Training Anew

[Jasmine]

((NOTE: This take place about 2.5 years after the PG War for Corone. It is also OPEN to ONE. level 5 and below only. please and thank you. :) ))

Jasmine slowly climbed the stairs to the Citadel. It had been a few years since she had last stepped foot into the towering building. She and her family were visiting Radasanth. Her daughter, Siela, who was now four years old was having a daddy-daughter lunch date with Zerith. Her two and half year old twin boys, Zevernus and Aiden, were spending time with her sister-in-law, Melody. And Jasmine now had a little bit of time to herself, which was a rarity for a mother of three. Jasmine’s elder brother, King Eric, had not been entirely pleased with the idea of his wife going off on vacation with no guards, but between Melody and Jasmine, he had been convinced. Few people would recognize the queen and they would not be announcing their royal status.

A soft, though pained, smiled came over Jasmine’s face as she thought about the name Zevernus. Her eldest boy was named after his father’s best friend. When she had been pregnant with Siela an old enemy was brought back to life. At the time of the final fight, Jasmine was almost ready to give birth. She was in no condition to fight. Zevernus had taken a blow meant for her and thus saved her and Siela’s life with his own. When her boys were born, she was insistent that they name the eldest in honor of “Uncle” Zevernus. The man had been an incorrigible flirt, but he had been a good man without whom Jasmine would be dead.

Reaching the top of the stairs she pushed her thoughts of the past aside. She was here for a fight to re-hone her skills. It would not do at all to let herself be distracted. Once inside, she found a monk and spoke briefly with him. The kindly old man smiled and beckoned for her to follow him as he waddled off down the hall. Jasmine followed quickly wondering what kind of arena the monk would give her. She hadn’t asked for anything much other than a simple enchantment that would prevent her from facing a giant. Should anyone over six feet tall enter, they would find themselves shrunken to the ‘correct’ size. She had also asked for an enchantment that would prevent any healing abilities from triggering. Any wounds taken would remain until the monks healed them. They reached a door and the monk smiled broadly as he politely opened it for the princess. She thanked him quietly as she stepped through the portal into her arena.

The world in which Jasmine found herself was a far cry from anything she’d ever seen. No birds sang. In fact, there was no evidence of animal life having been there at all in some time. The lighting was subdued. Tall trees with vines hanging off of them blocked the sun from shining through properly. The air felt damp and had the bittersweet smell of rotting plant matter. All around her milky white fog swirled. She could only see about twenty feet in front of her before the fog started to obscure her surroundings. As she walked forward the supporting post of a suspended, wooden bridge came into view. Clearly the bridge was to be the battleground. It swayed ominously as she stepped onto it. The main support ropes seemed sturdy enough, but the wooden slats and the vertical rope supports were starting to rot or were missing altogether. Aside from her opponent, she would also have to worry about the bridge itself betraying her. A quick glance over the edge told her that falling would be a far less than desirable happenstance. The canyon the bridge spanned was deep enough that the bottom could not be seen. Fog swirled a scant ten feet below the bridge so thick that she couldn’t tell if a river flowed in the canyon bottom or if there were sharp rocks to break a fall. The fog below here was much thicker than the fog at her level. It looked almost solid in its white solidarity, but Jasmine knew better than to believe her eyes and imagination on such matters.

Knowing she was first in the arena did not put Jasmine at ease. She rested her right hand on the hilt of her sword, prepared to draw it in an instant. There would be no announcing chime or the sound of a door closing to tell her that her opponent had arrived. Thus she had no idea if her opponent had already entered or if she was still waiting. She walked cautiously out to the middle of the bridge. The bridge itself was only about forty feet long and three feet wide, just wide enough for a single person to cross at a time. From the middle, the twenty visibility would allow her to watch both ends for the arrival of her opponent. Her blade hissed softly as she drew it from the sheath, ready to take on the first opponent she’d had in a few years.

[Zook Murnig]

For my part, this takes place in an alternate continuity in which Cohen never really reached his full potential, stagnating after the events of Clean and Clear.

Cohen's left calf ached in the cool, damp morning air. As he knelt, running his warm palms over the muscles through his soft, dark cotton trousers, the magician looked up at the pearly marble steps leading to the Citadel. It was no use; the pain was bone deep, a hollow feeling in his lower leg as if it were about to snap with every step. It had been two years since it had been shattered in Raiaera, and miraculously refused. The doctors had blamed his chronic pain on his failure to splint the break, because there was, ahem, no way it could have healed on its own so quickly.

The muscles in his face tightened as he stood, straightened his silk vest, and took the first step. Step, wince, step. Step, wince, step. The rising sun shone down on his pained expression all the while, the creases all the more evident. Though still in his twenties, the man climbing to the Temple of War seemed to have aged to his late thirties. Grey hairs had crept into his once well kept beard, now a scraggly mass of hair. The light that once shone in his blue-grey eyes had gone cold after the loss of the only woman he had ever really loved.

Gavrila. The thought of her nearly brought him to his knees once more. She had cared for him, and he for her, even when he had to give up on his dreams of travel and adventure. But the beautiful, raven-haired woman found after these two years that the bold young man she had once loved was gone, replaced by a simpering old coward. And now she, too, was gone.

At the towering doors, he paused and tightened the tie about his neck, checking as he did that he still carried his wand and knife strapped at his hips. He came here to fight, for glory, for honor, and for his own self respect. If he, a lamed, aging horse, could finish against another, perhaps he deserved to run again. A tear touched his cheek, running down his gaunt face to fall upon the polished stone as he thought of finding Gavrila once more. Of earning her love, and a new chance at life with her.

As a grinning old monk, clad in the traditional flowing, orange robes of the Ai'Bron, ushered him through the Cathedral of Slaughter, and into the field of battle, a second reason occurred to him. Standing at the end of the shaking, decrepit bridge, winds gathering and pressing him forward into the mist, he smiled, knowing that if anyone could fix what had been broken, it would be the healers of the Ai'Bron.