Preparation

[Resolve]

Closed to Mordelain.

The Adventurer's Crown had been an educational experience and if Resolve had learned anything, it was that she needed to prepare. If she wanted to hone her abilities under real guidance she needed to get to Fallien, and to do that she needed money. Tournaments were a viable source, but after her last performance, she'd be kidding herself if she thought she was going to stroll in there and take home anything different than a consolation prize and, in the case of the AC, cuddly case of hypothermic shell-shock.

Something tickled Resolve's cheek and she flinched, snapped from the distraction of reflection. A salt-laced breeze had swept in off the sunset-speckled water and tousled her dark hair, stray strands obscuring her pale blue eyes. She blinked and smoothed them behind an ear, turning her head to evaluate the environment.

She'd requested "comfort zone" and certainly got it. If Resolve didn't know Radasanth so well she might have thought she was actually there, so convincing was the illusion of shadowy architecture overhead and the surety of stone pavement under the soles of her well-worn boots. The alleyway she occupied was surprisingly close to the one next to Moody's, save the lack of scavenging strays… that, and the quietness. Strange serenity settled over everything in the absence of other people, something which may have been calming in normal circumstances, but instead it felt alien and reminded the girl just how out of her element she was.

Goosebumps crawled over Resolve's bare arms in a prickling sensation as she waited, the anxious beat of her heart in her throat utterly distracting. She found temporary sense of purpose in tidying her appearance, a habitual sort of thing that was silly in this context, but her nervous fingers found relief as they smoothed folds in the short crimson sari wrapped around her athletic form, coming to rest on her leather belt where her sword was fastened in its sheath. She typically wasn't an awkward person in the least, but there was something so contrived about going to a place to fight a random competitor for sport. It had her uneasy and she couldn't help but wonder if she'd have the motivation to put her all into whatever conflict was to come. It was one thing to have a good ol' row when someone needed to be put in their place back home, but entirely another to incite something over pretense. How uninspiring.

And so the girl waited, secretly crossing her fingers that this whole ordeal wouldn't end in embarrassment.

[Mordelain]

Wherever you went on Althanas, war was only ever just around the corner. No less so than in Radasanth, a city that had become obsessed with conflict, blood sport, and gambling on lives in recent years. Mordelain found the morbid fascination disconcerting, given the citizenry were exposed to a civil conflict between rebel and Empire that had, from memory, raged for over a century. In the stagnant air of the Citadel, the echoes of a thousand defeats and a thousand more victories formed a mist of atmosphere. Trails of incense smoke and plumes of vapour burst up from the vents in the floor, which led down into the Apocathery chambers, and the smell of blood, wine, and iron was thick in the air.

As Mordelain approached her destination, a large, iron-bound door that was battered, haggard, and cut with sword and axe strike, she rifled through the many emotions one associated with danger. Above all, she felt excitement, though she was never sure if it was for the thrill of combat, or for the possibility of relishing a death ureteral. The sycophancy got even to her, a normally composed, stoic, and ephemeral soul. With delicate steps, she approached the door, pacing herself so that the monk who guided her to the arena was not surpassed. When they arrived, he pressed a heavy, worn palm against the grain, and mumbled something.

It broke inwards with the sound of thunder, revealing a cityscape beyond which was all too familiar to the troubadour. Whoever she was to fight within, they had chosen the comforting streets of Radasanth herself to ease their woes. Mordelain advanced, broke into a canter, and turned several corners with a brisk breeze flowing through her long, reddened, unkempt hair. With a tribal flourish, she stood out in the silent, deserted streets. Her deep purple hauberk, no more than thick cloth made of moist material to keep the desert sun of Fallien at bay was fluorescent against the drab grey and monotone brown of the imperial city.

The tip of her partisan, a long, rustic pole-arm tipped with sky steel glinted in the momentary beams of sunlight that penetrated the alleyways. On each hip, she carried a kukri, a weapon peculiar to Fallien and its tribal culture. Simple brown slacks covered her legs, and thigh high boots, strapped tight with goat hair laces padded over the cobbles, slick with sewerage and rain, as she continued her sprint. She was, for all intent and purpose, everything that the Citadel embodied. Prepared, destined, and determined she was more than capable of inflicting great hurt on those who wandered its hallowed halls.

“Except I am not sure why I’m here…” she whispered, as she came to a crossroads. North and south was a wide avenue, east and west alleyways cluttered with boxes and carts. “Or what I’m going to do now I’ve arrived.” Uncertainty, in a moment of life and death, was a deadlier weapon in the wrong hands than any blade, bolt, or fiery blast. Mordelain had prepared for her arrival for weeks. Now that she was here, she knew she had made a grave mistake. She gripped her weapon tightly, took to a battle stance, a dancing mix of footwork and parrying motions, and waited.

[Resolve]

Resolve first felt Mordelain arrive as an inkling in her gut, a flicker of life weaving through streets and alleyways toward the heart of the illusion, a peripheral glint that immediately captured her interest before the rest of her senses caught up and the sound of movement drew her in. The girl willed her own spirit to calm with a slow, deep breath, five seconds in, five seconds out. Then she willed her feet to move, treading lightly and swiftly toward the mystery opponent as she slipped down the alley and out onto the street.

And there she was. Stepping out from a corridor about four o'clock and thirty feet from Mordelain, Resolve's eyes immediately met the other woman's and she hesitated, hand moving instinctively to rest on the hilt of her sword. The women met, violet and crimson, two jewels studding the dreary street where Resolve felt so at home, but any sense of security had since fled and now it was time to act.

Was there etiquette to be observed? Would it be sportsmanlike to shake hands, to exchange names, to bow in respect? At that thought Resolve offered a flinch of a nod, that motion all she could muster for politeness in her skittish state, her dark lips pursed in milliseconds of panicked contemplation.

The suspense seemed to get the best of her and before she consciously registered the decision, Resolve dashed toward Mordelain and circled her wide, paying close attention to the reach the woman had with her partisan. Sword drawn, she tested the waters by imposing on her opponent's space, but withheld further offense until she felt they were adequately acquainted.

[Mordelain]

Despite the sudden appearance of her opponent, and the nerves crackling in her veins, Mordelain remained entirely composed as she was encircled. Like a shark in murky waters, the tattooed assailant observed the troubadour, feet padding over the cobbles, their hearts both beating in the twilight with the force of toms and the passion of kings.

“I was not expecting…” she snapped her mouth shut, to consider what she was saying. Mordelain was not used to fighting other women. Her aggression, virility, and her determination to conquer adversity were bent entirely against the male of the species, “someone like yourself.” Her sentence, tempered by indecision, seemed less threatening than she had intended. “My name is Mordelain Saythrou,” she eased her stance, recognising the indecision in the woman’s form. Though she carried a simple sword, she seemed just as unskilled with it as she was with her Kadar; the wide, flat, and heavy blade used in many of the more erratic fighting styles of Fallien.

The soft breeze that flowed up the alleyway ruffled Mordelain’s hair. She flicked it from her brow with a sassy motion, and on the back of that up righted her partisan to use it as a staff. She leant forward, offloading her weight, easing her stance, and attempting, with much effort, to seem friendlier. The sprawling cityscape, though devoid of people, began to sing with life. The sunny skies overhead, the birds in the rafters, and the bats in the belfry; Radasanth watched, and waited, for a struggle to unfold.

“You seem, familiar.” She could not be sure, but the woman’s appearance was reminiscent of the Bedouin culture of the island she now called home. Her markings and dress were not as prominent as the almost garish, eye catching robes of the Novae, and yet nor where they are concentrated and apparent as the Nirrakal cannibals, but they were immutably part of her identity.

A seagull crowed overhead, swooped down into the alleyway, and before Mordelain could look up to observe, it was gone. She smiled, dropped her gaze again, and set her sights on the blade of her adversary.

“From where do you hail, and what winds of fate bring you here to me?” she held out a solitary hand, a cupped offering of question, peace, and prospect. If somehow, another fighter from Fallien had come to the arena to fight, her, of all people, then she could not pass up the opportunity to garner an ally for the trying times ahead.

[Resolve]

When her opponent first began to speak it took Resolve off-guard and she hesitated, baffled for a moment, then visibly offended. She was used to competition, but she didn't think someone would outright say something like that. A sliver of white teeth bared with a subconscious rage and for a moment Resolve realized she might just have it in her to pummel someone in this artificial setting after all, when she was surprised again by the other woman's civil introduction.

Resolve couldn't decide if she was angry or just confused by the way Mordelain readily offered her name and leant against her staff so casually. Instead she just frowned, lowering her sword so it hung apathetically at her side. "Resolve." That was all she managed to spit out, undoubtedly rude in its shortness, and she listened in astonishment when her opponent went on to say that she was somehow familiar.

What a crock! Was this a ploy? Defensive thoughts swirled and Resolve suddenly noticed her fingernails were digging ferociously into her palm. She realized she was projecting her anxiety, but she wasn't sure if she wanted to discourage such a thing.

Watching Mordelain through narrowed eyes, the girl continued a slow orbit around the relaxed woman. Her boots scuffed against the stone and even such an unremarkable sound echoed off the surrounding buildings in the absence of the city's usual life. "I'm from here," Resolve shrugged, nose wrinkled. "Radansanth. I'm here to train."

And then, to her embarrassment, she couldn't help but follow up: "… You?"

[Mordelain]

Mordelain was not surprised by Resolve’s reply. She seemed at home in the placated architecture, in the sway of the cityscape, the claustrophobia of the rising inclines and bell towers. The arena, at least now, began to make more sense to the Troubadour. She was used to open meadows, sandy mausoleums, and carnal blood pits of wrath from her previous escapades in the arena. For a woman as strong in prescience like Resolve to choose something that reflected some of her character must mean she was fighting for a cause. If she were fighting for a cause, then she would die for it, too. She smiled, though not too enthusiastically.

“I am from far away,” she began. She did not quite know how open minded her opponent was, but she did not wish to berate her intelligence, so spoke of truths within truths. “But my home for the time being is the arid and rolling dunes of Fallien.” The name was like a needle, dropping in a silent ante chamber. Resolve cocked her head to one side, interested, if only just for a fraction of a second. “I thought you were from there, on the count of,” she let her finger drop from the worn shaft of her pole-arm to gesture at her opponent’s tribal markings, “your insignia.”

“I know of it.”

“It is an eyesore compared to the behemoth that is Radasanth,” she replied. Though the illusory world was just a fabrication, the realness of it, the cold wind, the sunny skies, and the beating heart even without the people that were the other half of a whole, Mordelain felt it. She felt alive. She felt the island of Corone. She felt its wounds, scars, and its tribulations. Whoever chose this place, out of all the wondrous places in the multiverse, clearly was hurting just as much within. “It is a fitting backdrop for the purpose required of it.”

Mordelain spread her feet apart, which were shoeless, and tensed her knees, locking them into place. The bandages around her soles, which had been white long ago, tightened and whitened the tips of her toes. She set her partisan level, so that it was parallel with the horizon, and scrutinised every inch, seam, and sound of the tapestry before her.

Resolve curled her lip, hesitant.

“Let us do no wrong by our heartland,” she said. The partisan dropped with a twist of her right hand, and then drove the end of her weapon into the flagstones. It cracked; a convenient weak spit broke asunder by her adrenaline. “Let us honour them this day.” Without further oration, the il’Jhain runner did what she did best. She ran, like the howl of the banshee. She lifted her pole-arm into both hands and let out a blood curdling cry that was Bedouin and bestial alike.

Birds, unseen until now, scattered to the four corners of the Radasanth that was not.

[Resolve]

Resolve had met people before who'd been to Fallien, it wasn't difficult to find an adventurer at port who could tell her stories of the scorching heat and foreign culture, nor was it a hassle to pay Luned a visit at the archive and leaf through engravings of the strange sights when she was inspired to imagine her origins. But this Mordelain woman had a way of speaking that made Resolve want to talk about it all over again, to hear this fresh perspective on the land she only dreamed of visiting.

Now was not the time for extended conversation, however. Resolve was prepared by the time Mordelain cried out and took off running, swift and sure.

Resolve had no war cry, nor did she have the artful grace of a dancer. In comparison she felt clumsy and impossibly young, an alien disturbance to her typically confident core, and her feet moved on their own to pick up the same momentum as her opponent.

The partisan was intimidating, but Resolve was skilled with her sword and she knew that if she could disarm Mordelain, she had a chance at success if it came to a regular ol' brawl. Therein lied the problem, however; she moved so naturally and with such talent that Resolve wasn't quite convinced it would even be possible.

That thought, fortunately, did not slow her down. This was the Citadel; there were no real repercussions to losing, other than knowing a new kind of pain. This was training, not her life. This was her opportunity to figure out what would work and what wouldn't.

Resolve lunged forward to test what balance and power Mordelain had behind the partisan. She was cautious of the range advantage her opponent had and tested the waters, going in for a swipe with her sword while expecting a parry.

[Mordelain]

No parry came, and with a whelp of surprise, the blade nicked Mordelain’s flesh. It cut in to the side of her left hip; cutting skin, sinew, and confidence open all in one fell swoop. She stumbled past Resolve, partisan tip wavering, heart racing, and feet deftly slapping down hard against the cobbles to prevent her body from rolling into a tumble she would not recover from.

“Junta!” she shouted loudly, turning about with her weapon redacted to half extension so she could better defend herself if her opponent slipped so smoothly through the weapon’s range of threat again. “I will be seeing the desert again sooner than I had hoped,” she added, her breath short, sharp, and scintillating with undertones of pain.

She had, once again, grossly under estimated her opponent. Wavering from left foot to her right, she watched Resolve with a keen interest. Everything her senses told her spoke of a woman weak, feeble, and unprepared. Perhaps, and just perhaps, her own self-assuredness and willingness to fight had drawn something out of her opponent even she did not know she had. On the other hand, perhaps Mordelain’s ego had gotten the better of her.

“Congratulations are in order,” she looked down at the wound, touched it with her splayed fingers on her left hand, and winced as she pushed her digits in too deep. Her whimsical clothing did little to protect her, and left the wound open, exposed, and without a natural bandage. She would have to drop her guard to tend to it, and that was an option she could ill afford herself. “You fight with the tenacity of a desert wyrm,” she continued, hoping the reference was someone meaningful to Resolve. She had spent so much time in Fallien the colloquialisms of the rest of Althanas had long since left her memory.

“I fight only with my own strength,” came the reply – it was calm, collected, and though Mordelain could see fear in Resolve, she was impressed yet again by the mirror of her own strength.

Mordelain bowed, took a firm, and bloodied grip of her partisan’s shaft, and quickened the altering steps from left to right. After ten rotations of the pattern, she reversed it, shifted her weight to her right hip, and ran into Resolve’s guard. She took a sharp breath as she advanced, and then jettisoned it like an arrow in the shadows to augment her strength as she spans the partisan about full circle. Its tip ran up through Resolve’s guard, clipped against her blade, and knocked it upwards.

“Keep fighting, then, Resolve, show me the limits of that strength!” the pious tone grated even Mordelain’s spine. Her words reverberated through the streets, just as the true tip of her weapon came about, rose up into the midriff of her foe, and lunged forwards. A trickle of blood had by now turned into a torrent, colouring Mordelain's leg with veins of crimson, and a cobble beneath her boot ablaze with ruby splendour.

[Resolve]

Resolve's sword was knocked upwards with a motion that surprised her; she was shocked when Mordelain took a hit from her first offense, a strange feeling that was complicated with the woman's conversational style of sparring, and Resolve wasn't quite ready after that distraction to avoid whatever came next.

The girl was fumbling to regain a solid grip on her weapon when Mordelain went in for a jab with the partisan. Resolve dropped her sword with a great clatter as it hit the cobblestones and attempted to dodge but she was too impaired by panic, and there was a sudden excruciating heat at her waist. She cried out, stumbling back several steps until her back found hard support against the cold wall of a building, and Mordelain withdrew her partisan, the blade catching on Resolve's sari and tearing some of the draped fabric free. Her brown torso glistened with the tears of a long wound almost as deep as the one she'd inflicted on her opponent but more cosmetically horrific, as it traced a gaping line from her right ribs in a diagonal down across her stomach.

Instead of nursing her wound, Resolve instinctually summoned energy into the empty cradles of her palms. Within a short moment there was a tense crackling and by the time the concentration of energy became visible as a loose, wispy sphere of spiritual light, it was directed as a blast directly toward Mordelain's person.

Resolve hadn't intended to bring her abilities into this so quickly but it happened as if by reflex, the shock of pain hitting hard. After sending the sphere flying she gathered another in her right hand, left arm wrapping firmly around her stomach to apply pressure to the wound that was slippery with blood and soaking her brightly dyed clothing with a darker shade of red. She locked her knees as she braced herself against the wall and prepared to throw the next blast if Mordelain recovered too quickly.

[Mordelain]

Overconfidence was the greatest enemy to a warrior. Blinded by the light of experience, a sword, dagger, or arrow could easily end an empire. Mordelain had been warned, countless times, against the errors of misjudging your enemy and his ilk. She had vowed, furtively and repetitively, that she would never make such a foolish mistake. As the searing light of ardour struck her, a magical conflagration that was neither flame nor fury, but both combined, she saw her mentor’s face leering down at her with a nagging finger.

It only made the pain feel more deserved, more natural, and more like destiny than ever.

“Urgh,” she grunted, stumbling back in the same undignified manner Resolve had in the wake of her pole-arm’s piercing thrust. Her skin, beneath the impact, was not as tanned or supple as her opponent’s. It rippled, bristled, and in two convex and curved lines, began to bleed.

In her long-life, and in her experience, Mordelain had been exposed to many different echelons of power, and schools of magic. She had seen the spirit bombs of Petra, the dark wave motions of the dancing dervish of Hudde, and one year, the devastating summons of the berserkers of Braen. Never in her life had she experience the Vorpal and fractal energies of this woman before her. The sensation, though painful at the core, was indescribable.

“What in Junkyo’s name,” she began, rasping, clucking, and sucking back her need to cry “was that?”

Some small part of her told Mordelain that Resolve was not about to reveal the secrets of her talents there and then. She slouched, the pain starting to overcome her stamina, and shook her head. Her hair fell from its neat bunch, and dangled down in sodden strands over her forehead. Though this was only Radasanth, in the heat of battle, it sweltered and assaulted her like Fallien’s midday inferno.

“Fine,” she spat, her spit drying quickly as it was absorbed into the dust, “I guess I’ll find out the hard way,” she continued, as a second sphere formed in Resolve’s palms. She looked down at her injured stomach, picked out the detail of the sear, and picked away a fold of her clothing that was soaking up the blood. She had to keep the wound clear of debris so that it would heal without infection. Though the monks were talented, the lingering pain would not be worth the experience of their encounter.

“Shall we go again?”

“Yes.” Resolve replied. Her curiosity about the girl still present, she could not help but admire her determination. Though the injury on her own body was more grievous, Mordelain’s strength gave her strength, a view Mordelain shared as she nodded in response. She embraced her partisan once more, held it firmly with two clenched fists, and then advanced slowly.

All the while, with streams of blood trickling down her hips and along her leather clad thighs, she was mesmerised by the spiritual flickers of life in Resolve’s sweating palms.

[Resolve]

Resolve felt hindered by this touch and go sparring style of her opponent, the regular pauses causing her to lose momentum. It wasn't so much a skirmish as a conversation over a game, but instead of moving chess pieces across a board, they were drawing blood. It took a considerable amount of effort to ignore her own, her torn clothing drenched.

Mordelain advanced with her partisan, but Resolve had dropped her sword. It glinted, beckoning to her from the dusky gray street, but it was far enough away that it wasn't worth retrieving. The girl felt guilty; she still had energy manipulation, but the woman appeared not to have defense against that, or perhaps she had and simply hadn't expected it the first time. Resolve wondered if using it again would be unfair.

Either way, there Mordelain was with a blade pointed in Resolve's direction, and she figured she might as well do something about it.

Resolve threw blasts at her opponent again but this time kept them smaller and separate from each palm, aiming not to strike Mordelain bodily in defense as before, but to hit her arms and disturb her grasp in order to disarm her. If all went as planned, even if Mordelain did not drop the partisan, if she appeared disgruntled enough by the crackling bombs of spiritual energy, Resolve would swiftly close the gap between them. She intended first to get close enough to the woman that her long-range weapon would be less helpful, then take the partisan from her. She figured that, even if this plan was only partly successful, she'd at least close the gap between them and make the length of the partisan more cumbersome than effective… hopefully, anyway.

If it came down to fists, Resolve thought she might enjoy herself better. At least she knew how to manage with those.

[Mordelain]

Where Mordelain was from, her very presence was defence against an attack. People of the Kalithrism, save those from Althanas, revered the Tama as Gods. Here, in a war-torn revelry, her namesake offered her nothing but false hope. In Radasanth proper, she found herself once more at the mercy of magic’s fickle whims. It’s crackling; its coruscating light spiralled towards her, small but mighty, and struck in the heat of the moment.

“Cease this masochism!” she roared, to no avail. The striking of the flame, dancing lights that tricked the senses, dragged all pitch and poignancy from her vocal chords. The sound that escaped her lips was nothing more than a warble, a gargle of dry spit and acrid blood. She teetered backwards, partisan eschew, heart beating, feet splayed.

She expected death, just like she had expected when the Cataclysm ripped through her home world. She remembered the longing sense of closure, the need to know that the deed was done, and there was nothing else to do. It never came.

“I…” she whimpered, opening her eyes as her words stretched into a weak echo. The blow had not, or so it seemed, been targeted at her. Bereft of her weapon, which clattered to the ground in the moment of contact, Mordelain stood arms wide and weak as ever before her opponent. She was disarmed, defeated, and distrusting of her own senses. She felt faint, feeble, and without direction.

“I am alive?”

Without further question, the Troubadour stumbled backwards, struck the cold wall of the alley, and slumped to the ground. All the wind left her, all the sails on her ship ripped and scattered to the winds. The sky, shining above like a daylight corona through an ajar door shook. She looked up.

The sound of heavy footfalls as her opponent, resolved to end her left approached faded into nothingness. They replaced instead with the heavier beat of her heart in its last cycle, it’s last requiem of heavy percussion.

Black.

Dark.

Defeat.

Mordelain died, her preparation for death short-lived and futile.

[Resolve]

When Resolve witnessed the blast strike true and Mordelain's partisan drop she poised to finish the game, but it was already over. As she attempted to peel herself from the brick wall she used to keep upright she felt the hot pain of the gash across her stomach anew, causing her to fall back once more, just in time to see her opponent do the same against the opposite building.

As Mordelain slumped to the ground, face risen to the artificial sky, Resolve allowed herself to do the same. The pavement was cold against her skin and she felt chilled to the bone, the blood that soaked her skin and clothing no longer warm with life. By the time she looked back to the other woman she was gone, her elegant figure slack against the stone.

A groaning sigh escaped through clenched teeth, one heavy with guilt and regret. She had looked forward to hearing a new perspective on Fallien, but what was she expecting, a civilized tea with her fellow warrior after their duel? And winning was supposed to feel good, wasn't it? Then why couldn't she enjoy this victory?

Questioning her purpose there, Resolve maintained pressure on her wound and gazed at Mordelain's body as Radasanth's facade faded into a large, empty arena. The ambient light from the false sky dissipated and drew color away from the corpse like a final exhale, the woman's skin ashen and costume dulled. The footsteps of the watchful monks broke the silence, echoing across the hard floor as they approached to handle the gore...

But Resolve couldn't look away, elemental blue eyes fixed on Mordelain's own, half-lidded and dreaming of nothing but darkness.

[Revenant]

Condensed rubric requested. Resolve’s scores will be in blue. Mordelain’s scores will be in red.

Plot: (16 / 14) – The setting, aside from being described numerous times as ‘Radasanth’ wasn’t particularly used in this thread. Resolve gave a bit more backstory and reason for joining in on this battle, wanting to bolster herself after her showing in the Adventurer’s Crown. Mordelain’s need to pause the fight after every attack to make a comment hindered her in this battle.

Character: (17 / 16) – Again, Mordelain’s commentary seemed out of place in this situation, lowering the score here. Neither character did more than “basic slash / stab / repeat”, making for a very uninspired battle.

Prose: (21 / 20) – Mechanically, you we both pretty solid and easy to read, though Mordelain had more errors. Like I described in the character section, the writing of this thread feels very uninspired for both characters, though Mordelain’s verbage added a flair of poetry to it.

Wildcard: (3 / 3)

Total: 57 / 53

Resolve wins!

Resolve receives 1050 exp and 80 gp.
Mordelain receives 300 exp and 70 gp.

[Revenant]

EXP/GP added.