Stone Cold Proverbs (Closed)

[Oliver]

Stone Cold Proverbs (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eWl09Cyznyo&feature=related)

2959


Closed to Archanex Jotham.

Set after Oliver's flight from the demon penwrite in The Vociferous Hunger (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?23922-The-Vociferous-Hunger-(Closed)&highlight=vociferous+hunger).

Oliver Midwinter was angry beyond reproach. In his growing rage, he found himself turning to a vice that drove all moral men to their undoing: war. In conflict, his heart burnt brightest, and he hoped that in the flames, amongst madness and sin, he could find something to help him make sense of the world. The village of Albion was a place he understood, but Corone was altogether more alien to the sorcerer. It was bewildering, bewitching, and belittling all at once. He sighed as he prepared his mind, his muscles, and his magic for the trial ahead.

“I’ll show you,” he mumbled. He pictured Baxter Arlington in his mind one last time, before he cast the demonic pen write from his thoughts. “I do not need any help to make my way in this kingdom.” He clenched his fists and examined the portcullis on the far side of the arena.

When he had streamed into the Citadel, the Ai’bron monks had tended to his wounded body in earnest. It was there duty after all to see to the sick, the needy, and the destitute. Oliver fitted the bill on all three accounts, and found himself in receipt of the full range of hospitality the stewards of the sandy and carnal domes had to offer. A day later, he was quite content, but he felt indebted to them for their kindness.

“A kindness,” he channelled energy in a concentric circle with a finger, “I intend to repay.” His breath steamed, his heart raced, and his veins pulsated with primordial power. He was on a mission, though he had never intended his goal to bring him here of all places. Albion, his ancestral home, the place he had decimated with the same blind rage, was swift becoming nothing more than a figment of a young man’s long forgotten childhood.

Corone was stealing his heart and soul with its unknowing allure.

The crowd roared as someone moved in the antechamber beyond the black iron bars. He had been outside the magical barrier of his homeland for less than two months, and already, he had tasted the dangers of the wider world. He was about taste them a second time.

“I’m not afraid anymore!” he roared, spreading his arms wide and puffing out his chest in defiance. The crowd cackled, jeered, and leered.

Seeing a lanky youth down below caused some gamblers to raise their stakes, ply their wiles, and see if this young oath could make them their fortunes. Coin went back and forth, and liquor spilt in providence’s name.

“I’m not afraid,” he repeated, but with much less conviction. The portcullis on the far side of the arena sat upon knotted, reed-riddled tussocks. It began to shudder. It lifted upwards with a clunky noise, a cloud of dust, and a spray of rust that fell to the barren battleground.

“Maybe just a little bit…,” he whispered.

Oliver had asked for a challenge as enlightening as it was difficult, but he was more than ready to face whatever approached. He would not let gods and monsters like Baxter Arlington abuse him again. The magic he channelled into his fingertips stabilised, ready to re-emerge with primal command. He set his pallid eyes onto the portal, and felt the wind kick his marl air awry.

[Archanex Jotham]

Battle-hardened, the older man was prepared to face his trial. He looked at the citadel training chamber with a mixture of both awe and fear. His eyes were narrowed as he looked through the gate that separated him from his opponent, and ultimately, destiny. Pious by nature, Jotham was a man of integrity and untold heroism. His acts of generosity and kindness towards others were becoming news in Scara Brae as he helped assist the goblin kingdom of The Windlacer mountain range become allies with the kingdom of Scara Brae. It had proven a difficult task, but had taken The Overmage a step closer to preventing the disaster that haunted him. A disaster that was still a ways away from the current timeline, but a disaster none the less. Jotham knew that a certain enemy that had helped raze his home world was vast approaching the realm of Althanas. He intended to do everything in his power to prevent Althanas from facing the same fate that his home world had faced.

Hailing from the realm of Ayenee, a land beyond the gates of sensibility. The Overmage's home world had a name, but was since lost to the tides of history. Jotham clung desperately to the memories of home, with the fervor of a wild animal. He wanted to protect Althanas as a true guardian should.

With many thoughts passing his mind, thoughts of home, Jotham readied the large staff at his side. Doubling as a weapon, the walking stick was dual purpose. It was thick, powerful, and Jotham was intent on mastering the use of the weapon. Back home, back on Ayenee, Jotham had been a legend. But that legend was long since over. This is my story now. The pages of my own story written on a blank slate. I must make up for the sins of my past. The old man had a limp in his walk. The cause of the injury to his leg was unknown, but he had that limp anyway.

When the gate was raised that lead into the combat arena, Jotham could see the symbols of the Monks of the Order all over the air. The air was touched with vibrant magical energy. Jotham could smell the thickness of the manna at that point in time. He had developed a profound connection to the elemental manna; the source of an Overmage's arcane power.

His eyes glowed with power.

The gates were finally raised to the top portion of the entrance to the arena. It was an old-style coliseum, complete with mad spectators that worshiped the gods of war. Jotham's eyes darted not to his opponent, but to the proprietor of the combat arena. A lavish man sat in a guest chamber for royalty and other v.i.p.'s. He wore elegant clothing, and Jotham noticed he was in the company of several harlots, and very well armed man. A particular man caught the Overmage's attention. It was a sorcerer wearing the distinct robes of an Overmage. The fabrics of the man's robes seemed alive all their own, and flapped in the afternoon breeze. The arena ground was filled with tightly packed dirt, and Jotham had to get his footing for a moment. He tested the ground with the tip of his battle staff and when he was certain it was solid, stepped on it.

Limping towards Oliver, Jotham nodded with a profound respect. He saw that Oliver did not appear to have a savageness about him, but rather, was a fellow man of the robe and staff. Jotham shot a last glance towards that imaginary kingdom's ruler and his harlots. The crowd was hushed as the old Overmage limped on the arena. His body glowing with a fiery red power. He looked at Oliver for a long moment, and then addressed him.

"Top of the hour to you, lad." Jotham leaned against his staff. He seemed unusually fit for an old man of his apparent age. Though truth be told, his age was a mystery even onto himself. "This is a dangerous place." Jotham noted to Oliver. "Money exchanged on blood and violence is dirty..." Jotham said carefully. "These people are dastardly for these acts. However, let us have a glorious battle." Jotham smiled to the younger man. Jotham kept his battle staff at his side. He had recently obtained a new spell, he was itching to try. Oliver was a good a testing target as any. "I am a guest here and I would hate to be rude to my host." Jotham nodded towards Oliver politely. "You may have the first strike, if you wish it to be so." Jotham said. He was trying to be as polite as he could with the young man.

The battlefield was a place of savagery and untold cruelty and violence. He knew The Citadel was no different. Jotham intended to have a friendly bout with the kid, but then...

"The combatants are both here!" The king suddenly said. Jotham watched the king stand up and address the entire throng of gathered fans. "The rules are quite simple, you two are to battle to the death. This is an arena match, and that means that there will be no quarters expected for either of you!" The king continued. "Now be certain to give the good people of the kingdom what they want and give them a good showing!" The king motioned towards a hidden set of individuals, and the gate was suddenly closed shut.

Jotham took a look back in the general direction he had just come from. Immediately, his general mood went south. At first, he knew noting about the rulers of the imaginary kingdom that Oliver had made up. Now, he knew a very critical fact. They were every bit as blood thirsty as he had first suspected. I know a few things about these brute savages. None of this is Oliver's fault. Jotham had learned the name of his opponent from one of the monks that had given him the papers for the open citadel bout in the first place. The guards appear skilled. I don't want to have to kill the kid. I will fight, but I do not intend to spill blood if not necessary. If they force my hand, however... Jotham saw several guards posted at each of the gates surrounding the combat arena. We are trapped. He turned his attention back towards Oliver.

"I do this because I must." He told Oliver. "I do not hate you, or hold ill will towards you." Jotham had a unique way of fighting. He shifted the weight of his both his body, and his weapon of choice in such a way, that he had moved into a combat stance unique to The Overmage. His face became serious, but his eyes told all. There was a kindness lurking there and Jotham was no savage.

[Oliver]

Oliver did not waste time with pious introductions. He set his feet a few inches apart and bent his knees. He took the weight of the worlds onto his shoulders, and felt comforted by the strain on his spine. The muscles in his back twitched, his arms jolted, and his eyes sparkled. He felt like a laboured, deserving, and earnest man of toil.

The arena pulsed as the two mages stood opposite one another. The crumbling rock, which was nothing more than brittle sand held together by magical whim shuddered as the crowd stomped feet and fists. The sun began to cusp the edge of the amphitheatre. Soon, it would rise proper, and the sandstone circle would offer no protection to the browbeaten below. Oliver looked up briefly to admire the halo that erupted over the white canopy. It cast a golden hue, laced with ochre and lemon across the cloudless skies.

He dropped his gaze. He held his balms together in front of him, right hand over left. He took a deep breath.

“A heart ablaze,” he whispered. He blew gently onto his reddened knuckles, as if rekindling a hearth aglow with dying embers.

Oliver drew energy from his soul, and pushed it from his chest down his arms. It gathered in his palms, and forced them apart as a spark ignited into fiery conflagration. He clenched his teeth as the magic threatened to feedback disastrously. He looked up at his opponent, eyes contorted into feline stare, and heart racing with the adrenaline of the hunter.

“A kingdom scorched…” he continued, an Albion fable utilised as mantra. The words would mean nothing to anyone save himself, so he saved his strength and whispered. “It plies rubble to the ruins of men.”

The erratic flames took shape, and began to cycle through a clockwise rotation. It gave off prongs, pangs, and heat in droves, each tendril dying with an implosion of air. The light from his fingers illuminated his top, belt, and greaves, giving him an ethereal veil. His hair danced, in the wind and the warmth, and his monocle lens steamed over.

He let the heart spark loose, aimed squarely for the man that came to test his mettle. His cry of exertion echoed into the atmosphere. The crowd roared louder still. The king and his covetous court cavorted and writhed with lewd excitement.

[Archanex Jotham]

Already, Jotham focused on his own power. It seemed clear that the young man before him was a Pyromancer as well. Jotham grinned, and felt privileged to be able to square off against such a skilled youth. This is going to be a good test of my training up until this point. He thought to himself. He felt the temperature growing hotter, and he smiled wider. He knew what that meant, some sort of a fire attack was heading his way. He is not one to waste time on words, pity. I would have liked to get to know the kid... Jotham thought as the heart spark swelled through the air. It flowed towards him promising doom. However, Jotham was not to be taken so easily. He concentrated on summoning the manna necessary to call forth his own ability. Tried and true, Jotham knew the risk of his own spell casting through and through. He was battle hardened, and well trained. He could place himself at risk in order to defeat a worthy opponent.

I only need something to explode, and there are plenty of somethings all around me... For a moment, The Overmage considered blowing the bystanders up. Especially that obnoxious king, they all wore clothing and kept items with them he could target. A time for using them as living missiles will come, but for now, I just need to target something nearby. The heart spark grew ever closer, and Jotham's quick mind spotted some rocks and such that were near Oliver's person. That will do. Jotham thought to himself as he released his power on the rock closest to Olver's person.

His spell was a Dynamic Explosion. On any one object at a time, Jotham could manifest a potentially devastating explosion. He could have attempted to blow Oliver up directly, but he wanted to savor the battle. Just as Oliver's heart spark touched The Overmage's flesh, Jotham grinned. The pain felt exquisite, and helped his powerful mind focus on the singular act of brazen destruction.

A few moments later, the rock closest to Oliver began to react to Jotham's ancient will. In essence, Jotham willed the rock to explode turning into a virtual land mine to cause all sorts of chaos. After a moment of channeling his power, and feeling the damaging effects of Oliver's heart spark, Jotham released the Dynamic Explosion. His face was contorted not from pain of Oliver's attack, but from pure concentration. His body glowed with it's own fiery aura, and he did nothing to attempt to evade Oliver's attack. He simply took it dead on. Jotham felt the weight of the arena, and barely acknowledged the people present. What he did acknowledge was the potent well spring of elemental manna all around him that he could possibly tap into. He smiled when he heard the explosive reaction of his power against the rock.

It brilliantly burst outward in a storm of rock, mortar, and flame. The flame super heated the stone making it an even deadlier projectile which flew every which way. The radius was roughly a five foot radius in every direction as Jotham expanded the effects of his explosion. The shrapnel would be deadly if they connected with Oliver's person. He hoped some of it would, and begin to tip the battle in his favor early. Jotham was ever thankful for being physically fit. The heart spark that Oliver launched had caused some minor burns on several places on his body. He was in pain, the pain made him focus. He continued to concentrate on holding the explosion he caused in place, focusing on the central fire, and increasing it's capacity. Once it was set off, it would be very difficult to put it since it was wizard's fire and not any standard fire at all. Jotham had weapons he could use all around him. He could even use Oliver's own gear against him if the need arose. If it comes down to it, I will show him how stone cold this arena he chose can actually be. It's a cruel world kid, you should know that by now... Jotham was not a cruel human being, but he was a serious combatant in his own right. He would finish what was started with his last dying breath if need be...

Shrapnel flew everywhere. If he caught his target, it would become interesting indeed, because he could further destroy the large pieces of the shrapnel that broke off the larger rock...

[Oliver]

No sooner than the flame of his heart left his hands, Oliver felt a wave of true heat wash over him. It erupted from his left, deafening and crushing his resolve from the world. His bones cracked. His muscle tightened over his limbs, and his eyes dilated.

“Ooooh!” the crowd boomed ominously. Together, the swell of surprise rumbled in the very foundations of the illusory battleground. They had expected fireworks, and they had not been disappointed.

Sorcery was by no means least a descriptive discipline. It took many forms, in many countries, and many adaptations occurred as scholarly pursuits drove men and beast to further heights of power. Though learned in human kith and ken, Oliver knew nothing of the explosion. He knew less still about the enigmatic man that caused it.

He knew only the pain he received as a result. He knew only a sudden vertical limit, and a quick descent in a long, flailing arc.

“Aaaah!” the crowd continued, a thousand eyes following the boy’s trajectory through the humid afternoon air. When he crashed into the sand, face first, they repeated themselves through clenched teeth. Sympathy was a powerful form of entertainment to these sycophants, it seemed. As long as they felt the combatant’s pain, they got their fill.

Coins continued to exchange hands and rattle in alms bowels as the eternal flow of the betting ebbed on. Their fortunes made and unmade up until the very last utterance, breath, and cry.

There was an idyllic pause. The sun broke over the canopy proper. Oliver opened his eyes.

“That was not the test I had in mind,” he goaded. His voice was dry and husky as he sputtered free the sand that had swarmed his lungs. He rose slowly with shaking hands.

He turned to the direction of the explosion, to witness its devastation first hand. His eyes widened. The battered greaves on his legs and his once laundered cloth were dusty, faded, and dishevelled. They were positively radiant to the craterous ruin that left in the spell’s wake. What surprised the youth more was how the spell lingered. He turned to his opponent. He turned back to the crater wreathed in fire.

“He is sustaining it…,” he observed.

The realisation came too late as a hunk of rock darted away from the still roiling power. His eyes widened beneath his cyan fringe in time to glisten with a tear.

It ploughed into his chest.

The crowd roared.

Olive came to a rest flat on his back, eyes glazed, and limbs contorted into spidery wisps. He writhed in the dirt, dazed and confused, and very swiftly left without a defence to speak about. It did not take long for him to slip into unconsciousness.

[Archanex Jotham]

(Minor bunnying of Oliver occurs here bro. I hope you don't mind.)

Did I overdo it?! Jotham had expected a much more spirited battle to occur, but when his explosion proved more effective than he could have ever hoped for, Jotham sighed. He released his mental grip on the first explosion, allowing it to flicker out of it's own volition. Jotham walked over towards his opponent. The crowd had a mad tension as they expected the old wise man to simply finish Oliver off. In fact, Jotham's plan was quite the opposite. "That's a bad fall you took there, kid." With his kindness, Jotham had already channeled one of his seldom used spells. His hands were lit with a glowing spark of their own, brilliant holy energy swelling through his skin. He leaned down and placed his hand near the fallen. He would need to touch him for that to work. He figured at this point, Oliver would not object. Once his hands were placed on the man's chest, he released his command of the elemental manna.

The spell was a rudimentary healing spell, but it would save Oliver from immediate danger. He felt the energy swirling about his person, and then around Oliver. Then, he got up and hoped for the best. He was a rusty healer at best, but either way, it would be enough to save Oliver. If I am forced to kill him, I want it to be under more honorable terms. Not this mad show that these psychos have placed for us. The old Overmage studied the results of his magic and was able to channel it even from his short distance away from Oliver's person. His eyes were narrowed as he concentrated, healing the more minor wounds, and beginning work on the more serious ones. He could not heal lethal injuries, but at the very least, he could get Oliver in fighting condition so that they could finish the bout in more proper terms. This place is a cold place, a place of death and destruction, carnage and the worship of Aries, the God of War... Overmages were largely a pagan community back in their homeworld. Jotham was no different.

He had to wait and see if his healing magics, Lay on Hands, did the trick to wake Oliver back up. "Kid. We gotta fight out here, but I don't wanna kill you on such screwed up terms. I'm hoping to make this last a while longer so that we can both at least learn something. Once this bitter event is over, I'd like to buy you a drink after the match. I don't care which of us win or lose, I'm just here to train." The crowd audibly booed at Jotham's words. He did not care. Instead, he walked towards Oliver and offered the boy his hands.

"To help you stand, kid. So you can fight some more." Jotham wore an expression that was sincere in his desire to help. Furthermore, there was that hint of kindness that lurked in his eyes. It was it's own kind of shadow....a shadow that would one day change the world.

[Oliver]

Oliver looked up at the mage with distrust and malice. He felt the lingering reticence of his ether tingle in his bones. He raised an eyebrow, and tried to rise on his own merit.

“That was…,” he grunted. A sharp pain jolted down his side where the rock had struck, “quite a remarkable display.” He gave up on the stubborn refusal, and took Archanex’s hand.

The overmage pulled him upright, and stepped back. The witch’s distrust of his opponent felt suddenly foolish. It appeared he was a man of his word and that in itself was enough to make Oliver feel discourteous.

“I…” he tried to say, but fell silent. Once he weighed up his opponent’s humility as well, he felt like dropping his guard and throwing himself to the dual mercies of the man’s magic and the crowd’s bloodlust. He may as well vye for a spiritual, and a physical death, to compliment his disgrace.

“I am not entirely sure why you helped me,” he said at last. His lip quivered with uncertainty. His hair, dishevelled and clogged with rubble fell over his eyes. “If I were in your shoes,” he dropped his gaze to Archanex’s feet, “I would have scoured my body from existence.”

“Will you not have drink with me, then?” the mage asked. He embraced his staff tightly, and began to slowly retreat. His dark visage, abyssal almost, continued to veil his intent.

Oliver considered the offer with much interest. The heat from the sun continued to undo his resolve, leaving him ill tempered, dripping with sweat, and increasingly tired. He visibly slumped as the fight left his body.

“It is a kind offer, sir,” he clucked. A wind danced around the youth. The sand kicked up at his feet, smashing against his greaves as if heavy rain were falling. He shook his head. “I do not think it wise, all things considered.”

There was just enough of a breeze in the arena to tie together a counter-attack. Oliver had fallen once. He would not fall again. He parsed his legs, dropped his knees, and spread his hands wide. As he locked eyes with Archanex, he roared with an exciting and sudden vigour. The wind itself drew in close to his lithe form, and spiralled up in a minutiae dust devil.

“Then I will have to do that again,” he snarled. Oliver saw evil in the man’s heart, but not quantifiable sin. He rose by ambition, and ambition was something Oliver abhorred.

To fall for pride was to fall from grace. Oliver would not suffer that in his life. He had allowed kindness to trick him once. He would not fall for it so readily. They had come here to kill, maim, and murder. There would be time for revelry when one, or both of them lay dead.

He flexed his wrists, cocked his head, and let lose a second blaze of fire from his clenched fist. The clay ring resting on his finger jettisoned its solitary charge, and the smoky conflagration bolted at the mage’s staff arm. The wind continued to dance up around the sorcerer, and the crowd cheered with renewed vigour. The exchange of coin rang in the atmosphere. The cry of contrition, levied against blood thirst, brought the dusty chamber back to life.

[Archanex Jotham]

Is that his only Spell?! Jotham partially felt pity for the young lad. There was in fact a darkness in Jotham's heart. It did not cloud his eyes, but it was a cross that the Overmage had to bare. It weighed heavily on his soul, it was the sin of loss. Something had tainted the Overmage and he perhaps, tried too hard to be the thespian. Jotham was a pious person, that was certain, but he was also a man who was escaping from his past. Long ago, there was a race of Overmage, a race of his people. Because of, rightly or unrightly so, Jotham's actions his race had since died out. That was ages ago, Jotham was akin to a ghost. He saw the darkness returning in his head to claim a new world, Althanas. Jotham did not want Althanas to suffer the same fate as the world that he came from. So he took on the unsure role of a Hero. Could I find forgiveness for my Sin? Jotham often wondered.

He was old, impossibly old. The weight of sin clouded the man's heart, and so, he worked to seek the redemption he desperately hungered for. He wanted his humanity and honour back. Jotham observed the boy as he prepared his spell, then he reacted. Right as the boy launched another Heart Spark, Jotham rushed forward with battle staff in both hands. He raised his weapon up so that his opponent's blast largely hit the magnificent heavy staff. Jotham felt the super heat of the heart spark burn his flesh once more, but it was a feeling that he had already grown accustomed to. The crowd's roar became deafening as he prepared his counter strike.

A few paces away from Oliver, he swung his battle staff towards the chest of the boy. It was a skilled strike, and he attempted to hit the boy's chest with the blunt end of his staff. He arched his body so that the weight was on his his right leg which was bent forward. He left leg was bent in such a way that the knee was closer to the ground. It was a modified combat stance. He swung with all of the might he could muster, his muscles stretching and contracting with the movement. His Overmage robes offered little protection against Oliver's Heart Spark, but it sufficed.

Jotham counted off the seconds to see if Oliver would atttempt a block or counter of his own. Overmage were gifted in both arcane arts, and martial tactics. The body was as critical a weapon as was the mind, and both had to be sharp. Jotham could fight with his staff, he was not skilled in it's combat use, but he was capable. He merely wanted to beat Oliver up, and be done with this twisted affair. It is possible I may have to kill him, or, he will have to kill me. Either way, this mad king's thirst for blood will not be satiated with us. Others will suffer. I wonder if I win the bout, can I bargain for Oliver's life?! He thought to himself. The crackles of magic that both of the sorcerers conjured riled up the crowd. Intense shouts were being called favoring either sorcerer. There was no particular favorite.

***

The king watched Jotham with a certain expression on his face. He summoned one of his nearby cohorts. "Make sure that the old man, kills the boy if that time comes." The king said to his companion. "Is the insurance plan ready?" The king whispered towards his companion.

"It is." The cohort responded. "I will be certain to use our plan for both of them if it comes down to that."

The king nodded. "Good. I always hated the good samaritans. Self righteous bastards want to ruin The Arena. Aries will not be pleased if he attempts to bargain for the boy."

"I am certain Oliver is more willing to kill the old man if it comes down to that..." The cohort said in response.

"I agree." The mad king said. "Aries calls for blood." The mad king was an Aries, worshiper. God of War. "The call must be satisfied..." The king returned to his relaxed position on his throne, and observed the fight with continued interest.

[Oliver]

Oliver felt the wind flee his lungs. He had expected flame, earthquake, and lightning bolt. He had not expected wood.

“I…” he winched. He clutched at his chest where the gnarled staff had struck against undefended, pallid, and hairless skin. He looked up at his opponent, a glimmer of anguish in his distrusting eyes.

The crowd’s enthusiasm for the well-delivered riposte unnerved the youth. All the confidence he had on crossing the threshold into the amphitheatre, now quashed with that singular blow, turned into anxiety.

“Think this is futile…” he continued, with much effort.

The adulation of their audience turned swift into loathing. Cheers turns into jeers, and raised thumbs, signs of approval, turned to downward symbols of dissatisfaction. In this strange mockery of a court, the illusory folk wanted their money’s worth, or for a new fight to get underway. Oliver would give them no such satisfaction. He was here for his own benefit, not for their cruel need to profit from blood.

“Show them what they want, mage.” He spat dust from his lips. It gathered in the corner of his mouth, making him rabid and dishevelled.

A deep rumbling rose from below. The sand, though Oliver did not notice, began to vibrate with minute swirls and rumbustious jumps. Something primal was rising in the dark. Something searing hot was boiling up to the surface of the arena. Gears turned, levers pulled, and chains broke beneath demonic weights.

“I cannot best you.” Oliver spoke only the truth. He was foolish to come here, so woefully unprepared, and hope to gain ground in one day, just maybe, besting his master in a duel.

He held out his hands in a relenting stance, and waited for his life to fade away. He sent the last vestiges of the dying, humid wind away from him. He let his head drop, and his fringe cover his eyes. His monocle, long steamed over, fell from his eye and dangled pathetically on its chain.

[Archanex Jotham]

Then...the unexpected happened.

The King looked on and for the first time in a long time, felt truly stunned by what he had just witnessed. "Stop him!" The king yelled, but it was already too late.

***

Seeing the defeated child before him, Jotham sighed. He kept his smile on his face as he formulated a plan, and carefully studied the boy before him. "I hope that you have learned something from this at the very least. You are stronger than you realize my boy." Jotham sheathed his battle staff, and then unsheathed one of his seldom used knives. "I am going to give you a gift, Mr. Oliver. All I ask in exchange is that you remember me to the last." He took the dagger in his hand, rotated it and looked up to the king with a cold smile on his face. "From Hell's heart, I stab at thee." And suddenly, completely, Jotham took his own life before the gathered crowd. He slit his throat, and Overmage blood spilled out, flowing everywhere.

He did not want to kill the kid on the king's terms. I hope Oliver becomes stronger someday. And that we meet again under better conditions... Jotham attempted to clench his bleeding throat, as his life essence spilled out. He fell to his knees, and then, fell to the ground. He was dying. As he looked up from his dying position, he looked at the mad king, the follower of Aries, and smiled viciously at him. Jotham had won, the kid would get his victory and neither of them would needlessly spill blood to satiate the blood lust of those accursed animals. Men like those gathered in the audience were not really human, they were a sub species that caved in to their blood lust.

Jotham fell like a falling star. The people who were gathered gasped in horror as the Overmage took his own life, so that Oliver didn't have to take it from him, or, he didn't have to take Oliver's life. He looked at Oliver for a short moment and smiled at the boy. "Sorry kid...another time, perhaps..." And then he closed his eyes and died.

***

"Why the hell did you do that, old man?" The monk was furious. "You could have easily killed Oliver, who was a far superior opponent to you."

"Didn't feel like it." Jotham said plainly as he looked at the monk. He was in the nurse's station of The Citadel. He'd been there for a few nights since the bout with Oliver took place. Jotham had learned something about himself during the event of the battle. He was slowly becoming the man he was destined to be. A better man. A man with a mission. Jotham looked at the monk for a long moment. "Father Lukan." Jotham said the man's name carefully. "If I told you something important, would you promise not to laugh at me?" Jotham asked in a sincere voice. "It is the very reason I am here."

"I won't laugh at you, despite how pissed off I am at you." Father Lukan said, looking at Jotham with an eerily familiar distrust. "What is it that you want to reveal?"

"I am not from Althanas." Jotham said carefully. "Actually. I am from a place beyond The Gates of Sensibility."

"You never revealed this to me before? Why now!?" Lukan asked. He raised an eyebrow. He knew Jotham was not a fellow to lie about such matters.

"I got your interest?" Jotham asked. Lukan nodded. "Good." Jotham tapped the side of his head softly. "It's all up here. But see that's not what I wanted to tell you. I wanted to tell you a story."

"Go on." Father Lukan said, he folded his arms across his chest and listened to the old man tell his story.

"I am here to help." Jotham said. "Where I come from, a great disaster occurred..."

~FIN~

[Oliver]

Oliver sat on the steps of the Citadel, silent, reverent, and deep in contemplation. When he had entered the grandiose building, grey clouds and misery had obscured the sun. Now, a bolt of sunlight as large as Corone kissed the city of Radasanth. Everywhere he looked, radiance, happiness, and warmth cascaded over the crumbling brickwork of the war-torn capital. Everywhere except for his heart.

“Master Pastel is going to make me scrub the floors all day for this…,” he grumbled.

People walked up and down the stairs around the youth. They paid him no heed, too wrapped up in their own flights of fancy and walks of shame. He watched them sombrely, picking out the detail on elaborate armour and elegant stitch work on fanciful robes. Swords, daggers, and staves of ice danced past him in an endless stream of butchery. He started to question how he could ever have survived in such an environment.

“No…” he corrected himself, “this is worthy of eyeball jar duty…” he shuddered. He pictured the long shelf in the basement bowing under the weight of pickled eyeballs from seven species, three continents, and four centuries of experimentation and ‘contributions’ to the magical community. It was as much as he deserved for being so pitiful.

With a long-winded sigh, he flicked his fringe from his eyes, pushed himself upright, and gathered his wits about him. He broke into a quick-paced march down the steps, heavy boots thudding against the well-worn, well-trodden stone, eyes fixated on the long road that lead away from the arenas back into the market district of Radasanth.

He wagered Archanex Jotham had never had to clean eyeballs. He did not picture the battle staff-wielding lunatic ever trifling with trivialities. Some people, Master Pastel had once said, ‘were simply born learned’. Although they continued to manifest new and impossible destinies, ways to wield mana, ether, and whatever power they moulded, they did not have to be apprentice. They did not have to redden their knuckles on the ‘sorcerous keel’ of the ship to some impossible destination.

“Whatever that means…” Oliver wrinkled his nose, his thoughts spilling out into a soliloquy of self-doubt. “All I want is to learn…”which was true enough and to find Him…” He pictured Gideon Midwinter or at least, his father as he remembered him from the dusty picture that his mother had given him decades ago.

The tall, proud man wore robes resplendent. He carried a battle-staff, not unlike his opponent’s weapon. His long, well-groomed beard dangled down to his knees, and his baldhead caught the sunlight. It reminded learned men that magic could do many things, save for halt the advance of time.

Oliver concluded that Gideon and Archanex were uncomfortably alike. He had seen the fervour in the mage’s eyes, and been swayed to feebleness by it. They both had darkness in their hearts, which poured out their eyes like beacons to the shadows. They both thought better of themselves, putting their staves and scholarly ways above those of lesser men. The sorcerer ploughed down the alleyway between Grafton Street and the boulevard leading to the docks weaved in and out of the crowds on their way to their evening meals, taverns, and loved ones. The smell of manure, sweat, and seawater was overpowering.

“The next time…” he grumbled, after several minutes of walking feverishly and sickeningly too quick for his tired legs to last long, “I won’t hesitate.” The image of fire and brimstone striking flesh, and scouring the life from the withered skin of his past gave him the strength and encouragement he needed to make it to a thick oaken door on a shop front.

He pushed the door, turned the handle, and trundled into the magical emporium of his mentor. The day was still young, for the servant of Master Pastel. The Age of The Sorcerer was here, but still in its infancy.

“Oliver, about time!” the white-headed skeletal wizard clucked, looking up from behind the counter. “Tell me about it later,” he jabbed a bony finger towards a wall of jars, books, and candles burning on their wick’s last fuel, “you can reset those, before you set your eyes on a bigger task.”

Oliver glared, sighed, and nodded in agreement all at once. He put the image of an old man’s slit throat to the shadows of his mind, and replaced it with a bucket of soapy water, bruised knees, and no end to his chores in sight. He muttered stone cold proverbs to himself as he worked, trying to define meaning in all the rhetoric he had learnt from Pastel to make sense of the day, the man’s sacrifice, and how it would make him ‘strong’.

[Luned]

Oliver Midwinter

Plot ~ 20/30

Story ~ 6/10 – You both worked toward personal story in an effort to add gravity to your characters' experiences in the citadel, particularly in the first post. However, there was more seemingly unrelated story in the last post versus what I'd hoped would carry over from the intro into the meat of the battle. (I'm left quite curious about this Baxter Arlington.)

Setting ~ 7/10 – You both incorporated the setting, but Oliver's posts brought it to life with vivid description.

Pacing ~ 7/10 – Oliver's natural reactions kept the flow well on his side, even when he had to pause and give up.

Character ~ 18/30

Communication ~ 6/10 – In the end, I was left wondering how Archanex's finish affected Oliver. While there was communication between characters (and the crowd –– I particularly liked your descriptions of its reactions), the last post neglects to address the drama of the battle.

Action ~ 6/10 – Oliver's actions felt believable/appropriate to his character, but there were no particularly inspired moments.

Persona ~ 6/10 – Oliver is an enjoyable character to read about, you made me want to get to know him better. Tying the information provided in the intro in with that in the closing post could have packaged his background better, giving a more cohesive glimpse of the character.

Prose ~ 22/30

Mechanics ~ 7/10 – Saw some "there" instead of "their", forgotten words in phrases , etc, but not many.

Clarity~ 7/10 – Your somewhat purple style has risks, but in this thread, it did not hinder clarity. There were some issues in continuity between posts, but the weight of those fall more on the opponent's side.

Technique ~ 8/10 – There were some very nice bits of alliteration and such, which opened strongly for you. I enjoyed the language in this thread, it found a good balance between poetic but not too much so.

Wildcard: 5/10 – I don't know what it is about Oliver, but I like him. He was faced with sort of a strange situation in this battle and you, as a writer, handled it in a believable way for the character.

Oliver's Total ~ 65/100



Archanex Jotham

Plot ~ 16/30

Story ~ 6/10 – The first post introduced the character and his backstory thoroughly, I got a good feel for his motivations, but some of the intro came dangerously close to cliche as it said more than it showed. The twist in the end was pretty interesting, some better build up (both to the suicide and his conversation with Lukan) would have helped it leave more impact.

Setting ~ 5/10 – I was glad to see you use the setting as a device, but I didn't get much of a feel for it through Archanex's perspective.

Pacing ~ 5/10 – Archanex's early actions/reactions lacked urgency, slowing down the pace of the battle. The way it jumped between NPCs/scenes could use reworking to help with flow.

Character ~ 16/30

Communication ~ 6/10 – Good effort to engage with the other main character on a meaningful level, though at times the threads of communication were lost. An example of this is when Oliver mentions a change in the arena (post 9) which was not addressed in the response. This is done within the prose, not dialogue, but is an issue of communication (and clarity, as mentioned later) between writers.

Action ~ 5/10 – See Pacing. The second bout (post 8) was better than the earlier one, but was also broken up by dialogue which didn't fit quite naturally.

Persona ~ 5/10 – Archanex has a clear personality, but when you introduced the king as a side character, I hoped to see something a bit more interesting/unique. After the addition of the Father, there were suddenly a lot of NPCs to develop in such a short thread.

Prose ~ 16/30

Mechanics ~ 5/10 – Sentence fragments are fine sometimes, but these didn't read in a manner which I recognized as an effective stylistic choice. I also noticed regular typos (man/men, its/it's, etc).

Clarity~ 6/10 – Use of commas needs proofreading, odd placement required me to read some sentences multiple times to understand their meaning. Clarity was also affected by the latter issue under Communication, in which Oliver introduced something which was not carried through into your post.

Technique ~ 5/10 – Closely repeated words hurt the flow of the prose. Frequent use of passive voice detracted from personal style, as well. While that is a Mechanics issue, it detracted from the style of the writing as well, leaving it in need of flair.

Wildcard: 5/10 – There was decent thought put into the story, I just wish I felt the impact of the final twist more keenly. Some work on the execution itself would bring it to the next level.

Archanex's Total ~ 53/100



Oliver wins!


Oliver Midwinter earns 1100 EXP and 115 GP

Archanex Jotham earns 200 EXP and 75 GP

[Mordelain]

Experience and gold added.