Into The North (Closed)

[Arden]

Into The North (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GLqiQWAXQh8)

http://fc01.deviantart.net/fs39/i/2008/353/f/3/Lost_Ice_Kingdom_by_Spikylu.jpg


Closed to BlackandBlueEyes

[Arden]

It seemed like years since Arden had killed a man. It was definitely years since a woman had died at the end of his blade. The swordsmen did not choose for that statistic to form, it was simply the way of the world. In the underbelly of Scara Brae, it was often the men sent first into the fray – the women were far away, laughing politely into handkerchiefs, playing the men for fools. In the Citadel, however, Radasanth’s aspiring carnarium, there was no veil to hide behind. Everyone was treated equally, in so far as all were mortal, all were targets, and all were here for the fetid glory of warfare.

It was here, then, that Arden Janelle felt truly at home.

“It is intoxicating, do you not think?” he asked his colleagues, who pursued him at his heels, closely guarding their master from paranoid daggers and unseen enemies. They stopped in their stride when he did, both instinctively reaching for concealed blades, assuming the worst.

“Master?” the woman said, her red hair matching his as it danced in the candlelight. She examined every face she could see, every footstep, every heartbeat, and every possible outcome.

“I am referring to the atmosphere Rouge. Do you not think that it is invigorating?”

She shook her head and relaxed. Leper lowered his pistoled limbs and retreated into the folds of his overcoat and tails. Both assumed a neutral stance and waited.

“No matter how difficult life gets out there,” Arden pointed to the grand doors behind them, “in here, there is always a sense of expectation. There is always the masquerade, the macabre revel and midnight prowl.” His sense for the theatrics only increased as he continued his advance towards the distant hallway. There, the monks would welcome home as another faceless victim, and his endeavour would begin.

“One would assume that people come here to escape from ‘out there’,” she replied smartly. “I, for one,” she sighed, “would do anything to avoid coming here. Dying, even if only temporary, cannot ever be better than poverty, war, and disease.” She simply could not compute fighting in the Citadel for pleasure. She had been here herself, many a time, but that was to further her own ends. The proving grounds of the Citadel had proven useful in testing out her inventions, and that, in turn, had furthered the providence of the Scara Scourge.

“Strictly business, as ever,” Arden said. He pulled back the folds of his cloak so that they hung over his left and right arms and parted at the front. His armour, glistening mithril hammered into the visage of a lion shone in the twilight of the entrance chamber. “I cannot say that I blame you, though.” He had lived much longer than she, and lost the enjoyment and luxury of life’s simpler pleasures. In recent months, especially those days following the massacre at Ixian Castle, and the war in Capitol City, the swordsmen had pushed him further into excess to find meaning in the madness. “Your books are my broken bones, your potions my garrotte,” he chuckled.

At the precise moment then arrived at the welcome desk, Rouge muttered a portent, “My spilt ink over an ancient manuscript your untimely end…” If Arden heard her, he gave no sign. Instead, he leant onto the counter and embraced the Ai’bron with a warm smile and a bow. The tinkerer observed the strange hand motions, and placed it down to religious symbology and Arden’s veteran title amongst the supposed ‘champions’ of the Citadel. Though the Lord Tiger was no eternal hero, his name had started to carry weight amongst the brawlers, belles, and battlers.

“Lord Tiger, it is a pleasurable day beyond our walls, but what weather fairs your heart within?”

Arden paused for a moment and wrinkled his nose, as if remembering. When he remembered whatever obscure memory he was searching for, he then smiled warmer still. In his long years, he had slowly but surely begun to remember the names of the otherwise featureless tenders to the battle arenas. Many were usually hooded, mere woollen homunculi to tend to their needs. This one in particular, however, shone brighter with spirit and heart.

“Muss, it is good to see you. I would,” he cocked his head to one side, “like to battle on someone else’s terms today.” This was a request seldom asked in the Citadel.

“A strange occurrence belies a stranger fortune,” the monk said, softly, but with warning laced between the ancient proverbs. He shook his head beneath the hood, and Arden saw the aura about the monk flicker for a moment. He took to mean someone, or something dangerous indeed was already waiting in one of the lofty domes that made up the inner sanctum of the temple. Many a time he had waited in one of the blue skied arenas, sometimes for hours, expectant of a combatant to enter the space through distant doors.

“Today, I think, is a good day to die.” The nervous laughter carried out across the foyer, and beyond into the soft sunlight of the late evening. Rouge and Leper followed their master as far as they were permitted, and when he vanished beyond the borderline into shadow, they turned, took vigil, and waited silently.

He was beyond their protection now.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

"Nell, I insist that you go back to the shop and leave me to my business."

"And your business is back at the shop, ma'am! Not in there with those... those brutes and their silly fights!"

We stood at an impasse outside the grand city of Radasanth's world-famous Citadel; an unstoppable force, and an immovable object. Not even threats of lowered pay and cut hours would see Nell, normally a skittish little thing, on her way back to her tasks. The blond teenager, who had also worked for me at the previous incarnation of The Janus Street Bookstore, followed me the entire way here, complaining and nagging in hopes that I would return to the shop.

Nell never stood up to me. If I even so much as spoke loudly with her in the room, she'd hunch over like a scolded puppy. But this new Nell, I could tell, was someone I couldn't reason with.

She glanced hurriedly towards the streets and the citizens milling about them, then back at me. "Look, if it's violence you want, you could've saved yourself the time and asked me to hit you."

I sighed, exasperated. "Nell..."

"Smash a glass over your head, kick you in the stomach, do that little book punch thing you taught me--I could've used those worthless philosophy books you have stacked in the corner! They're just collecting dust; we could've put them to good use for once!"

"Nell," I barked. The short, chubby blond in the unremarkable brown and green dress stiffened. I softened my tone, just a little bit. "Nell... Look. I know that I have a lot of work to do at the bookstore, but I also have a lot of work, if you catch my drift, that I need to be ready for."

"You aren't seriously thinking about... returning to that, are you?"

"Not quite," I admitted. "I've been... talking to people. They need my abilities, my expertise. But a lot of it will be..." I paused briefly, wondering why I was telling Nell about my involvement with the recently-revived Bandit Brotherhood. "This is none of your business. Get back to the store, now."

She sighed softly. "But aren't you getting too old for this sort of thing?"

My gaze narrowed. "Too old?"

"It's just that," she squeaked out, fidgeting with the hem of her dress, showing that her earlier confidence had melted away, "what in all the old legends and tales, and in the games me and my friends play, all of the heroes are in their late teens or early twenties..."

I turned away from her, gripping the iron handles of the doors that would lead me into the Citadel. "Silly stories and games, Nell, and nothing more. Plenty of people accomplish great things over the course of decades. Like, for example, Letho Ravenheart. We're still hearing of his actions and exploits, and by your definition he's an old fuck. So, I'll stop when I'm dead."

"That's what I'm afraid of," I heard her whisper as I shut the massive oak door behind me.

I paid the remark no mind as I strolled across the polished stone floor towards the front desk, where a monk of the Ai'Brone was putting quill to parchment in a flurry of writing. I rapped my knuckles on the desk, getting his attention.

"Hmm? Yes? What can I do for--ah, you." A slight sting of venom dripped from his voice.

"Me," I replied in kind.

"How's your hand?"

"Fantastic." I flashed him my right hand, displaying the jagged scar that ran down several inches of my palm, which I received as a gift from my last visit here during my fight with a farm hand who wasn't exactly as he seemed.

The monk, the very same monk that I had a few tense words with last time I did battle here, smiled brightly. "That's good, that's good. Now, I assume you've gotten your act together, and promise to play nice from here on out?"

I rolled my eyes. "Yes, of course. Would you like a public apology? Written on paper, and posted by the front doors here?"

"No," he softly replied, "your word and a little humility will be satisfactory."

"Good. Now, let's get down to business."

The monk raised an eyebrow from his perch behind the desk. "A fight?"

"Yes, of course."

"Of course. Anyplace in particular? Any number of combatants?"

"I'd prefer a one-on-one. But as for the stage, I don't really care today."

The monk leaned forward in his chair, propping his head on his hands, and began to think. He hummed and hemmed and hawed a few times, almost theatrically, and then glanced back at me. "I think we can arrange something special for you. There is a battle chamber that is available upon special request. Its magic is a bit different than what we normally employ here at the Citadel."

I cocked my head to the side a little bit, curious about the chamber. "What's so special about it?"

The monk stood up from his chair, brushing out the creases in his elaborate robes. "The arena contained within reads the first combatant who enters it, and conforms itself to reflect what it finds in that person's heart."

I nodded. "Interesting. Alright, I'll give it a shot."

With an outstretched hand, the monk led me across the floor of the expansive complex, deftly weaving around the occasional wizards and warriors that crossed our paths. His pace was swift, and I had to pick up my own just to keep up. Eventually we came to a door that was marked differently than the rest that dotted the grey stone walls that made up the Citadel. He gripped the handle and gave the door a tug, revealing an inky blackness behind it. Without another word, I plunged through it.

The first thing that hit me was the howling of a biting, cold wind. I instinctively pulled my sifan cloak around me tighter, fighting back a shiver that would've wracked my entire body. I could feel the smooth hardness of rock underneath my feet. A few steps verified that I was on solid ground. Opening my eyes, I started to take in the sights around me. All around me were the rough outcroppings of some kind of stone. To my left, what appeared to be the gigantic opening of the cave that I was seemingly thrust into--several hundred feet wide and tall, it was through there that the cold wind came in. Towards the edges of the cave, I could make out heavy flakes of snow settling onto the rocks below.

Everywhere else around me, I noted that an expansive network of buildings, fortifications, and a castle or two had been build into the walls of the cave. An intricate web of stone walkways connected the various buildings. It was a small city built into the massive cavern. Most curious, I mused to myself.

I spent several minutes fighting back the cold as I traversed the long walkway I was on. Peering over the edge, I noted that I was several hundred feet above the cave floor. When my opponent showed up, I'd have to be careful not to slip over the edge, as I did several years back in my fight on an airborne platform with Elijah Belov.

As I patiently waited in the cold, the harsh wind playing with the edges of my black cloak, the words of the monk popped into my mind. "The arena contained within reads the first combatant who enters it, and conforms itself to reflect what it finds in that person's heart."

In other words, a vast, cold emptiness encased in a tomb of stone.

"Hardy har har, you asshole," I bitterly said to nobody in particular.

[Arden]

As the lone swordsman and his guide approached the arena, a cold blow washed over them. The frigid lick of wind struck Arden’s temple long before his fingers could extend to touch the door. The corridor leading to his destination was icy, barren, and echoed with remorse. It was swollen with tundra like drift, and snow huddled in the curves and troughs of the rough, well-trodden and ancient passageway. His sense of anticipation reached fever pitch when even his leather gloves and clawed gauntlets faltered beneath the glacial stare of whatever realm lay beyond the borderline.

“What sort of foe dwells here?” he asked. There was a sense of expectation in his voice that belied his wisdom and experience. He sounded excited, scared, and nervous. He had never before seen the illusory magic of the Ai’bron seep out beyond the domes. “Winter himself, perhaps?”

“Do not be so naïve.” The reply was as cold, unrevealing, and useless as expected.

Both mystery and intrigue were part of the Citadel’s experience. Except for wager battles and the few seldom seen pre-arranged feud encounters, he knew the monk would not answer him. Cryptic clues and riddles were the way of the Ai’bron, and no amount of prattling would help him now. He pushed against the woodwork, and slipped through the crack as the air bit through his armour. His skin prickled, his heart raced, and his eyes adjusted quickly to the sudden drop in light that accompanied it.

When the door closed to, and a howl of wind sealed the moment in time, the monk smiled weakly beneath his hood. He turned slowly, and began to walk back to the candle lit palisades of the Citadel’s central hub. His footsteps were light, but each weighed heavily on the frigid sand. Tightly wrapped bandages tensed in their leather cage, and his muscles, tired and weary from a sunrise awakening, continued to pang with regret and servitude to unseen ideals. He sighed when he turned a final corner, some moments later, and said one solitary phrase to portent the carnage to come.

“What lies beyond is man’s greatest foe…a woman’s cold heart.”

If Arden had overheard, he gave no indication was the doors sealed shut behind him. If he had, he would have been prepared for what lie beyond. In all his years, he had fought beneath comet’s flame and atop empire’s ablaze. He had never fought in winter’s heart. His comment seemed childish now, for if winter had a heart, it would be this – save there was no natural enemy here. This, as he assumed, was manmade.

“Who would chose this?” he frowned. He fought to overcome the slow drain of the environment, which would likely prove to be his downfall over blade, axe, and hammer. He pressed on, until the walkway he emerged on gave way. Rugged rubble and degraded rocks marked the edge of the platform, and below, there was a bleak midwinter, and then nothingness.

The arena was a cave. The cave was gigantic. There were stalagmites and stalactites, seemingly made of ice, scattered above and below. Everywhere Arden looked there were signs of an ancient civilisation. Fortress, buttressed with battlements and towers hung from the ceiling, and cityscapes faded into the darkness below. Between the crystalline lights of the solid ice, there were dark swathes of obsidian estates and ancient, cracked, ramparts of ivory.

He leant carefully into the wind, which rose upwards like a thermal blast, and peered out across the eternity. He could see a faint glow, the tell-tale sign of the Citadel’s far door, and it broke out onto a wide amphitheatre, surrounded by lattice walkways that connected needle thin towers together in a spiralling Webway of hidden pathways. It was a lifetime away, even if he could fly; he would need the luck of gods much older and wiser than his native Kami to arrive in the beyond alive.

“Wait…” he clucked, amused with his own ignorance. He raised his hand, a gauntleted vestibule to the art of the Ronin, and ran the bladed finger over the fabric that covered the back of his shoulder. There was, by design, a small opening beneath the mithril vamplate to allow his ancient magic room to manifest. A spark of pain jolted his frozen nerves to life, which left his skin tingling beneath the artistry of Scara Brae’s finest smiths. A moment later, and a bloodied wing formed from his wound. “I can fly…”

He fell forwards with a rush of blood to the head, and descended into the frigid fortitude of tomorrow. Like a hunting falcon in the darkness, he plummeted towards whatever hellion of the cold that awaited him.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

It took a few good kicks and a hearty shove, but I was able to finally shatter the rusted lock and open the rotting oak door that led into a nearby keep built into the rock of the cave. To say that the interior was derelict would be an understatement--it looked like a raid had taken place here centuries ago. Most of the furniture was smashed into pieces, scattered bits of wood and and glass were strewn about the floor. Tattered rugs that were rather stately in years past showed signs of singeing. Along the far wall, a painting sat on the stone below, what remained of it was cracked with age.

I pulled my black cloak in tighter around me, fighting off a chill. I had been in this cave for minutes that dragged on like hours. I was desperate for a source of heat--fire, furs, anything.

I looked around the room, noting that there were plenty of things that could burn, but nothing I could really use to start the fire. Gingerly stepping around splintered chair legs and cracked oil lamps, I made my way further into the keep, trying the first door I could find. This one was considerably easier to open, although the iron knob stuck just a bit and needed some forcing to unlatch. With a rusty creak, the door swung open to reveal a bedroom. It was smal, and lacked much debris, save for a shattered mirror hung perilously over a dresser and a feather bed that dark with old bloodstains. A servant's chamber, I suspected..

The open window allowed a modicum of light to seep into the room. To my right sat a fireplace--and, as luck would have it, a small wooden box sat on top of the mantle. I popped the plainly-decorated top open to reveal a few slivers of wood and a rough piece of flint. "Perfect", I muttered to myself as I closed the top and stole out of the bedroom.

It wasn't long before I had a small pile of rug scraps and shattered pieces of furniture piled up outside the dreary rock battlement. I had briefly considered building a fire there in the servant's chambers; but with no sign of my opponent yet, I may as well have been sitting around with my thumb up my ass. The idea provided two outcomes; fucking warm up just a bit in this bitterly cold cave, and notify my opponent where in this expansive nothingness he was going to have to travel to in order to meet his demise at my hands.

I knelt down, shivering just a bit, and rearranged some of the loose pieces of wood. Setting the tinderbox down on the stone walkway beneath me, I scattered a few pieces of tinder near the edge of the pile. On my way out of the battlement, I stumbled upon a half-filled and intact oil lamp. Cracking that open, I poured what was left of the fuel on the rug, sparked it up with the flint and piece of metal, and immediately welcomed the warmth emanating from the growing, glowing fire. I rubbed my hands around my upper chest, hoping that I could get comfortable before the fight. The fire grew, and my smile faded.

I still had a fight on my hands. Yet, there was no sign of my opponent. I could only hope that the bright flame would attract him like the bug that I'm most certain that he would be.

I scanned the interior of the cave, looking for a sign of their arrival. "Where are you, you son of a bitch," I whispered to myself.

[Arden]

Arden descended with little grace, and little reverence. He was far from angelic, and his devilish grin threw out all notion of salvation on winged beat. His boots, half mithril, half battered leather crashed against the palisades near the flicker of the campfire with a tumultuous declaration of his arrival. He leapt down onto the long walkway, and without introduction, charged the huddled figure keeping warm, perhaps too cleverly, by the meagre flames.

His red cloak was redder than usual, as a streak of blood trailed after him. His sword, the bloodied rose hilted Kerria found itself unsheathed and exposed to the world. His teeth, protruding from his lips with a crimson taint augmented his feral nature.

He streaked, unceremoniously, towards his opponent. Adrenaline did away with the cold in the manner that he intended to do away with whatever challenge the Ai’bron had chosen for him: quickly, gutturally, and in a swathe of sinew and carnal detritus.