like Kyla Orlouge and he wanted nothing to do with her anymore. She was dangerous.

But he had a job to do.

Marcus growled to himself, and the sound dredged up another mouthful of water so that he descended into a fit of forceful coughing and nearly slipped beneath the water again. He tried a second time to summon up a fresh wave of willpower – this time without vocal accompaniment – and managed to get himself unsteadily to his feet. He waded through the bloodied water on legs that grew progressively surer, and then he vaulted over the edge wincing and set his sodden boots back on the cobblestone street.

Clenching his mace in his right hand and breathing heavily, glaring from beneath a wet, bloodied, and heavy brow, Marcus Book waited to see what the young mystic would try to kill him with next.

The crowd, stunned into awed silence by an impressive show of destructive magic and the subsequent display of a staunch refusal to die, waited with him.

[Amber Eyes]

There was a thick red line around the girl’s neck; something she knew was going to bruise. Kyla held no remorse as Marcus hit the fountain, though she was surprised that the blast had not blown the paladin through the marble fountain. After a few seconds of wait, the mystic began to grow worried for her foe. It was not in the young girl’s nature to hold a grudge for long, and the sheer fact that it seemed her opponent was about to suffer the same fate he had tried to bestow upon her only added to the regret.

Kyla began to rush over to the fountain, the air around her turning into a fine mist as she approached. Before the young lady could go into the water and offer Marcus some help, the warrior finally came up for air. Kyla jumped back at the sudden emergence of her opponent, her right hand once again forming her shadow sword around her hand. Marcus attempted to get out of the decorative fountain three times, each try making the man seem more pathetic than the last.

By the time Marcus had gotten out of the fountain, Kyla’s rage had all but disappeared. Yes, this man had just tries to kill her in the worst way possible, and it was true that he probably would have let her die. It was obvious that Marcus Book, despite the fact that he had saved the life of the ‘Hero of Radasanth’, was not a good person at heart. In fact, for a man chosen to be the representative for the viceroys, Marcus Book seemed very much like a coward.

Kyla Orlouge was not mean, she was not a coward, and she definitely was not Marcus Book.

The shadow sword disappeared from her hand, the claws of Sophia’s Mane sinking back into the glove. Kyla had formed a fine swath of sweat and tears over her face by now, and her breathing had grown heavy with exhaustion. Yet here she was, on the verge of victory against a larger enemy, and more than capable of finishing the fight.

“No,” Kyla shook her head as she looked to the beaten Marcus, “I won’t fight anymore. I’ve won. You’ve lost.” She ran moth of her hands through her hair, ensuring that each strand had remained in place. Most of them had not, and resulted in various tangles of thin wires across her scalp. They had both given a good effort at one another, but there was simply no more reason to fight, especially since dying just outside of the Serenti doors would be a bigger headache for their medical staff.

Kyla heard a single clap come from the audience. She knew where the gesture had come from. Her family had always taught her to stop a battle once a winner was clear, so Steppenwolf’s ovation came as no surprise. However, the clap was soon joined by several more, until finally the whole crowd of spectators was now clapping for the girl. Some of the people who had not stepped out to watch now left their homes and businesses to see what all the cheering was about.

She smiled politely and sank to her knees, taking in a deep breath. In truth, Kyla had never used so many of her attacks in such rapid succession before. The process was taxing, but she was far better off just being weary than her battered nemesis. She was sure Marcus would not want any more to do with her. That was fine, because the last person she had ever wanted to see again was Marcus Book.

“Yield, Marcus,” the girl stood up once more, pointing her left hand at the warrior again, “I don’t want to, but if I have to, I will finish you. Judging by the cheers though, I think everyone has seen enough warring today.” Her voice was serious enough to carry to Marcus, even through the applause of the people. She awaited an answer from the paladin, knowing that no matter what Marcus decided, it seemed that this chapter of Kyla’s ‘exciting journey’ was coming to a close.

[Amen]

Marcus scanned the crowd as they applauded, and set his face as if stone. This was and had always been more than a test of two individuals’ ability to cause harm: it was a social balancing act and a popularity contest. In pressing his assault, the templar gave ground in the greater game. But in keeping his bloodlust in check he put his health at risk and, ultimately, gave up his social ground anyway. He had come into this farce handicapped, and he wanted to rage at the assembled throng for it. It would have been so satisfying to take his mace and his fists to their smiling faces, to send them scrambling to their hovels in fear.

And now she wanted him to yield.

Stone, he told himself. Be disciplined. Give away nothing. Breathe.

He took a steadying breath, and forced himself to consider it. There would be relief in it, to walk away and be done with these games. Emien would be disappointed in him, but perhaps then he could return to the life of a common mercenary. And hadn’t that been the goal when he came to Corone? He had wanted only to escape the unending call of duty and lose himself in a short life of thoughtless bloodshed and pain, and the arms of spiritless women. And yet here he was, thinking, beholden to another’s expectations, judged for the inner nature he struggled always to conceal.

The rage welled up in him, and he ground his teeth. His eyes, once glinting with vague and distant sparks, suddenly flared golden as if full of the sun. He grunted against the pain of it, and struggled to choke it down but the agonized growl rolled out of him anyway. And as the crowd watched, his wounds began to burn away. The wire-thin lines on the left side of his face and scalp scabbed over, and then the dried blood flaked away and left the skin beneath unmarred. The wound on his temple gave of a thin, black smoke and stank of burning flesh, and then the blood caked and stopped flowing. He tightened his pectorals and the wing-shaped muscles of his back, and stretched his arms as the hellfire burned away fatigue poisons and muscle tears.

In the end he was horrifyingly whole again. He rolled his right arm and then his left, and the pain and stiffness were gone. He rolled his head on his neck and the bones popped and cracked, but his range of motion was full. And when he stretched his legs, they did not ooze his life’s blood to slick the leather of his pants, and they did not fail him when he took his first step toward Kyla.

The crowd slowly stopped clapping, once again stunned into disbelief. The silence was a boon.

“The gods favor Marcus Book,” the templar said boldly. For the first time, the crowd realized he was not Coronian – his accent was molasses-thick and distinctly Salvic. If they needed any more reason to hate and distrust him, they had it now. Emien Harthworth began to sweat.

“But the people,” Marcus continued, raising his voice an octave, “the people favor Kyla Orlouge. Hard or soft, good or bad, I am a servant of the people. Radasanth, here is your hero.”

Book knelt in front of the mystic, and surrendered his mace to her. He did not bow his head in the traditional mien of surrender, but the act was unmistakable. Kyla seemed confused at first, and then suspicious, and when she reached for the mace her hand was hesitant and her eyes watched for a trick that didn’t come. She held the heavy weapon loose in her hand, and before she could say a word Marcus slid to his feet again and loomed close.

“Give Sei my regards,” he said evenly, close enough that she could feel his breath on her ear.

And then he was gone. He turned around as the crowd exploded into a satisfied roar of applause, whistles, and cheers, and as he reached the line of guardsmen they parted so that the assembled spectators could rush in and lift their hero to their shoulders.

The viceroy was waiting by the carriage, watching the crowd dispassionately. “I would have preferred that to be you,” he said as Marcus approached.

“The crowd is fickle,” Book grunted, turning to watch as the large Orlouge trapped his younger relative in a bear hug.

“You could have spun it when she blew the glass into their midst. It was not impossible to win.”

Marcus shrugged. “And yet some will say she was too dangerous, and I was trying to render her unconscious for the safety of the crowd. You presented me as the perfect soldier, Emien, and she has a hero’s surname and a young girl’s face. They want to trust appearances. I am never going to look like a hero, and I’m never going to be beloved. At best I can hope to be seen as a loyal guardian. Someone they can be glad is on their side, even if they don’t like the look of me.”

Harthworth chewed on that awhile, and then nodded slowly. “Like a dog of war,” he mused, “ugly and dangerous, but loyal.”

“Yes,” Marcus said stiffly, and then he crawled into the carriage without another word.

“Retrieve Mr. Book’s weapons and load them into the carriage,” the viceroy told the nearest guard. “We’re done here.”

[Duffy]

Amen vs. Amber Eyes Judgement

I have been reading this thread most of the day, and have to say to the both of you that it has been an absolute delight to read, read, and read again. I read a lot of the work posted on Althanas, and have been keeping up with your respective progress throughout the tournament. This promised so much and you both delivered. It was, as you'll see, a close battle, and not simply because that's how nice people do this rubric thing. If Amber's technique had been more daring, or if Amen's mechanics had slipped just slightly, the result would have been very different.

As ever, brief, fleeting commentary, though I made more extensive notes during the judging process. If you have any questions, you can freely message me through the usual channels at any point in time.

Amber is scored to the left, Amen to the right.

Story 7/8 –

What I like about the story you both weave is that it encompasses not only your character’s history, but one another’s history together. The references to the Cell, to the many Orlougne’s and to Marcus’ shady past really pull a normal, everyday tournament battle out of the limelight. When I offered to help judging, I did not expect to see such an exemplary tale – I would love to see it finished, or rather, to see it continued. How would Marcus and Kyla interact in the wider world, what tales would they write into history?

Amen utilised his own past more efficiently, and through a more developed story, back history and foreshadowing, he piped Amber to the post in this category. I’d like to see both of you make a more verbal show of your thoughts, because we need to hear the reasons they’re here in their own voice – beg, steal, scream and shout your own lives to the world.

Continuity 7/8 –

Amber: be careful not to rely too heavily on the Orlougne name, nor to use the NPCs as an excuse to fill in a missing part of Kyla’s story. Though you expertly wove personal continuity with Althanas continuity, and more importantly that of your journey through the cell thus far, there is more of the former than the latter. A balance between the two is essential to keep readers intrigued, people familiar with the Orlougne’s amused and people who are neither to keep reading.

Amen: Same advice, though a higher score due to the use of personal story to explain Marcus’ actions – why he yields, why he lessens his blows, why he lives, breathes, speaks. Continuity can be used to explain the here and now as much as the why, tomorrow and what could be, which you seem to grasp well.

Setting 6/6 –

Not particularly exciting from either of you, but enough to place us in the scene, describe it and give it enough soul and life to make an impact.

Creativity 6/7 –

As far as creativity goes, Amen drew on a wider range of literary techniques to bring his character’s pain to life that overwhelmed Kyla’s intricate array of NPC and crowd interaction.

Character 8/9 –

Amber: Outlandish character development, especially so in regards to how you portray Kyla coming into her own as a woman in a world of men. I would be careful however to not let your NPCs drown out the character of, well, your character. Steppenwolf’s lines and the stern military patriarchy Kyla is surrounded by could easily become a detractor from what is otherwise a very polished performance.

Amen: I get the impression that Marcus Book is a grubby, hardworking, rather attractive sort of Victorian brigand. The sort of man Mr Darcy secretly wants to be, when a suitor isn’t looking. He oozes through the screen, each and every stoic utterance and rock of the carriage brings him to life. In this particular thread, it is your own, exemplary, shining strength. I have nothing negative to comment on.

Interaction 7/7 –

Amber & Amen: great interaction and great dialogue. Less elision, more particulars in the way each character speaks and more fluidic responses between characters would heighten your score.

Strategy 6/7 –

Despite Kyla’s best efforts to best Marcus, he played her for the fool and came out of the situation the better for it. Letting a woman win by only letting her think she’s won is a very subtle offense.

Mechanics 9/9 –

Outstanding performance here, though I expected nothing less. A few minor detractions in sentence structure and one or two awkward phrases prevented either score being the full ten. The tightness of your work shows you’ve but effort into ensuring you don’t make any careless mistakes.

Clarity 7/6 –

Amber: the sheer amount of NPCs you work with would usually indicate that clarity is going to take a hit. Quite to the contrary, here, you’re trimmed writing and competent grasp of who your characters are and suitable indicators of who is speaking and to whom really make your writing flow.

Amen: there is a stern juxtaposition between recollection, dialogue, inner voice and Marcus’ moods which made it difficult to interpret at times. This is best highlighted in post number nine; the action’s impact was lost between supposition, thought and actual movement. Be careful not to get carried away with your repertoire of techniques, I feel somewhat hypocritical saying this, but less is always more. Post eleven contains some foggy lines, fifth paragraph, first two lines.

Wildcard 7/5 –

Amber: the Witch King’s ironic death in Lord of the Rings…if you’re not familiar with it, looks it up. Your finale post reminded me of Eowyn and the little Hobbit’s triumph, a nostril flaring wild ride into a surprise violent streak in someone I had previously expected to be a meek, sensitive girl. A very enjoyable read, I look forward to seeing you continue to grow – you have come a long, long way since the first thread or two of yours I judged over a year ago.

Amen: I love the non-chalant personality Marcus has. It’s almost as if he cares, but because he feels people expect him to, as opposed to because he actually does. The knightly exit with his servants collecting his particulars and the foreshadowing and hints that despite his fame, fortune and providence, Mr Book is in fact a pawn work wonders. Unfortunately, deadlines were missed, so the rules of the Serenti afford me the gruesome task of a suitable deduction from the wildcard.

Total 70/72


Amen emerges victorious, and proceeds through to the next round.

XP pending calculation.

[Atzar]

Amen gains 2400 EXP and 100 GP!
Amber Eyes gains 600 EXP and 100 GP!

EXP/GP added!