I Lay Claim to your Crumbling Pride

[Witchblade]

The steps leading up to The Citadel seemed never ending. Their stone worn smooth over the countless decades it had withstood the rain and snow, the wind and the many feet that had taken this climb before. Hers were no exception. Many times she had walked this way to test her skills and sharpen her claws. Most times she had won, but sometimes a stronger opponent had bested her and lain claim to her pride. She had fought some of the toughest and bravest on Althanas, some of the stupidest and weakest. They’d all taken their turn to dance the bloodiest of dances. And now she wished to play once more.

The ship she booked passage upon, the one taking her to Dheathain, would not leave for many hours. She had time to waste and preferred to fill it by killing someone. Her claws had lain dormant for months now, The Roy Slayer having tasted no blood in too long. She needed the fix of a good death and preferably not her own, though whatever the outcome of the battle she imagined her craving would be sated.

At the top of the stone steps loomed the great monstrosity known as The Citadel. Truly, the civil war had done nothing to it and not a single brick seemed changed since the last she had been here. The one constant in an ever changing, expanding and growing city like Radasanth. Up here, she could see the streets reaching out and taking over more of the land. New houses and buildings going up to the west and north, and smoke rose from thousands of chimneys, clogging the air and masking the smell of the refuse below her.

Turning away from the disgusting scene, Witchblade approached the large wooden doors, tall enough for a dragon to enter, and intricately carved with battles great and small. She swept her black cloak aside and placed her hand on the sculpted surface, feeling the lifelike muscles and weapons as she gave a shove. With a groan and a shudder the wood gave way and allowed her entrance into the cool and dimly lit interior. Her eyes immediately adjusted to the sudden change, their pupils dilating to cover more of the crimson colouring most humans found so disturbing. Within, few people roamed the stone hallways and a silence that the outside world lacked prevailed here. An eerie hush that spoke of broken pride, lost dreams and death. Always death.

“Is there anything I can assist you with?”

Witchblade turned towards the quietly spoken voice. A monk sat behind a worn wooden desk, his brown eyes flat and dead and regarding her with as much interest as he would a bug.

”Just give me a room, human.” She growled into his mind. ”I don’t give a shit about the environment.”

His brow rose ever so slightly before he nodded his head. “Of course.” He grabbed the attention of a passing monk, his arm rising ever so slightly in the man’s direction. “Take this woman to room fifteen.”

The new monk inclined his head and without another spoken word--at least from either of them--Witch trailed behind monk number two. Honestly, they all looked the same to her. Brown robes, no hair and dead looking eyes. They had little to no personality and besides shaping rooms and reviving dead people she had no idea what they did. Didn’t really care either.

Witch passed by few other fighters as she walked, the sound of her booted feet swallowed by the eerie quiet. The tail of her cloak swirling around her feet, shifting as she walked and revealing the tightly fitted leather vest and vlince pants she wore. She’d stopped bothering with the hood years ago. Instead, she left it upon her back so everyone could see her disfigured face. The string that held her mouth together and the scar that sliced through her eyebrow over her eye and down her cheek.

At an unmarked, nondescript and boring looking door the monk stopped and motioned for her to enter. Having been here before she needed no explanation, so she brushed passed him opened it onto utter blackness before stepping inside.

Vertigo assaulted her first. Her stomach clawed it’s way up her throat and her head felt five miles away from her shoulders. Then a warped and sucking feeling pulled at her body and the world around her exploded into colour and light. She shielded her eyes as they adjusted to the sudden onslaught.

”You’ve got to be kidding…”

Lowering her arm from her face the murderess looked out on a field of tulips. Yep, that’s right, a never-ending sea of green, red, pink, purple, yellow, every colour the damn things came in. They crushed under her boots as she walked forward and the sweet smell of greenery drifted up from them.

Shaking her head, Witchblade shrugged her pack from her shoulders, catching it before it impacted on the ground. She didn’t want to wake the bundle inside. Placing it gently on the ground, she undid the clasp on her cloak and allowed that pool at her feet. A cloud of pollen erupted from the flowers and drifted upwards.

She sneezed.

”Next time I’ll be more specific, this is ridiculous.”

[Duffy]

Duffy Bracken was a playwright, a stubborn oath, and a cripple. Despite all his flaws, he walked through a darkened portal into a bright beyond without struggle or applause. His arrival in the Citadel, for once in his long life, was without fanfare. His recent metamorphism had afforded him a temporary respite from a decade of infamy. His feet clicked against the last few steps as he rose up out of the antechamber. His accompanied the heavy beat of his heart with a whistling ditty.

“Oh,” he mouthed.

Over the years, he had fought in a variety of arenas. Five centuries ago, he had waltzed with a dragon in lava and hellfire. Four centuries ago, he had pulled apart a hydra with his bare hands in an icicle glade. Three centuries ago, he had duelled with a horde of centaur in a mossy tomb. A little over four years ago, he had shattered a crystalline world smashing in his blood brother’s genitals.

“Tulips…,” he moaned.

Across the floral expanse, a soft breeze danced with Fae abandon. It plucked petals from the motley assortment of flowers, and cast their blooms to the winds. A similar portal to the one he walked through still lingered a few hundred feet away. It took Duffy a moment to realise that the slither of motion in front of it was not a trick of the light. He clenched his empty fist into a tight ball.

“I will dispense with the pleasantries,” he clucked loudly. His hair danced. His eyes sparkled with a sad inner light. His heart stopped pounding.

The wind rolled harder, faster, and stronger. The tulips continued to dance. The doors of the portals closed. Whatever the thing was, it was already riling the bard’s wits. He loosened his hands and clutched at air. A cane appeared in a flourish of silver light. The ribbons of colour danced away, and shattered into faint dust, and then nothingness. The Cane of Eraclaire, Duffy’s trusty aide, drove its tip into the grass to take the man’s weight into her confidence. It possessed a spark of life entirely of its own.

“I dare say I am not all I appear,” he continued. He concentrated on his opponent with interest, trying to overcome the searing pain that racked his right shin. His use of magic caused a surge of agony in his muscles. Beneath his simple black slacks, his skin ruptured. The white bandages did not remain white for long. A crimson lacquer seeped through the tightly wrapped material, undoing any of the bard’s resolve long before his opponent unleashed whatever hell awaited him.

[Witchblade]

Witchblade raised a slender brow as she regarded the human. Her mouth pulled down into a frown, the strings holding it closed pulling and tearing at the skin. Blood the colour of the deepest ocean welled from the small tares before her body quickly healed. Parting her lips ever so slightly, she licked away the remnants as she began the trek towards her opponent. She couldn’t expect the bleeding mass of flesh and bones to come to her after all. It appeared he just barely held himself together.

“This better not be some kind of joke…” She grumbled within her own mind.

She had underestimated opponents before on their looks and that had gotten her killed on more than one occasion. Zerith had embedded a halberd into her chest, practically cutting her in two. Storm Veritas had electrocuted her into a deep fried Witchblade. Artifex Felices had nearly ripped her throat out with just his teeth. Though, in the last two she’d had her revenge. Storm may have won in the tournament, but she’d had the pleasure of redirecting his own attack on his lover in a following battle. He’d killed the only person he cared about and she’d loved the look on his face when he’d done it. The pain and the anger, the hatred directed entirely at her. She shivered just remembering those delicious emotions as they played havoc across his disgusting human visage.

What a lovely memory.

Too bad that crippled being now fifty feet away from her and slowly growing closer was not in fact Storm Veritas. She’d relish the chance to dance with that crazy son of a bitch again.

From this distance the smell of his blood became an intoxication to her senses. It rode the wind, practically slapping her in the face, and she breathed it in like her life depended on it.

Her fingers played over the belts around her waist. Their calloused tips touching the sheathes her throwing daggers rested in, the mythril staff folded into an innocuously small baton and Frostbite. But she left them all in place. Even The Rot Slayer stayed within it’s sheathe on her back, only the giant handle of the massive blade poking out over her shoulder. No weapons, not yet. She needed to test this human and see exactly where his strength lay. Though crippled in body, he could be strong of mind and magic.

”I certainly hope you are more than well…that, Duffy Bracken.” His named plucked so easily from the surface of his thoughts.

Twenty feet from him she began to build up a charge of telekinetic energy. The air in front of her distorted ever so slightly, the colours of the tulips blurring into the green of their leaves and bleeding into the black of her clothing and alabaster of her skin.

At fifteen feet she threw it at him.

Tulips, grass and dirt went flying in all directions. The smell of moist earth filled the air. Through the haze of flying debris she watched the path of destruction head straight for her opponent at a dizzying speed. Part of her hoped he’d dodge it so the true fun could begin. Another part wanted to watch it rip a limb right off, the spray and shower of blood hitting her even from this distance.

[Duffy]

Duffy was so much more. He was a god. He was a brother. He was a hero. He was more than the woman would ever see, and more than she could ever imagine. He watched the projectile advance across the flowerbed with caution. When it tossed aside the earth like a charging bull through a thicket, he did what came natural to men weary of danger.

He clashed his wrists together.

Despite all that he was, briefly, he was nothing at all.

Blue ribbons danced around his body, and in the blink of an eye, he stood at the heart of a grand debating chamber. He looked up through the stained glass dome dancing with the sunlight, and smiled to his Thayne. His Thayne did not smile back, but the dome’s depiction of an ancient battle came to life in violet, gold, and azure vibrancy.

He dropped his head. He gritted his teeth, and looked in the direction the projectile had travelled.

“I hate her already,” he jeered. He felt the tug of magic at the back of his throat, and then the sudden lurch of launching three thousand miles through portals and planes unknown.

Blue ribbons gathered from nothingness and reformed the bard in the arena. He appeared precisely two seconds after he had vanished, quite well, and out of the path of the woman’s eldritch power. He raised an eyebrow as the familiar thud of energy striking earth echoed through the fields. The tulips bowed, as if a strong breeze had rolled in from behind, and then returned to their frolicking.

“One can only hope that…” He glanced briefly over his shoulder. “There is more to you than…,” he leered. “Well, more to you than this…”

He turned back to face her, and clicked the hidden switch on the tip of his cane. He unsheathed the short sword from the shaft, and took it into the grip of his left hand. He continued to carry himself on the remaining length gripped tight in his right. With tentative relish, he swung the edge back and forth, testing its newly forged keenness.

“Disappointment is no way to end an encounter here,” he stated.

Abandoning any further dramatics, he strode forth. He did his best to ignore the pain on merit of it being nothing compared to one of those blasts connecting with his skull. His heavy boots carved a valley through the tulips with uneasy steps and the candour of fools.

[Witchblade]

The slash of destructive power ripped right through the arena and towards her crippled opponent. For a brief moment she thought the man would take it, take it and die unless he happened to be Dan Lagh’ratham in disguise. Right as she expected to hear the sound of crunching bones, Duffy Bracken made his move. His wrists smashed into one another, power welled and bubbled over and blue ribbons appeared from nowhere encompassing his body. He disappeared from her sight.

Magic?

The sense of him that filled the arena vanished as well. He hadn’t moved at an incredible speed or teleported he merely…ceased to exist here.

Interesting.

Then, as quickly as he’d left, the man reappeared. She felt him before she saw him. Just as the energy of her attack wavered in the ever constant wind and dissipated, ending it’s path of destruction. He came back, his presence a vibration across her skin. Witch turned as his words reached her ears. An arrogant grin spread from one side of his disgusting face to the other. Her hands twitched at her sides, aching. She’d love nothing more than to dig her claws into the corners of his mouth and rip it open, giving him a more permanent smile.

With an unnecessary amount of pomp and flourish, the human before her produced a blade from the confines of his cane. He swung it through the air, the whistle of a well honed piece of metal slicing through the air. Even as she watched, she calculated which of her own weapons to choose from.

She had so many after all.

Her initial thought and instinct to reach for The Rot Slayer, sword vs. sword. But The Rot Slayer was large and clumsy. The man appeared to have some finesse behind his crippled body. If he got inside it’s massive length she would be forced to abandon the mighty weapon. Instead, she’d use her favourites. The ones that had taken the most blood, had drunk death until saturated and satisfied.

Unsteady he moved towards her. Each time he stepped on his right foot it caused his body to jerk slightly. He couldn‘t hide it. The smell of the blood, the cane and the gait, he sported a permanent injury there.

Reaching behind her, Witchblade wrapped her fingers around the leather binding of her daggers. The moment her skin touched it she shivered with anticipation. Adrenaline began coursing through her body, filling her and causing each of her muscles to tremble.

Finally.

She breathed deeply and pulled them from their resting place, having rested there too long. Her twirled the twins around in her fingers, holding them so the blades pointed towards her elbows. Her fingers loose and barely holding on, her wrists lax.

She let him make the first move, after all, he’d walked so far to get to her.

His blade slashed through the air like a stream of silver and right towards her torso. She raised her arm and metal clashed against metal. It rang out into the otherwise silent arena. His blade deflected off the Titanium plates along the back of her arm guards, harmlessly bouncing off to her right. She could have pressed an attack right there, but she wanted to test him first. See how good he could swing that thing.

He recovered quickly. The blade arced back around, coming towards her at a slash from right to left. When she went to deflect it once more, he changed his direct subtly and aimed lower. She smirked, realizing her opponent not completely inept. She brought her other hand forward, crossing over her body. Blade hit blade, sparks erupted at the force and she pushed her advantage. She slid her blade along his, metal screeching and grating on her sensitive ears. She gave one final shove, just a fraction of her strength, pushing his blade off to the side.

As he stumbled back, his torso completely exposed to her. Taking a step forward with her left, she closed the small distance between them and then pivoted on her foot. Her right leg came up fast from the ground, her knee bent and heading straight for his gut.

[Duffy]

Duffy Bracken oft toyed with children. He had spent the better part of his life-giving orphans in Scara Brae a second chance at having a family. He loved to see their smiles as a father, and hear their laughter as a surrogate mother.

That was a lifetime ago.

Today, he was toying with a child that smiled only to kill. He would get no joy in rearing this particular bastard. He narrowed his gaze as he saw the knee rise. He clenched his gut as the leg connected with his torso. He did not attempt to move. He did not attempt to block the attack. He did not attempt to save himself.

Already stumbling back from their tussle, the force of her blow sent him further away. Only his grace, readiness, and extra limb managed to keep him upright. When he came to a stop, back arced forward, hair over his eyes, and sweat beading on his brow, he could only smile.

“That is more like it,” he snapped. “I’d hate to have come all this way to displease a baying crowd.” He sheathed the cane blade back into the lacquered shaft. It was clear it would do no good against her strength, ferocity, and tarnished style.

He stood up straight, and extended his spine to click away the pain that lingered in his chest. He clicked his fingers. He conjured the sword of many names, but today, he called it Leopold. The black handled katana landed gently in his outstretched fingertips, and he took it into his confidence as though an old friend.

“What say we try that again?” He raised an eyebrow questioningly. He paused for just a second, and as he felt her rage swell, he began to do what a Bladesinger did best.

He sang.

“My beautiful worm, it’s all for you, I’d never wish you alone. With all that you bring, I do my best to keep us in.” The lyrics ignited the blade with sonic vibrancy. “Fly straight to the heart of the matter, strip away, strip sway, strip away, and rhetoric is no place for the quick.” The reprise made the katana solidify, intensify, and peel away the air around its polished blade. He raised it slightly, and began to advance.

His lyrics danced around the arena with otherworldly gusto.

[Witchblade]

The satisfaction of slamming her knee into his stomach ended all too soon. He stumbled back, his body quickly recovering from the blow. That little smirk returned to his face and she couldn’t help but clench her fingers around the handle of her daggers, the metal creaking as she pressed her strength into it.

The human certainly enjoyed tossing his words around more than his sword.

Next time, she’d put more force into her attack and see if she could send him flying. Or perhaps smash his teeth in. How would his face look then, dripping blood and bone as he gazed up at her? His lungs filling with refuse as it dripped down his throat, slowly choking him.

She stayed still though, knowing her anger would only caused her to lapse and make a mistake. She wanted this battle to last, needed the release of it. The sheer ecstasy of feeling her weapons sink into his flesh and hot blood spurt across her face.

As she reigned in her overwhelming rage, he did something so unexpected her anger dissipated into sheer confusion and shock.

Duffy Bracken started singing.

In the middle of a battle, the damn guy just broke out into song. He wasn’t bad, but honestly, singing!?

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Is he seriously singing to you right now?

The harsh words echoed around inside her skull and Witchblade did the only sensible thing to do when a voice of pure malice started talking to you without a clear source; she ignored it.

But the words of Duffy Bracken, sung with a beautiful voice, appeared to have more purpose than confusion and misdirection. She felt the burgeoning power that came with them. It surrounded the blade of his katana, focusing on it and though she couldn’t tell exactly what happened, something changed. It vibrated with energy like a living thing, like Duffy Bracken himself vibrated.

He raised the sword slightly, his grey-white eyes met her crimson ones, and he rushed towards her. The uneven gait cutting through the distance between them. As the lingering notes of his song faded, his lips parted and he began singing once again. This time, a strange and eerie chorus accompanied him, the sound a gentle caress across her skin.

Witchblade shivered.

She rather liked it.

Relaxing the death grip on her daggers, Witch waited as Duffy covered the last foot between them. He swung his sword, the blade beautifully arching through the empty air and straight at her. Wishing to give him a taste of what exactly he stood against, she kicked up her speed a bit.

As the blade came for her, she ducked under it. The whoosh of the honed metal cut through the air above her head. Planting her hands on the ground, the handle of her blades resting between the soft earth and her palm, Witch slammed her right foot down on the ground. A barely audible click sounded from her black boot as the Titanium dagger inside slid out the end of the toe. Pivoting onto her left hand, she kicked out at his weakened right shin. The sharpened point of her dagger heading straight for the soft flesh of his leg.

[Duffy]

Suddenly, Duffy’s immortality seemed insignificant. He became, very painfully, all too aware of suffering. The tip of her boot blade cut into his flesh without resistance, scraped a groove into his shinbone, and made him scream. His eyes failed him. His heart pumped pure adrenaline. His anguish tore through the veil between her and there.

Leopold vanished.

The singing stopped.

“That…,” Duffy sputtered. “That was a mistake.”

He hobbled backwards, leaving a trail of blood on soft petals and verdant stems. His instincts told him to get to a safe distance, and quickly. His cane made the journey easier, but the length of wood could not heal his injury. The steel tip could not cleanse his body. The blade within its shaft could not cut out the poison that left him weak, embittered, and vulnerable.

The curse became stronger still, as his stamina failed, and his rage developed into wrath.

“I am sorry…,” he whispered. He closed his eyes and hung his head.

In a blaze of blue, white, and azure light, all the blades the bard held dear materialised. A red cutlass dropped to the grass, tip embedded in the soil. A black handled katana tumbled unceremoniously beneath a patch of bright white tulips. Two short swords clashed mid-air before falling out of sight in a bank of red and yellow tri-blooms. A bundle of iron daggers, long forgotten, rained down around his shaking body.

“You have shown me you have no honour.”

Duffy stooped to roll up the hem of his trouser leg. He flinched when the material pulled away from the wound, opening it anew and letting air touch open nerves. He heard his bone crack, his veins rupture, and his consciousness wane. He dropped the material. Then, by magic’s whim, his leg healed. It became untarnished by blood. It became whole. Then it slipped back to its shattered form, and then returned to the lacerated mess she had left it in.

He rose. “I will not fight you as an equal.” He held out a shaking hand to the air, his fingers wavering through the humid atmosphere as if stroking a reed bank. He charged.

His opponent, more than ready for him, brought her blades into his swing. The cane clashed against them with a snap. He leant in, he snarled, and she snarled louder. He stepped back. She ducked under his midriff blow, brought her fist up into his forearm, and knocked him clean off his stride.

Good, she hissed. You are far from my equal!

Duffy regained his composure and unsheathed the sword cane’s blade. It would not match her strength, ferocity, and brutality, by any means. It would make short work of her recklessness. He hobbled in to the fray once more, his leg barely holding his weight, his heart barely pumping blood to his extremities. He turned pale. A black mist rose from his ankle. It’s tendrils of despair lashed out at the petals of the nearby flowers, snatching their lives and sending them into reeling, abrupt decay.

“I will fight you like a weed.” He lashed out. She blocked his strike easily. “Where chemicals and brute force fail…” He flicked the switch on the cane’s tip, turned the sword around in his grip, and held it at arm length. “Fire shall prevail.”

With her blades raised, and her victory seemingly in her grasp, his opponent found herself on the receiving end of sudden gouts of flame. Duffy was not sure what would hurt more: the fire, the terrible horticulture analogy, or his leg in the days to follow.

[Witchblade]

Fire erupted from the tip of Duffy Bracken’s cane. Hot and deadly, warm and beautiful, it flowed out like molten death heading straight for her. She crossed her arms over her chest and face, ducking her head a mere second before the tongues of flame began lapping away at her.

The first brush she barely felt as anything more than a blanket of heat. Then pain flared across the bare skin of her upper arms, the backs of her hands and her face where the heat seeped through her paltry protection. She gritted her teeth, hearing the sound of them over the roar of the fire as they cracked together and ground down upon one another. Even her immense pain resistance could barely handle this as her pale flesh turned bright red, then blistered.

Each blister popped and oozed. Clear fluid ran down her arms and face, sizzling across her burning skin. Her skin cracked. Blood welled and flowed only to dry up in the intense heat. Then flake off, taking a piece of her skin with it.

Even as the fire ate away at her body, the very cells within her began to heal the damage.

The smell of cooking flesh filled the arena, sickening her. Like a pig over an open flame. That's what it reminded her of, her own skin as it cooked with her still alive in it. It should be his flesh burning, not hers.

The flames died out, the energy creating it drifting off. As is vanished, Witch remained standing where she had been a moment before. Her clothes singed, tendrils of her hair a flame about her face. She lowered her blackened arms, leeching fluid from every blister and crack. The left side of her face had faired no better. The skin there angry and ragged as one final blister broke and a stream of yellow fluid leaked down her cheek to her jaw.

”Is that what you call prevailing?” Her voice mocked him, cold and without emotion. Her hands reached up and grabbed onto the flaming ends of her hair. She closed tight fists about them, snuffing out each one.

He stared at her and said nothing.

”IS THAT WHAT YOU CALL PREVAILING!?” She screamed the words into his skull, each syllable a hot blade that cut through every thought.

As she spoke to him, her body already began to heal. The angry looking red blotches quickly began to fade and return to the normal alabaster colour her flesh usually retained. The blisters all popped and revealed unmarred skin beneath them. The cracks faded and closed up. The blackened pieces of flesh sloughed off as if they never were and new flesh appeared underneath.

She advantaged towards him. Her eyes narrowing to encompass her prey and only her prey.

”I’ll show you how to prevail with fire!”

Holding her still mangled and scarred looking hand in front of her, Witchblade began to draw energy from the depths of her stomach and force it outwards. It poured from her in torrents of uncensored glee, filling the arena and surrounding both Duffy and herself. Then with a snap of her fingers the circle of energy erupted in a tower of blue flames. They shot forth from the ground and stretched skyward, a circle of superheated air encompassing them.

”Let me teach you something, Duffy Bracken, there is no honour in a real battle.” Her lips pulled up into a sneer as the left side of her face completely healed. ”There is only the one who lives and the one who dies and whoever wins get to write their own version of history that day. So tell me where the honour in that is?”

The walls of flame began moving in towards the two combatants. Wisps of fire snaked and lashed out, searching for something to devour. The plants within withered, their leaves turned brown and ragged, the flowers wilted and tipped over even before the fire could touch them. Only when they succumbed to the intense heat were they finally devoured and given reprieve.

But this flame did nothing to her. Even as the wall came upon her back, she felt merely the gentle caress of heat flow over her skin. It danced across her skin and her clothes, trailing over her like a lover's caress. It touched upon her back and arms, her breasts and stomach. Even a flare of heat between her thighs before it moved over her and continued to head straight for Duffy.

[Duffy]

Duffy found her words ironic. She found her actions foolish. She felt her fire feeble and flickering. When it struck his body, he gritted his teeth and let the pain overwhelm him.

“I am history…,” he said.

He was also burning. He was aflame with remembrance. He felt his skin sear, his muscles spasm, and his hair melt. The bleeding, gaping, and acrid wound in his shin twanged. His arms began to shake. The fire faded as he vanished, and the burning column of magic continued to scour the air clean in his absence.

When he re-appeared, the eruption of the bard’s magic sent the remnants of her spell rushing outwards. Red arcs of fire obliterated tulips. Cyan whips of soot filled smoke polluted grass and reed. The spiralling colonnade of heat cycled up into the atmosphere before the gentle, bowing breeze whisked it away into nothingness.

“I am all stories, songs, and parables.” He wobbled. His youthful looks were faded. His skin blackened. His eyes reddened. His cane was barely holding his weight. “You can scream bloody murder about no honour in battle; scream it into my mind or the heavens…” He dropped to one knee with a thud. "It's not going to change anything..."

The same curse that made him lame fought the wounds and the lingering ether that tried to overwhelm his body. He remained alive on the virtue of the very thing that made him feel dead on the inside. His skin remained crisp, and not destroyed. His limbs remained mobile, and not shrivelled. He saw one last chance to turn the tide of this encounter.

He closed his eyes.

He started to sing again.

His voice, lacking in its earlier purity, took on a deep, soulful tone that vibrated with emotion and pain. He put all the suffering she had inflicted on his body and mind back into the thing that kept him alive. He resumed his earlier vigour, but changed the lyrics to reflect the change in his desires. He pictured his sister, Ruby Winchester, as he drew on her spell singing through the union that bound them together.

“A fire inside me burns so bright, that suns and stars are forever afraid.” He clenched his fists into balls, and slammed them into the ground. He let the cane fall flat, disappear beneath the flowerbed, and join its motley brothers in the weapon graveyard. “But in this burning ball of light, there is a peaceful, shadowed glade.”

Duffy’s own fire appeared from nowhere. It burst upwards in torrents from the fertile ground. He rose with it, as if borne into the sky, and hovered a few inches from the floor. His boots, blackened beyond use, dangled loosely. The three columns spiralled together and formed a single, raging sheath of flame that was as beautiful as it was illusory.

“Amidst the heart of rage and wrath I dwell, and sing to softer devils still,” he continued. His hair began to dance, the burnt, bloodied clods given new life by the lyrics. His hands stretched out, as if to reach for invisible strands, and his eyes danced with a growing inner light.

From within, a new determination grew. The column of fire, unlike his opponent’s, meant to cleanse and reinvigorate, not destroy and damage. His white shirt and black slacks fell away. He was naked in no time at all, save for his bangle, his piercings, and the scars of a lifetime of torment. His bloodied leg was uncovered, the bandage turned to cinders. He dropped to the tulip bed, which remained untarnished by the fire, and limped forwards out of the remnants of his spell song.

His skin, miraculously, appeared to stitch, mend, and smooth out. Though the damage still lingered in his bones, the very fibre of his being, he appeared battle-scorn, as opposed to dead and buried. He tried to smile, but the skill around his cheeks was still sore. He coughed, spluttered blood, and spat a gobbet.

“History is not written by the victor. It is written by me.”

He clicked his fingers. The cane appeared in one hand, and the katana in the other. He swung the blade in his left hand and the length of wood in his right.

“So if I tell you to fight with honour, you fight with honour,” he snarled. He pressed the cane into the dirt, remained stoic, determined, and butt naked. He doubted that would phase her one bit. “If I tell you to lie down and die, you will lie down and die.” He looked up at the flickering embers of his and her fiery convocation. The chorus of his song echoed from nowhere, until it withered, trembled, and died.

He silently thanked his sister for lending him her healing power. He thanked his Thayne for the ability to wield it, and he thanked his lucky stars he was still able to fight.

“When I tell you to fight me without your petulant tricks, you will do...” He roared. “As you-” He charged. “-Are told!”

This time, the katana did not vibrate. This time, the bard did not sing. This time, the bard did not hide his weakness, his intentions, or his power. He advanced towards her exactly as he appeared.

“I will write history in my favour whatever the outcome.” He struck out at her, she parried, and he ducked back a step. “Honour comes from fighting on despite insurmountable odds.” He ducked, brought his blade up in an arc, and snarled when she retreated out of harm’s way with ease. “So, fight on, fight on!”

She did, and her ferocious blow knocked the bard’s sword arm for six. He felt the tendons twang and his muscles bruise. Somehow, with the strength of the sun in his heart, he persevered.

“I may just…” He slashed again with deft precision, it nicked her armour, and chipped the titanium. His marl eyes lost their light, but shone with the moon's glow as he bent at the knee and took to a defensive stance. “One day pen you in a favourable light!”

[Witchblade]

“If your version of honour comes from fighting on when every odd says that you will die, then honour I must have with plenty to spare. I have fought hordes of the undead and prevailed. I have found myself the only one standing amidst a bloody field. I have dragged my half dead corpse of a body across barren wastelands only to find no respite on the other side, and still I carried on.”

Witchblade spun the daggers around in her hands, the points now facing outwards, before leaping at her enemy. He deflected the blow from her right dagger with his cane, the twang filling the silence that seemed to only hold their shallow breaths. When she moved in with her left, he stepped back out of the way, his body nimble beyond it’s damage. His cleansing fire seemed to have done much to restore his health, though he still lumbered with an uneven gait. His shin wracked by an ever healing, ever changing wound. Somewhere in her mind a strange part of her wondered what magic it would take to heal it. Another part thought of the cursed strings holding her mouth closed.

It seemed in some small way they were both crippled.

”Pen me however you wish.”

She advanced as he danced back, his foot sliding on the uneven ground.

In the back of her mind she registered something odd about his naked appearance too. Lost in the thrill and adrenaline it took her a moment to realize it, but the man had nothing down there. And she didn’t mean a really small one she could barely see, he actually had nothing there. Like a child’s toy the area just was and seemed to serve no purpose.

”I'm known as a murderer and a saviour.”

He swung his cane at her head, Witch ducked, then rolled across the scorched earth as his blade whistled through the air where her body used to be. The sharp tip stirring up the ash on the ground.

”A healer and a destroyer.”

The hard, black soles of her boots dug into the cracked soil. The muscles of her thighs coiling tightly and releasing with a sudden ecstasy as she sprang towards her opponent, soft earth turned up in her wake.

He tried to dance back, but his feeble leg couldn’t move him fast enough.

”I've fought alongside heroes and villains. Saved kingdoms while laying siege to others.”

The razor’s edge of her blade still only managed to slice into his upper arm. Hot blood coursed out. The rich iron smell permeating the air and filling her with a sudden and intense need for more. Droplets flew off the tip of her dagger, splattering in the leaves and mixing in with the vibrant colours.

“I have been admired and feared. Looked down upon, cast out and welcomed in.”

She breathed in that heady smell and felt The Malice stir within her. Felt all that hunger begin to claw up from the depths of her mind. Filling her to the brim and making her ache to watch him die. To see the light slowly fade from his eyes and know she was the cause of it.

Lost in the rush, Witch barely noticed him advance on her. Her instincts kicked in as his feet shifted, each muscle in his legs tensing as he threw himself forward. An elegant swipe at her head with the sword. She ducked, the tip cutting several strands of hair. He followed through with the cane. She brought her dagger up but the hard wood impacted her hand.

Instinctively she dropped her dagger.

Snarling, she threw the other one at Duffy as the nails on her fingers lengthened and hardened.

[Duffy]

Duffy Bracken had taken a dagger to the shoulder, to date, four times. When his opponent’s accurate throw pierced his flesh for a fifth time, he could do only what most men would. He cried out. He reached the hilt, and he stumbled back.

In that moment, he knew two things. The first was that he had spent all his strength. The second was that his death to follow would be vicious, agonising, and an opportunity for the savage to gloat over his corpse. He smirked. He could not defeat her body, but his victory over her mind and morality would be absolute.

Blood trickled down his exposed skin, rolling in tributaries and rivers over half-toned musculature and sweating scars.

“Today my friend, you are looked down upon in pity.” He took apart her soliloquy, and used it as a weapon, a poignant strike to depart on. “But…,” he said, with hesitation. “I look up at you, as well.”

One day she might find out why.

The juxtaposition would likely irk her, and make his ultimate passing from the Citadel’s arena more carnal still. He winced as he pulled the dagger from its corporeal sheath. It was a heavy blade, not suited for his fine stance, and of no use to him now. He dropped it to the barren ground.

“It doesn’t matter what you’ve done in a past life. Your deeds are memories you have to work with, and strive to overcome. You seem to have taken it upon yourself to be something more than you were destined to be.” Duffy leant onto his cane, putting his body’s sluggish weight onto its length. It wavered beneath his fading stamina.

He paused for thought, and watched the strands of her hair he had cut loose dance away over the ground. There was a beauty there, in the slightest of triumph that calmed his nerves. It prepared him for the inevitable. Despite the fact he had died countless times, he was still afraid. He doubted he would ever have the personal strength to look Death in the face and smile.

“Maybe one day you and I will fight side by side.” He smiled weakly. His skin was turning pallid, his pupils dilated, and his spirit dim. “I have healed and destroyed just as much in my long life; it would be nice to put those memories to use.” He stumbled forwards, unable to stand any longer.

His knee thudded into the ground first, and then his palms. They slapped against the flowerbed, crushing tulips in their advance. The bard’s floppy fringe fell over his eyes unceremoniously, and the shape of his descent left an imprint in the tulips that would remain for hours after his exit. Leaf and petal alike stained red as his injury continued to bleed blood. There were no songs to save him now, no words to speak to reignite his spirit.

He smelt pollen, sweat, and vomit in his nostrils. He vomited, on cue, and spat the acrid remnants of his preparatory meal onto the bloodied flowers and shaking fingertips.

He looked up at her, just long enough to speak. “On this occasion, Witchblade…” He spat blood. It dredged the last of the life from a red tulip, and caused it to wither and die before their eyes. “You can write your own history.”

Duffy cowed his head, amidst an armoury that had slain Thayne and Forgotten One, and waited for the curtains to fall.

[Witchblade]

Pathetic.

Simply pathetic.

Witchblade sneered down at the prone form of Duffy Bracken. His life blood, red and rich and smelling of iron, leaked from the wounds in his body and dripped into the parched earth, blackened by her fire. No clothes to protect him, no songs to cleanse him and with no strength left to fight with, the man seemed as fragile to her as a child. Perhaps even more so.

She’d slaughtered children that put up more resistance then he showed her.

Stepping towards him, Witch reached down and wrapped her fingers around his throat. Long and sharp, her claws easily pierced his flesh and a fresh torrent of blood seeped from his now pallid skin. She lifted him, his body nothing more than a useless sack of flesh to her, limp and dangling in the air like a rag doll.

Blood flowed down her fingers and hand, soaking into the worn and stained leather of her armguard.

”Where’s your honour now, Duffy Bracken?”

His eyes, so flat and faded looking; the life slipping from them, fluttered as they tried to focus on her. His throat worked and moved, she could feel it beneath her palm and his mouth opened but no sound escaped him. She wondered how much his lungs were screaming for a full breath of air.

Strangling him would be too quick.

She relaxed her grip just enough so he could draw in the smallest amount of oxygen and listened to him wheeze as he pulled it in.

”No songs to save you? No fire to cleanse away all your blood? You’ve got a large ego for a man that can’t back it up with anything more than fireworks and words.” She pulled him in close to her, his face a mere inch away from hers. Breathing in deeply, her nostrils flared as she got her first good smell. ”If it looks like a human, smells like a human,” she parted her lips and leaned forward, running her tongue along his cheek, lapping up a small spot of his blood, [/I]”and tastes like a human. Then maybe it should die like the human dog it is.”

She opened her hand.

His face disappeared from her sight and he landed on the ground with a gasp and a grunt, and a tangle of limbs. He coughed and retched and threw up more of his pre-battle meal into the parched soil. The smell disgusted her.

He disgusted her.

Member of The Red Hand at it’s strongest; the Gol’Bron at it’s weakest, bodyguard to the leader of the OWC, a bandit in the brotherhood next to the great Yari Rafanas and slayer alongside Dan Lagh’ratham and Luc Kraus in the shortly live Audeamus; Witchblade did not need Duffy Bracken to write her history for her. She did not need his pity. Nor his songs or his words. Despite the fact that she had awakened all those years ago, alone and without memory of who of what she was, she had made herself a history. She had made herself a name that people whispered and feared.

And she lived by her own rules and codes.

With the toe of her boot she kicked him over onto his back. She knew he was spent. She’d get no more enjoyment out of this human. An animal that just laid down and died didn’t deserve the oxygen it wasted breathing. But, to her, this battle ended the moment he gave up the will to fight. Perhaps he expected her to gut him like a pig and dance around with his entrails. The thought would have been appealing before, but she had no interest in killing something that had already given up on itself.

The bloodlust faded, her claws retracted, and The Malice simmered, angry that she had not given in to her base cravings and bathed in his blood.

Hearing a chirp and the rustle of the grass, Witchblade looked to her left and saw Daegun moving through the tangle of flowers to the edge of the barren soil, pulling along her rucksack and cloak in his mouth. Once at the edge, the baby dragon released the items and with a look of pride sat down. His black eyes turned from her and regarded Duffy Bracken with a certain amount of curiosity as his tail impatiently swished back and forth behind him.

Ignoring the barely conscious form of her opponent, Witchblade covered the couple of feet between her and her familiar. He jumped up as she moved towards him, purring excitedly, his tail lashing through what greenery remained. Smiling, she knelt down to grab her things and he eagerly climbed up her arm. His long, black claws dug into her flesh for purchase as he scrambled up and came to rest on her shoulder. The small, needle like holes quickly closed, leaving behind smudges of blood.

Standing straight, Witch laughed softly as Daegun nudged her with his head and purred in her ear. He seemed to be in a good mood today.

“Let’s see if we can find a more worthy opponent elsewhere.”

She scratched him under the chin and stepped through the darkened portal that appeared before her, leaving Duffy Bracken to either die or heal. She cared not which.

[Otto]

Witchblade

Plot: 19/30


Storytelling: 7/10
The story was simple, but skilfully woven. Perhaps the highest point was the ending – you managed to subvert expectations by letting Duffy live, but in a way which was plausible, informative of your character, and rendered all of Duffy’s barbs and banter null. It was, unfortunately, quite lacking in terms of tension, which detracted from Witchblade’s part in the battle. Please refer to ‘action’ for a specific, relevant example.


Setting: 6/10
Well described at parts, although it did fade out around the middle of the thread. There was very little interaction with the setting, too, although it did elicit a few chuckles. What about tripping hazards hidden beneath the stalks, or inclines? They’re not the best suggestions, but they are ways of grounding the story to the earth a bit more firmly.


Pacing: 6/10
A decent effort. Some better, break-neck pacing (perhaps resulting from shorter posts, and less backtracking) in the middle of the fight might have contributed towards a sense of urgency. This also would have varied the flow a bit, and given the thread a bit of diversity.


Character: 20/30


Communication: 8/10
You had some good, believable and informative dialogue. You didn’t really get carried away with it, either, which was really good to see in a battle thread. It seemed like a genuine exchange between the two combatants, and not just trash-talk for trash-talk’s sake.


Action: 4/10
For the most part, action was almost as exemplary as the other sections of this thread. However, I deducted a few points due to Witchblade’s almost instant recovery from the serious burns inflicted by Duffy’s cane. From your profile, they seem like the kind of wounds which would take about half an hour to heal – at least. Should the attack have crippled Witchblade, that would have been the much-needed thing to level the playing field and add some uncertainty to the outcome.


Persona: 8/10
Practically everything you wrote came from Witchblade’s view, and as such, her persona was described by much more than dialogue and action; your writing ‘voice’ really helped with this part. As technique played a large part in fostering this, you may wish to refer to that section for some further details.


Prose: 19/30


Mechanics: 5/10
Unfortunately, despite your otherwise solid grip of literary device and narrative, your base mechanics could so with some work. The most frequent error I saw was an absence of commas (examples: “She couldn’t expect the bleeding mass of flesh and bones to come to her after all”, post 3; “His blade slashed through the air like a stream of silver and right towards her torso”, post 5; but there were instances in almost every post), which isn’t too serious. There were also a few typos (“Roy Slayer”, post 1; “Her twirled the twins around in her fingers”, post 5), other misplaced punctuation (“his body nimble beyond it’s damage”, post 11), sentence fragments (“Then flake off, taking a piece of her skin with it”), and a coding error (“[/I]” was visible in post 13). Although mistakes were numerous, they were nothing that a quick re-read and edit wouldn’t be able to take care of.


Clarity: 7/10
No real issues here – everything was written clearly, although the mechanical errors discussed above did detract from the score some.


Technique: 7/10
Your posts benefited particularly from your use of juxtaposition (“Always death. ‘Is there anything I can assist you with?’”, post 1; “Hot and deadly, warm and beautiful”, post 9). Interestingly enough, your sense of humour also made the thread feel more real and vibrant, which augmented Witchblade’s dark personality – rather than diminish it.


Wildcard: 7/10
I rather enjoyed reading my first thread with Witchblade, and she is certainly in good hands. Just be more aware of her limitations in the future, I think, to really make her come to life.

Total: 65/100



Duffy Bracken

Plot: 18/30


Storytelling: 6/10
As with Witchblade, the narrative was uncomplicated, but well-delivered; it was serviceable. It did, unfortunately, lack quite the same profundity as your opponent’s, thanks to Witchblade’s strong ending.


Setting: 6/10
Also like Witchblade, the setting was well-described to start with, if taking a back seat towards the middle of the thread. It was used a little, in a symbolic manner, but not with any real significance.


Pacing: 6/10
While your posts were generally a bit shorter than Witchblade’s, which made things move at a lively pace, all that was undone by Duffy’s ranting monologues and stanzas. Dialogue and action were the key culprits in dragging down the thread.


Character: 18/30


Communication: 6/10
Good, in terms of conveying Duffy’s personality. As I’ve said, the man is overly-verbose – he talks, and sings, for longer than he realistically has time for. Also, the song reads more like Duffy is just saying the lines. Have you tried changing the format? Singing can also be a lengthy business, so keeping it short – one or two lines, tops – should also make it more credible.


Action: 5/10
A couple of times, Duffy managed to hobble away from Witchblade’s attacks fast enough to foil any chance of a follow-up. This just did not seem likely in the least. Apart from that, action was alright – functional, and credible.


Persona: 7/10
You did well in conveying Duffy’s persona, but it feels like you didn’t go far beyond scratching the surface. Nothing really surprised or impressed me in this category, at least, not to the same degree as Witchblade’s closing post did.


Prose: 20/30


Mechanics: 7/10
Your writing was largely free of error, but it was there; some awkward sentences in posts 2 and 4, and typos (“the skill around his cheeks”, post 10; “stubborn oath”, post 2). Again, the way you wrote Duffy’s song just seemed flat – have you tried different formatting, or anything like that? On the other hand, you usual writing has a natural cadence to it.


Clarity: 6/10
The times when Duffy is stumbling away, I don’t know what Witchblade is doing. Is she pursuing him? That sounds likely, but wouldn’t she have caught him? I had similar thoughts regarding what was going on in the long, drawn out periods when Duffy was speaking and singing. You need to be careful of the timing going on in the story, otherwise events can feel a bit jumbled, and the whole thing doesn’t quite come together.


Technique: 7/10
Technique, at least, is something you maintain a stable grip upon. A particularly good example would be the line “I am history”, in post 10 – which takes on an entirely new meaning a few paragraphs in (and the retort came at a key point in the battle, too). The rest of the thread wasn’t quite on the same level, unfortunately, as it could have really made Duffy go out with a bang.


Wildcard: 6/10
A decent read, but a bit lacking in substance and creativity.

Total: 62/100



Witchblade wins, and receives 3300 experience and 135 gold.

Duffy Bracken receives 900 experience and 110 gold.

[Mordelain]

Experience and gold added.