Jagged Heights (CLOSED)

[Grimoire]

(Closed to Nevermore; sorry for the confusion, but it won't let me change the thread title -_-)

The sunlight was always much more vivid in the mountaintops, as if the increased altitude made a visible difference in one's distance from the sun itself. Its morning gold was richer than at the mountain's base, its evening oranges more crisp and more adequately blended with the horizon. Even now it shone brighter at its noonday peak than any day in observation from below, scouring the shadows from the peak and bathing the entirety of the mountainside in a brilliant yellow. Fortunately, its heat never set in, staved off by the thin, chill air.

There was a man on this particular mountaintop, a middle-aged figure with a gracious height and impressive build. He had fiery red hair that belied a suntanned face, and he wore a simple tunic and forearm-length cape worked in swirls of gray, brown, and olive drab. Normally, he would have used the subdued colors to blend into his environment, and his soft leather boots would have muted the sound of his footsteps on paths as loamy as those underfoot. But this man, Levitus, had no interest in sneaking today. No, today was about something entirely different.

Levitus stood on a plateau just below the peak itself. It was wide, free of the dense thickets that sprang up all along the hillside, and covered in a layer of sand and sedimentary dust. In the distance he could see where the mountain joined another, and that another, and so on until they formed a jagged spine that seemed to scratch the very sky. Below, the city of Radasanth spread out like so many insects, its miniscule rooftops issuing even smaller plumes of smoke that swayed and evanesced long before they reached the scattered clouds between them and Levitus. It was a pristine sight, really.

Too bad it was fake.

Levitus took a precursory scan of the area. The clearing was still empty of all save him, but that didn't bring him much comfort. Somewhere beyond those false rocks and illusionary clouds was a bloodthirsty crowd eagerly waiting for their hunger to be sated, an entire stadium full of them. It was only one of many such stadiums back in the “real world”, what the Radasanthians referred to as “The Citadel”. It was a place of honor as much as it was debauchery, glory as much as sadism. Warriors from all reaches of Althanas gathered there to duel for various reasons, and the crowd came in droves to watch the bloodshed. The combatants were promised healing afterward, but it was always out of the public eye, away from the crowds; no one paid to see sportsmanship these days, or so it seemed.

Levitus was only one of many to answer The Citadel's call. He had approached the monks in charge with not a little hesitance-- hearing of their ability to create battlegrounds was vastly different than seeing it-- and they had delivered, erecting the scenery he now stood in. He took a few steps toward the edge of the clearing where it fell away in a sudden cliff, but he kept his back to the sudden drop. His movements were calm, and his gray-blue eyes had a steady sheen that said he knew exactly how to wield the wooden blade at his hip. The fact that it was wooden was only one of many tricks that served to surprise his enemies, which had worked to great success countless times in his ancient life.

But he didn't come to The Citadel for fame or fortune; he came to test himself. Since coming to Althanas-- though he was born in Underwood in this lifetime, he had seen several before it-- he had noticed a very troubling fact; his abilities to connect with the Etherworld-- that of the spirits, or what most people called “the afterlife”-- were greatly diminished. At first, he had dismissed it as a consequence of crossing dimensions, which was true. Now it was time to see if his other skills had been affected.

[Nevermore]

Valerius was still young. He had seen seventeen winters, all of them spent safely tucked away in Radasanth's noble quarter. Despite the sheltered lifestyle imposed on him by his birth, he had seen many of life's oddities: giant dwarves and eight-legged elves, and other, queerer things, nameless creatures that flourish through brutal evolution in the world's dark corners. That is to say, Valerius was not entirely surprised when he saw the man waiting for him at the center of the plateau; more than surprise, he felt dismay. He came to the Citadel in search of strange and exciting things, but this being hardly struck him as being extraordinary. They were of similar height, although Valerius knew at a glance that their weights were more disproportionate. His speed would win the day for him, if anything. However, though his opponent was no wyrm and no demon, that shock of startlingly red hair suggested that the man's heritage did not stem entirely from human stock.

He watched for a moment from his hiding spot and allowed his excitement to build. The rocks bordering the clearing cast long shadows in the midday sun, easily suitable for his camouflage; abruptly, they wavered, and a dim shape detached itself and stepped out into the light. His eyes shone like polished nacre, but gave no hint to the machinations going on behind his pleasant smile. Valerius' grin didn't waver as he strode lazily out towards his opponent, feeling the phantom eyes of the crowd observing from behind the walls of the illusion. They wanted blood. He could feel it in his bones, the overblown sadism that surrounded them beneath the calming idyllic languor of their dream-like battlefield. Men were savage beasts, Valerius knew, and it was up to people like him to appeal to that savagery.

He held his hand up as he approached, cupping the distant blur of lovely Radasanth. Pencil-thin strokes of smoke rose from thousands of chimneys, like the exhalations of so many living things, while Valerius’ own breath plumed in the cold mountain air. He closed his fist over that scene and imagined himself throttling the life from Radasanth itself, and all the living detritus that called it home. Even his father, patriarch of the Raschael, subscribed to that willfully ignorant way of life.

But not Valerius; Valerius lived at the edge of the knife, always a half-step away from death. He felt a rush up here, where a single blunder could send him plummeting to an early end. It was a strange and thrilling hubris, as if they were gods on high, looking down upon their creations from the same perspective as a father for his children.

“I have been here before,” Valerius said softly. He did not look away from Radasanth, and instead stood there, soaking in the façade. His smile faltered. “We’re like gods here, but it is… sobering, to think that if I were to throw myself from this cliff, I would not plummet down into the base of the mountain. If I were to grow wings, I could not fly to Radasanth. I would make it fifty, perhaps a hundred meters, and then I would crash, and the illusion would fade, and we would both be reminded that this is a quaint lie, a pretty fantasy, a competitive game.”

He turned around and met his opponent’s gaze: pearl on stone, the young and the old. He saw world-weariness in his enemy’s eyes that he would expect from the creased shamans of the far-off desert tribes, from those whose arthritic hands tremble in search of something meaningful to do before the final rest. Somehow, it became unmistakable that he was not fighting another man, but something entirely different.

That was alright, though. It made the game interesting, when he didn’t know what to expect. He slid his short sword from the scabbard at his waist, savoring the rasp of steel on good leather, and positioned himself in a neutral stance, well-suited to attacking or defending based on the man's reaction.

“I don’t know what you are, and I don’t know where you come from, but know that though this is a game, it is my favorite, and I do not like to lose at all.”

[Grimoire]

(After talking with Nevermore, we've agreed to use more of a "hybrid" style where we both control each other's characters to some small degree. We're allowed to inflict minor damage on each other, but major attacks will still be left open for the other's response.)



His opponent was much younger than he would have guessed. He stood at a relative height with the Galarin, but Levitus was a good bit heavier, his body having come to its post-pubescent maturation while the other might have been in its middle stages at best. Normally, that would imply a significant strength advantage, but Levitus' very existence was a testament to the abnormal-- he had lived hundreds of lives, after all, and he remembered each of them with startling clarity; such experience made him all but immune to war's most dangerous assassins, things like hubris and carelessness. Besides, the boy's short blonde hair framed a face that expressed far more than just its youthful roundness, and he stood in a relatively trained stance, eyes flashing violet fire.

It took but a few scant moments to measure and weigh his soon to be enemy. By keeping his back to the cliff Levitus had forced his opponent to approach in plain sight, thereby gaining vital bits of knowledge. They boy stood fully erect, shoulders back and chin held high. That spelled “fierce confidence” to a war veteran, but his extravagant black waistcoat and his own superfluous tirade also condemned such confidence more to hubris than to that gained through battle. The most important fact, however, was the hand the boy used to draw his weapon, the right hand. That meant the boy was almost certainly right-handed, as were most people, and would probably lead most of his strikes to the left. Levitus felt a small swelling of pride in that his attentiveness remained unhampered. Now, it was time to begin the Galarin way, the only way he adhered to.

“I am Levitus Starfire, First of the Nak-Tai tribe and Will of the Matriarch.” The introduction was accompanied by a slight bow, fists crossed over his chest, though it was never deep enough to pull his eyes off the boy; he had seen far too many men fall to such carelessness. Then, honors observed, he attacked.

His charge was sudden and calculated, with haste but without rush, and in an instant he had crossed the dry, sandy expanse separating them. Konstalis, the wooden blade formerly at his hip, was in his hand in a flash, his left hand. There were no ceremonious rasps of steel on scabbard, no audible warnings for his foe to take action, only the sudden presence of a weapon to equalize the playing field and the wooden promise of the dance to come.

Konstalis lashed upward and out as Levitus stepped in a similar fashion, left foot forward. It came as no surprise to the Galarin that the boy intercepted his blow with his blade, nor was the fact that the wooden length of his own refused to waver when it met steel. That was, of course, due to one of Levitus' racial abilities, that which allowed him to augment the very nature of objects and the air around them. It was done by a perfunctory expansion of his will, a mental push that could be granted physical manifestations. At one point in his incredibly long existence, he could have used that power to alter reality itself, but at least it was still second nature to give his blade a tangible and lethally sharp edge. It not only kept Konstalis from breaking, it gave a shrill ring as if the boy's sword were struck with real steel.

The boy's eyes widened ever so slightly, and in that sparse moment Levitus struck again, this time in a flat arc to the outside of his enemy's torso. The boy deflected again, but he was forced to slide his lead foot back a fraction of an inch, a movement that occurred by rote as a result of training with predominantly right-handed partners. That was the opening Levitus was looking for. He pulled his weapon far out to the left, forcing his adversary's weapon away from his body, and stepped forward with his left foot until it was outside of his opponent's lead, right foot. It was the perfect positioning for the right cross he threw next, pushing off his right toe and shifting his weight to his lead leg in time with a slight twist of his hips and shoulders, adding significantly more force to the punch as well as bracing his opponent's sword from slicing at his exposed arm.

The strike landed just as it was intended, Levitus' fist slamming into his adversary's nose. There was such force behind it, such alacrity in the way it impacted flesh and crushed the cartilage underneath, perhaps even the bone. Blood trailed out in splotchy trails before his fist even returned to his side. The boy stammered, and this time it was more than just his lead foot that slipped backward.

Still, he was trained enough to regain his balance before Konstalis opened him from spine to belly button, the wooden blade rebounding with another clash of steel on mimicry. That familiar ring sounded again and again as Levitus pushed forward. It really was a dance then, Levitus taking the lead, his opponent following, their swords keeping the rhythm. And what a pace they set, each beat counted to the tune of steel, to that of violence and of men's cruel intentions. All the while, Levitus studied the boy, taking care to notice the positioning of his feet, the set of his hips, and the exact moments they changed and what minute twist of the wrist exacted it.

He tried the same maneuver as before, distracting the boy with a feigned blow while stepping in to setup the punch, but his opponent learned quickly, and he soon had to regroup, else he be split in twain by an oncoming strike. He moved with a preternatural grace that was more swift than a shadowcat and twice as deadly, a blur of browns and dark greens under fiery hair that that almost seemed to fold and meld together, lighter than the wind itself. Then, as if that great blur were bearing its teeth, he shot Konstalis in a diagonal arc aimed for the throat.

[Nevermore]

Valerius felt a spike of disappointment as his theatrics went ignored. This was a prize match; they were effectively gladiators in a coliseum. Death’s scythe hung at both their necks, and that fact lent itself to glamour.

When Levitus described his origins, Valerius couldn’t help but be confounded. The Matriarch? Nak-Tai tribe? When he was not dueling, Valerius spent his days pouring over tomes and texts. A few primitive matriarchal societies had existed centuries ago, but the dawn of culture and science had stifled them. Perhaps a select handful of cults still worshipped goddesses and women above all else. He wondered if faced an adherent to those esoteric beliefs, and if so, how had the man found himself in Radasanth? Still, he had not mistaken the strange look in the man’s eyes. Valerius had seen it before in the slums of Radasanth, where opium dens sprouted like weeds overnight, in the eyes of the old oracles whose eyes saw what others did not. He wondered—

But his wondering was brought to an abrupt halt as Levitus attacked, charging with efficient grace. Valerius’ response to the slash was almost reflexive. Instantly, the boy registered a few details about his opponent: one, he somehow used magic to reinforce his wooden blade so that it mimicked actual steel; two, he wielded his sword left-handedly, which could be problematic, but more pressingly, he had chosen to do so after scrutinizing Valerius’ movements. That made him smart, a born predator, and opponents like him never went down easily.

Despite his calm, rational analysis of the situation, surprise showed on his face. Levitus capitalized on his attentive lapse by drawing his weapon out to the side, nearly disarming the boy but for his strong grip. Valerius anticipated what would happen next, knew it because he had experienced it a few times before, but that did not save him. His opponent’s fist met his nose with all the intensity of a meteor; he heard the grotesque snap of cartilage giving way and he felt it too, reverberating through his face in a shockwave of pain and numbness.

His teeth clenched. A billowing black nebula filled his skull for just an instant and he staggered back, eyes fluttering, blood streaming from his nostrils in a black-red stream that glistened when the sunlight caught it. Training and instinct allowed him to deflect the next blow as he recovered from the shock; he grimaced as the sudden movement dislodged a particularly thick clot of blood and cartilage, which slipped into his open mouth as he gasped to replace the breath driven from his lungs.

Still, he reacted admirably. Within a few seconds the flow of battle had resumed, though each twist and every pivot sent a few blood spatters flying from his face. Now who looks like a savage? he thought darkly, imagining himself with a black tribal tattoo running down his face. His dramatic mood went sour. He almost thought he could hear the crowd cheering for Levitus behind the boundaries of the elaborate illusion.

The bastard won first blood… but Valerius hoped that hadn’t been his only trick. Levitus attempted to set him up for a repeat of the blow that had cost him his nose, a feigned strike and a right cross, but the noble brat learned quickly. His countering slash would have taken the man from crotch to chin if he hadn’t stepped back at the last minute.

As the rhythm of combat continued, both duelists began to increase their pace, their movements gaining both in complexity and in elegance. They danced a ballet of steel and sparks and pain, each bleeding from a half a dozen minor wounds, yet even while their bodies faded into blurs of motion, their eyes remained fixed on each other. Their focus sharpened and sharpened until the world around was nothing but a vague suggestion of shapes, until they were each other’s existence, like two swords honed to clash against one another. Through all of this, Valerius’ nose acted as a cruel reminder of who had struck first, of who still held the advantage as the game continued. Finally, an opportunity presented itself as Levitus lashed out, aiming to behead him with one fluid gesture. Valerius, however, merely stepped backwards, so that the tip sailed harmlessly in front of him.

His reaction was instantaneous. As Konstalis continued its arc and the Galarin’s arm bent, the boy stepped forward, thrusting his short sword up towards the man’s face. To his credit, Levitus reacted quickly, stepping back and tilting his head, and thus receiving a narrow scar instead of a few inches of steel through his brain. Valerius retracted the stab, and it occurred to him that he could have used this opportunity to skewer Levitus on his sword, but he had not achieved relative fame in the Citadel by taking the easy way out every time. The Galarin’s arm dropped and Valerius sidestepped a quick upward cut that would have split him in twain, countering with another stab, this time with the flat of his blade facing skyward. Another thin slice opened on the man’s brow, already oozing a slow red curtain towards his eyes. Before long that would blind him, and Valerius was already searching for that moment’s pause he would need to wipe it away.

He pulled his sword away, hopping back just as Levitus pivoted to face him. He hadn’t put enough distance between them, however, and the Galarin capitalized by slicing at his belly with his enchanted wooden blade. His waistcoat tore loudly, but he had been waiting for this as well.

The large chunk of coagulated blood and slivers of cartilage were still in his mouth. Now he took advantage of them, spitting with aim perfected in the slums alongside the street urchins. It hit Levitus squarely in the eye, catching him utterly by surprise. Konstalis wavered, weaving off to the side as Valerius stepped into the Galarin’s guard. The boy stiffened his neck muscles, gnashed his teeth, frowned ferociously, and executed a movement as if he were sneezing. The headbutt was sharp and perfectly delivered, crushing Levitus’ nose at the bridge. He plainly heard it splinter beneath the impact, discharging a flow of dark, blackish blood and ruined cartilage. The man clutched feebly at Valerius’ shoulder, but he tore away from the grip and parried the lackluster strike from Konstalis as Levitus tried to put distance between them. Once he had regained his bearings, however, Valerius only continued to put pressure on the man, giving him no opportunity to wipe the blood away from his cold stone eyes.

Petty elation filled him. He couldn’t help but think of it as karmic retribution, even as tribesman recovered from the unexpected attack and power returned to his strikes and parries. Valerius, meanwhile, continued to do his best to deflect force from the blows, softening the collision of their blades as he conserved his own energy. Meanwhile, his mouth worked itself as he muttered silently. Even as he kept his eyes focused on Levitus, wary of the man attempting a sneak attack like his own, his lips moved and trembled as language spilled inaudibly past them. He expected that his chant would be interrupted, but it scarcely mattered. The spell would still be ready, and with it, Valerius could bring their game to a halt. It wouldn’t do if he became any more disheveled, and to be honest, he still felt a lingering sense of danger from his opponent. A single misstep or poorly executed plan could cost him dearly.

[Grimoire]

A brief moment's pause was all Levitus had to regain his composure. The boy wasn't half bad, as hard as that was to imagine, but he still had flaws, not the least of which was his overly defensive approach. Sure, it may have conserved energy by minimizing movement, but it failed to account for simple physics. Levitus' blows weren't landing lightly, and the force of each was absorbed by the boy's weapon arm the moment a moving Konstalis met immobile steel. It was the main reason Galarins didn't use shields, which could only block whereas swords could deflect: too many ruined shoulders on the battlefield, victorious or not. So Levitus struck again, if only to be blocked, and ensured that he kept his muscles relaxed, his posture soft. He had both hands on the hilt of his weapon to better distribute the effort of swinging across both arms, and he kept his hips angled off and one shoulder raised to prevent a potential counter punch.

He kept his breathing calm, inhaling slow and deep and exhaling quickly with each swing, as difficult as that was with a shattered nose. The cold air went a long way toward fending off exhaustion, but the thinned amount of oxygen was a constant enemy. It was always there, a sour promise of nourishment that would never be fulfilled. Levitus knew that, but did the boy? If so, those silent mutterings of his must have some importance if he was willing to expend precious air on it, no matter how minimal; if not... well, more fool him. Another strike, and another block: fatigue would be setting in soon, and muscle fatigue was the worst kind, slowing one's movements long before their lungs gave out. It was a slow but lethal strategy, and Levitus had every confidence in seeing it through to its end.

Pain bit at him incessantly, nipping from all of a dozen various wounds. His arm, his shoulder, his thigh: they all carried the familiar sting of missed parries and those instances his movements were just a touch too late. Still, he didn't pay them nearly as much mind as he did the warmth spreading just above his right brow, where blood was inching ever closer to his eye. That was dangerous, but he didn't dare lift his hand to wipe it away, not with his enemy so close. Something would have to be done about it soon, however, else his vision would suffer, and for that he could pay dearly.

He made a quick sidestep to avoid one of his opponent's rare offensives. The blade passed harmlessly, though it took a bolt of his tunic with it, exposing the tanned skin beneath. Seizing the tiny window his parry offered, he set his feet and made a strong overhead swing directly at his adversary's sword arm. The boy retracted, of course, pulling his flesh free of Konstalis' invisible teeth, but he was forced to intercept with his own weapon again. And again Levitus' strike landed heavily, all of his body weight and the momentum of his swing transferred through the blades as they contacted and absorbed entirely by his opponent's shoulder. Soon enough the limb would grow sluggish.

But inflicting fatigue wasn't his only aim. Heavy strikes also kept his opponent off balance, which bought him precious time.

It took no effort at all to open himself to the Etherworld, an act that was more of a change in mindset than anything physical. While his two eyes remained fixed on his opponent's focal points-- the eyes, the hips, and the wrists-- a proverbial third eye “opened” to a dimension outside their own. And there he saw the spirits. They were weaker than they should have been, appearing as distant, swaying beacons that were of a size proportional to Levitus' current ability to reach them, but they were there. His affinity was weak and he would need time to truly reach them, but they were there. He almost wanted to sigh with relief. Now, it was time to do something about the blood over his eye.

It was a simple matter of throwing another strike, or at least the setup was. Konstalis lashed out horizontally to the right, and Levitus put all his weight into it to make it seem anything but a feign. His opponent stepped backward again, effectively avoiding the attack, and Levitus could see the wicked grin splitting his face as he found the Galarin off balance. That was when the real strike came. As it was a tangible manifestation of Levitus' will, the invisible encasing that lent Konstalis its razor-sharp edge came flying off, aimed to open the boy from his lower abdomen to the middle of his neck, just in case he managed to lean one way or the other. With the comfort of knowing he had a split second to spare-- an infinite number of them if the strike landed-- Levitus wiped his brow with the back of his hand.

[Nevermore]

Valerius’ opponent must have considered him an amateur or a cripple if he thought the boy couldn’t feel the numbness creep into his arm. Nevertheless, he felt confident in that they were evenly matched. However, he needed to react soon, lest he lose all feeling in his arms, though he had sustained less damage than the taciturn traveler, and while the man’s breathing slowly became ragged as he fought to fill his lungs with the thinned mountain air, Valerius’ remained calm and controlled –or, at least, as much as possible considering his broken nose. Conservation of energy was not the only reason he fought defensively, either. He deliberately allowed his opponent to control the flow of combat in order to give himself a chance to observe the man, despite the fact that it meant violating one of the basic tenets of battle taught to Valerius as a child. He did, however, begin to deflect blows more often than parry them, in order to buy himself more time to study Levitus.

Any spectators in the audience who had seen Valerius participate in previous Citadel matches would describe him as an offensive fighter. The boy had a fondness for backing his enemy into a corner with precise and efficient strikes, never allowing them to counterattack, stripping their defenses slowly in order to savor the taste of victory. He was a brash, headstrong youth, like many boys his age, but this opponent didn’t play to the usual stereotypes. Most of his Valerius' previous adversaries enjoyed the glamour of fighting in the Citadel as much as he did. They deliberately prolonged their battles, driving each other to the end of their stamina before the killing stroke. The Will of the Matriarch, however, hadn’t spoken except to introduce himself, and fought with the systematic grace of a veteran soldier rather than a gladiator. That, coupled with the unsightly wound he had suffered at the beginning of the match as a result of his own carelessness, led Valerius to duel Levitus with his mind as much as his body.

It did not take much time for him to understand the man’s style. He fought methodically, with techniques the boy expected had been instilled in him after a life lived on the front lines. He never allowed Valerius to exploit what few openings slipped through his expert defense, and Valerius realized he would end up mulling over this bout in the library at his family’s estate later that night, pontificating, trying to extract what insights into the man’s character he could from his well-developed fighting style. Even more than that, however, when their eyes met, Valerius felt a sense of somber antiquity radiating from them; they had the look of someone who had traveled far to be where he was, and whispered of hardships that the body could not.

First, however, he devoted his mind to the mystery of that wooden blade. Obviously, it had been somehow enchanted: every time their swords met, the clamor of steel meeting steel resounded in the air. However, if Valerius found a way to break whatever charm reinforced it, then he could easily disarm his opponent and end their skirmish. He opened his own eye almost subconsciously, hoping it would help him discern Konstalis’ secret – it did, albeit not in the way he expected. The blade was not infused with magic, but surrounded by it, encased in a shell of pure energy that, if Valerius’ hunch was correct, somehow gave it the qualities of steel.

He couldn’t do anything with this new knowledge, however: none of the spells in his repertoire could do anything to dispel that magic. Even as they went back and forth, that strange wooden blade weaving just in front of Valerius’ face, he couldn’t think of a way to break that barrier.

At least, not until an opportunity presented itself. Levitus lashed out horizontally, aiming to score a deep cut across Valerius’ chest, but the boy danced back to avoid the strike. His opponent’s precarious balance set him up for a grisly demise… but Valerius couldn’t help but think how unusual it was that after showing such perfectionism in their earlier exchanges, the Galarin was suddenly making rookie mistakes.

The truth came to him as Konstalis’ shell peeled itself off, flinging itself at him like a second sword. He did not have time for surprise, instead reacting automatically; almost casually, he swatted the unexpected attack away with a sideways motion of his own weapon. Then, without pausing, he brought the steel blade down onto the vulnerable wood that had been exposed with Levitus’ fatal oversight, aiming to splinter the weapon just above the man’s grip. Considering his nonchalant one-handed hold on the sword, Valerius wouldn’t have been surprise if whatever survived his attack went spinning away from the Galarin.

He didn’t have time to stop, however. His left hand shot out, grasping Levitus’ right wrist as it went up to wipe the blood from his brow. His spell activated instantaneously, expanding like an invisible cocoon around them before dissipating into the air. For his opponent, it probably felt like his innards had just tied themselves in knots; Valerius usually didn’t have the chance to inflict the full effects of the technique on his enemies, because it required physical contact to do so. Nevertheless, backlash from failed attempts had taught him just how terrible nausea could get… Unexpected in a battle for life and death, where a single error spelled disaster, it could mean the end.

Taking advantage of his opponent’s sudden weakness, most pronounced in the first few moments before he could regain his bearings, Valerius gave a hard yank on Levitus’ wrist to pull him forward. As he pivoted, he pressed on the Galarin’s back with his left hand while his right brought the short sword across the man’s midriff, but from sensation alone Valerius couldn’t estimate how deep the wound was. Then, pressing his front tightly to the man’s back, he held his sword at Levitus’ throat, while his free hand gripped his opponent’s left arm to maintain physical contact. Though he kept his face close enough that he could cut off any attempt at a headbutt, and was unsure if he could be heard while muffled by that shock of red hair, Valerius whispered in a voice saturated in venom, “I think I've won this… but I've never seen a fighting style like yours. Tell me more about yourself, Levitus Starfire.”