Road To Nowhere (Closed)

[Arden]

The Road To Nowhere (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8y871wxe768)


Closed to Les Misérables.

Sister thread to Road to Nowhere (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?25426-Road-to-Nowhere-(Open)).

In northern Akashima, there stands a bridge. A waterfall flowed beneath it, embodying time’s advance and life’s journey with crystalline beauty. The bridge itself was nothing more than a stone slither, carved into the cliffs in ages past. Few people walk along it. Few people know of it. Those that do fear it.

“Is this the right place to do this, Lillith?” Arden asked. His voice wavered with worry.

The assassin nodded. She was uncaring for his concern.

“Of course it is, Arden. Where better in the world to prepare ourselves for our final trial?” She turned about. Whenever she faced her brother, she felt strong. Her muscles swelled with power, strength, and grace. Her eyes sparkled in the soft sunlight that rolled down the mountainside.

The swordsman nodded. His red hair fell over his eyes. He looked over Lillith’s shoulder to the gate on the far side of the bridge.

“Do you think the bridge will show us our fate?” he enquired. He was eager to move on, to escape the subject of heir coming difficulties, and enjoy their diversion from recent endeavours (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?24275-Honouring-The-Wind-(Closed)&highlight=honouring+the+wind).

Lillith withdrew a tanto from her belt. Its silver blade contrasted the black cloth of her obi.

“I asked the monks to replicate the Heaven’s Gate. I can only assume that they did so with their usual,” she curled her lips into a mocking smile, “vigour.”

The Citadel’s fame came from the other worlds that manifested in its domes. Though illusory, they were as tangible to the combatants as the sun and moon in the sky. Here, only death was not real.

“We must be weary of that, then,” he warned. He unsheathed his blade.

When they walked through the gate, they would hear nothing. In that moment, they would see fleeting glimpses of their future actions. Each possible strike, each riposte, and each parry would split reality. At that moment, past and future selves could manifest and enter the fray alongside present participants. If fate judged the entrants worthy, then they would witness none of the meddling whims of the Elder Kami, and fight alone.

“I’m always weary,” she snapped. She turned to glare at him.

Arden laughed coarsely. “I’m all too aware. I don’t think your caution is unwise.” He pointed to the far side of the bridge. A sliver of light formed into a double doorway.

“What is it?” Lillith enquired. She span on her heels. When she realised what it was, she broke into a wicked smile. “Ah, it’s time.” She hesitated. "Do you want to fight first?"

Arden lifted his ear to the wind. He could hear crows calling in the mists below. The atmosphere was perfect for conflict.

"If you’ve no objections, sister," he replied.

“None,” she chirped.

Dead leaves danced down from the trees on the cliffs overhead. None settled on the bridge. The red paint on the ageing gates cracked and flaked, and the tattered talismans plastered on supports groaned with sorrow and messages of madness. This was where the mourning mothers and fearing fathers of Akashima came to pray for their dead.

Lillith muttered a silent mantra, hoping her name would not be on the arch come sundown. She turned her back to Arden and walked back to the exit.

“<Good luck,>” she said in colloquial Akashiman.

[Les Misérables]

Post-war Radasanth played down to a single thought in the mind of Phyr Sa'resh.

Panhandler's bloody paradise.

No one except the particularly priveleged citizens were allowed in the streets after dark. Which meant that the average workady people of Corone's capital had to boothorn all of their errands, social calls, and blind boozing into daylight hours. Phyr had passed through Radasanth months before the Rangers and their allies pressed the Empire back to its gates, and remembered wartime martial law as much more relaxed.

They've crammed the remainder of an army into a single city, and set the boys to playing Town Watch to pass the time.

But memories of his landing in the coastal city were soaked in whisky, like a parchment so sodden the ink ran to spiderscrawl. He kept himself sober as much as possible these days, and it changed his approach to everything. No longer did he find himself dozing off on a fish-stained wharf in front of a cap full of coppers. He used the Empire's martial law to his advantage and positioned himself at the best bottlenecks. The shady spots close to shops frequented by folk slow with coin. After a few days moving about he'd claimed a golden corner where a flower store stood across from a flatware boutiqe. But no cobblestone corner could compare to the cascade of coins - copper, silver, even gold! - outside the city's famous Citadel.

Warrior's went in casting coins for luck. They came out sharing their jubilation or looking for a sympathetic ear. Phyr had two of those, long and shriveled and azure. They peeked cautiously from beneath his grizzled silver mane. The long hair along with his slender frame and single arm made the old dark elf the perfect beggar.

He sat atop a coarse woolen cloak with his back braced against a statue of Devon Starslayer, shadowed by the legendary swordsman's bulk. A coin clinked in his canvas cap and he turned a sympathetic nod into an enthusiastic wink as he noticed the triumphant spring in the young woman's step. Watching her walk away, he brought an iron flask to his lips and sipped the last of the liquid. It still felt wrong somehow, to be drinking water. But there were women like the long-legged warrior everywere in the city, and they all reminded him of Elena.

Shame and guilt roiled within him like barncats in a melee. He would never forgive himself for what transpired in Underwood. Bodorson and Cronen had tried to convince him to stay, but he had nothing in the Concordian sanctuary without Elena. Because of her he knew no amount of whisky would drown the grief. and he would not tarnish her memory by forgetting for even one night. But the damage was done; he'd turned in the Cloak and Keys of the Captain of the Watch and left Cronen with a written apology to share amongst the others. Perhaps one day he would return, but he knew not for certain. He had never beaten sorrow without a bottle in hand.

Phyr's stomach rumbled, long and low. He licked his lips and peered into the cap, pushing coppers about to count the more valuable coins. There was enough for a hot meal and bed. But Phyr had become accustomed to having a hot breakfast after rising. The flow of combatants had waned to a trickle, and he knew if he couldn't find a free meal he'd have to choose between a long fast soon or later.

The young folk leaving the Citadel never seem hungry... come to think of it, Phyr had definitely smelled fresh roasted chicken on the breath of a happy hairy Salvic victor who'd leaned too far down when dropping a silver crown. Perhaps they'd be generous enough to feed an old cripple.

The old elf's neck popped as he glanced down the intricately carved stone steps. He saw no new arrivals, and the vast oaken doors had remained closed for full minutes. With a sigh he heaved himself upright and used his lone left hand to sling his cloak about his shoulders and retrieve his hat. He picked it up by opposite brims so it folded neatly around its treasure, and deposited it safely within the pocket lining his cloak. To suppress memories of the woman who'd sewn it there, he seized an iron ring and heaved the great door open.

Although he moved softly the marble echoed with each step. How can the hall be empty - I watched an elf enter not five minutes ago! These Ai'Brone monks must be tricksters... Phyr wondered if the tactic was meant to inspire awe. It seemed unnecessary - the entry hall alone caught his breath. Dozens of torchlit corridors led off in three directions, separated by vast murals and tapestries depicting ancient and contempory battle scenes alike. He recognized some, like the clash between titans Godhand Striker and Teric Bloodrose at Dajas Pagoda, and the Cell tournament years later where the same pair had met alongside other behemoths. Phyr turned to admire the stained glass windows, imagining they must be twice as grand with evening sun pouring in.

"He didn't fare so well in that tournament. How is he now?" The monk had appeared from nowhere.

Phyr barely caught his gasp and calmed his heart before it could march out of his chest.

"Who?" He managed to choke out. Tradespeak - the language of Corone - was mundane, but he spoke it nearly as well as his native tongue.

"Joshua Cronen," the small monk replied. He wore a habit and sandals after the fashion of his order, head shaved shaved in honor of something or other. "You are his friend, are you not? Phyr Sa'resh?" The monk placed one manicured finger alongside his jaw.

The one-armed elf gave himself away by - of all things - glancing about to check for eavesdroppers. He groaned as the short monk's smile spread to reveal a row of perfect teeth. Phyr had never engaged the Corone Armed Forces or any of the Empire's lackeys in the field, but any soldier who heard the former Captain of the Underwood Watch mentioned by name would surely take an interest. He'd helped defend an enemy city, and so they'd throw im in a hole and ask questions if they remembered. But the hall was still empty.

"Cronen was well when last I saw him," Phyr said truthfully, "but that was a long walk ago. I could surely tell you of my work with the Sheriff over a meal. I haven't eaten in some time." He waggled his stump pityingly, fluttering the cloak. The monk pressed his lips together.

"We prepare meals for warriors whilst they compete," he explained to a very young child who must have been standing nearby, "so there aren't any available for panhandlers. Of course, if you'd care to enter one of our chambers..." he monk glided sideways down a corridor, gesturing for Phyr to follow without breaking eye contact.

"I don't want to face any of the heroes you've got here," he said wryly, but followed just the same. He intentionally separated his gaze from that of the Ai'Brone trickster, watching his shadow play along torch-bracketed walls and ironbound doors. "The only thing they'll learn from me is they should have learned to fight rather than riposte and parry."

"The Citadel is not just for learning and teaching, Phyr Sa'resh." The monk stopped decisively at a door that looked like all the others. "It is a place of glory and grief, of triumph and turmoil. You fight as a mortal, for life and everything you believe in, and then rise with all your old wounds healed.

Phyr froze with a biting retort on his tongue. Did his eyes linger on my stump just then? Of course he'd known that warriors were revived after falling in combat here. The Aleraran government had spent years and airships full of gold tring to replicate their practice. But would they heal a wound as old as the arm he'd lost in that hellhole of a Salvic prison? Likely not, even so...

"All I ask is that you enter, or turn around and leave." The monk said as he opened the door. A dazzling whiteness obscured the other side, not a light nor a void but a temperate mist. The monk raised both well groomed eyebrows.

Only one route to find out. Phyr strolled past the monk and paused to speak a final phrase hung in the hallway as he vanished into the mist.

"I'll want a serving of dark meat with my meal, please. The light is always too dry."

A moment later, he regretted the comment.

The air hung heavier on his garments than the occasionally jingling coin-pouch squirreled within his cloak. What kind of people choose to live in a place this humid? Phyr had never visited Corone's land of the rising sun in his travels, but recognized the Akashiman redwoods and poplars that loomed high above like giant spectators. Their leaves chattered and jeered and fluttered down the canyon like so many kerchiefs signaling the start of contest. The waterfall answered with its never ending rhapsodic roar and rising mist. Phyr tossed his head to re-settle his sodden silver mane as he navigated the stone incline. Each wet step of boot on perspiring rock threatened to upset his balance. Whether because of the adrenaline that amped through his bloodstream with each footfall, or the intentional grandiosity of the arena, Phyr took a deep breath of what seemed more water than air and called a choking challenge to his opponent.

"Who'd dare meet the spurned son of Alerar, Phyr Sa'resh, in single combat?" He stepped onto the bridge, burlap cloak wrapped tightly about his tall slender form.

[Arden]

The second his opponent stepped through the arch on the far side of the bridge, the wind changed. It rose up from the depths, not through it, and whipped cloth and atmosphere to life.

“I dare,” Arden replied.

Although they were still seven hundred or so feet apart, his voice carried to the elf’s ears with perfect clarity. The kami in the mists willed them to commune, and their voices resounded with anticipation and emotion.

“And you are?” Phyr questioned.

Arden smirked. He advanced with haste, eager to see the opponent the monks had sent to test his mettle. When the mists swirled a final time, revealing his quarry, he felt short-changed.

“…Not in the mood for tomfoolery,” he erred. He examined the one-armed figure with a strange mix of curiosity and pity. A blend of fear and bemusement. “You’re not worthy of me, surely?” he rasped.

Phyr chuckled. It was a laugh of worldly knowledge, and not puerile amusement. Whatever story he had to tell in times of ardour, it was sure to be exhilarating and full of parables. Arden recognised experience when he saw it, but the missing limb stood in stark contrast to the elf’s stance, demeanour, and presence in the Citadel.

“If I knew who you were, I’d be able to say,” the elf smiled wearily. His sword hand wavered; telling of a creature used to conflict, whatever the form. Arden shook his head. “A name, perhaps?” the Drow continued.

Arden swallowed the lump in his throat. His composure undone by the presence of another ‘cripple’. Society had deemed the crimson swordsman an outcast. He wondered if Alerar, the parenteral abode of the dark skinned elves had treated Phyr the same way.

“I am Arden Janelle,” he said after a short pause.

Phyr seemed to recognise the nomenclature, but gave little away. If he had heard of the blood mage’s exploits through time and space, he made no motion or sound to concede the fact that before his single armed self was a part of history.

“-I am the Hound,” Arden continued. He felt obliged to t self-serve his ideology with titles, especially at the heart of Akashima’s holy ground. “Left hand of the Scourge, right hand of the Forgotten One Oblivion.” He smirked, confidence regained.

He unsheathed Kerria, the Rose, sword of oni’s death and godly woe. He levelled it at the bridge’s arid surface, and swiped its tip across stone. It sparked, crackled, and seethed with animosity. Without fanfare, Arden charged. His nerves got the better of him. His singular working eye keened onto the elf, and with a robust step, agile swing, and full rotation, he attempted to take Phyr by surprise with a downward, head to toe cleave.

As he rotated, the pauldron on his shoulder let out a guttural roar. It was a war hound’s cry, one that bade for blood, whoever the owner.

The Road to Nowhere suddenly led to war.

[Les Misérables]

Phyr had heard of the Hound. Many a lonely man would buy a wise elf a drink or a meal in a exchange for an angular sympathetic ear. And the loneliest men were from overseas, lands such as Scara Brae that did regular trade with Radasanth. He had heard stories that made the man a monolith, and yet Phyr Sa'resh saw a scared pup. He was swift of foot and deft of hand, but the armor made his path predictable, like an Aleraran steam engine. Phyr had fought faster men than Arden Janelle.

In the Aleraran army there'd been but three rules of engagement; strike first, strike smarter, and keep striking. The dark elves employed light blades and heavy firearms with the tactic, but it applied to even the highest level unarmed combat classes. Phyr Sa'resh had forgotten much in the hellhole of Devil's Keep, but learned even more since escaping and fleeing the length of Salvar to sail for Corone and safety. Cronen - the man he'd worked with so closely to keep Underwood safe - insisted on training most of his compatriots in his own brand of martial arts, and the man moved like magic. If there would ever be a time when Phyr might stand to best Arden Janelle in a duel, it would be that day.

He waited as the Hound charged, finding his footing on the slick stone. Phyr felt his stomach rumble and his silvery mane grow damp in the waterfall's spray. His cloak ruffled in the breeze, making his emaciated frame appear much thicker. Like a Fallien sandhead taunting a bull.

Phyr ducked and attacked as he slipped past the Hound, the rough fabric of his burlap cloak grating the human's armor.

He'd made a meagre attempt to stab Janelle in the hollow beneath his arm, testing the excellence of the armor. His knife was only iron, if heavy and held in a determined hand. The true attack came from a short, almost unoticeable stomp aimed at the outside of Janelle's knee. If it caught him right, the man's momentum might shift and carry him off the edge.

What have I become? He wondered, the Citadel's canon fodder? Oh Elena... why couldn't I have gone with you?

[Arden]

Arden’s knee buckled. With a hollow thud, his knee plate crashed into the floor, and his mouth formed a pained expression mingled with one of surprise. He had expected, as with all elven kin, speed and finesse. He had not expected brutality, one-upmanship, and a willing to what needed.

“Nice,” he quipped, rising to the challenge and the base level set by Phyr with gusto.

Stepping back, and bracing every muscle in his arms, the Hound arced his sword hand and brought his free hand across his midriff. He began to circle the elf; his sword tip pointed ahead, its sharp edge flat against the glistening skyline. It raised to shoulder level, ready to strike like a scorpion’s sting.

“You’ve fought on the streets that much I can tell.” He did not need to be an expert to piece together a facsimile of the truth about his opponent. Each step Arden made, Phyr matched it. Each trick the Hound could employ, he was certain Phyr would have seen it all before.

For once in Arden’s tediously long lives, he would do everything in reverse. To best the quicker, sharper, and honed reflexes of the man before him, he would have to fight with skill, training, and patience. With heavy steps, and well-considered movements carrying his weight without grating armour plates together or tripping over his cloak, Arden began moving clockwise in a wide-circle, eyes blazing red, heart beating with a steady, determined rhythm, and lips parsed.

“Let us try that again, shall we?” he challenged. He cocked his head to the right and curled his lips into a cheeky smile.

All around the bridge, spirits began to gather. The primal energy, mingled with aggression, the combatants shed over the waterfall called them like moth to flame. In roils of vapour, red butterflies, azure rabbits, and ochre snakes flickered briefly into life, and swiftly into nothingness. Trill noises, mating cries, and gibbering cackles kept the silence at bay.

Realising he was in out of his depth, Arden felt his arm weaken, and his body catch up with the sheer audacity of his opponent. He replayed the opening move in his mind, and cursed his armour’s excessive concentration on defence against more unrefined opponents. Whatever Phyr had done in that dervish strike, it had nicked the skin beneath his arm, and put the Hound of the Scara Scourge on an increasingly shortened leash of life.

The Mastiff on his pauldron growled, and the skies darkened.

[Les Misérables]

The dagger's point came away crimson but the kick landed off. A needle's breath could make the difference in combat same as clockwork, and it was Phyr Sa'resh who went reeling rather than the Hound. He braised his knee on the slick stone and nearly slipped into the gathering mist and swirling vapor. Hissing like a scalded cat, Phyr sank his weight into the grounded knee rather than topple like a mere 'nother blue drop over the falls.

Sa'resh rose nigh as swiftly as he'd fallen and circled with the hound, doing his bloody best not to hobble. The big mutt leveled his blade like a musket and found breath for words whilst Phyr respired through his nose. The sudden rush of adrenaline at the close encounter, the panic and rage in the Hound's charge, the frantic scramble after the blow landed... years had passed since he faced the front lines. Minds like his belonged in command tents and cloaks of captaincy and hopefully laden dining rooms, not challenging his worth on the bridge of death. And yet the option of falling toward his free meal did not occur to Sa'resh until he caught his breath. Bloody Cronen, Without the Breaker's balance training, he'd have pitched over the edge like a gunship's misfire.

The mad dog was not the only enemy dancing to the chorus of cascading water. The blood dripping from his knife's tip belonged to a Scaran cur, but it ran red as Elena's. The twin rivulets of red trailing from her throat. No! She'd been pale as a sprite and lit by the moon, left between taverns by the Vampyre. The Haidian Wench! Rage erupted like lava from a bursting mountain. She'd slain three watchmen to get to Elena. To make Phyr pay for his attempt at chaining her. We should have known better... Phyr was no stranger to chains. It had taken him thirty years to orchestrate the escape from the Salvic prison, and it might be thirty years before he found the traitor who'd sent him there, but he knew he'd have his revenge. And yet like fools, they had danced with the devil...

The Hound's steady blade wavered.

Barely a loop of the blurred point, yet Phyr knew he must strike on the weakness. Of the many rules in the Aleraran Army's close-quarters combat manual, Sa'resh had a clear favorite. Dirty tricks work once, never twice. He could circle on that bridge till the waterfall ran dry and the trees lost their leaves, he could wave his cloak like a matador's cape and pull goblin faces till his lips came off, and the Hound would not charge again. Fortunately for Phyr, he had a pocket full of dirty tricks. As they'd circled he'd shifted closer to the edge, hoping to goad his enemy into the same path. He waited until the knight's back faced open air.

The Hound's pauldron growled.

Phyr took it like a flintlock starting a footrace.

His two smallest fingers unlaced from the iron dagger and gripped the fringe of his cloak. Phyr swung two items in one motion; the blade, and the sack of coin stashed within his secret pocket. He released the garment and gripped the dagger fully at the last moment, planning to swat Janelle's head with the metal balled near the bottom of his cloak. The black blade slashed at the tang of the Hound's sword, striving to knock it aside. But the cloak was no weapon, and the canvas hat old. There was a wretched ripping sound and a shower of coins burst toward Arden rather than a concentrated lump. Nothing goes bloody right in battle, yet Phyr pursued his assault. He'd lost Elena, and his day's savings. All he had was the fight and the promise of food.

The one-armed drow dropped his shoulder and followed the motion of his swing, attempting to drive the Hound off the edge bodily. If he could get the beast moving backwards, he could charge until the last moment then sprawl on slick stone while the pup learned to die.

You have my permission to bunny Phyr in your next post including damage, but no sending him off the edge as he's planning to hit the deck.

[Arden]

Arden vanished. As coins sparkled and weighted cloth lashed, blue ribbons of light erupted into the world. They danced in the swordsman’s wake, brought to life by the echoing growl of the Mastiff. They signified magic, and the source of that magic as The Tap. Into that strange place the crimson haired youth fell, sparing himself the humiliation of a beating.

When he re-appeared, he met with empty space. His eyes widened, expecting the worse. Phyr could only be in two places. Either the elf could fly, and was descending from above, or he was quicker than Arden presumed, and now stood behind. Arden span instinctively, his sword hand still singing from where dagger met prevalida, and he locked eyes on the elf’s back.

“Shit!” he roared.

He darted forwards. He reached out with his free hand, grabbed Phyr by the shoulder as he wobbled on the edge of the well-worn stone, and slammed him back with a grunt. Taken from one extreme to the other, Phyr’s grace and finesse failed him, and he skidded back on his shoulders, dazed, still beautiful, and confused.

“Don’t you dare die on me already,” Arden spat. He turned about, glared down at his opponent, and held Fang at arm’s length, its hilt firmly in both gauntleted hands. Had he been lost in the streets on which he aged, he was certain he would have gutted his opponent where he lay, and relished in the carnal acts to follow.

“Never planned to,” Phyr said smarmily, as he pushed himself upright with a jolt. Devoid of his cloak, and his coin, he was lighter and more desperate than Arden wanted him to be. A man in need of money was an unpredictable man indeed. “I thought it was too easy,” he chuckled light-hearted.

Arden nodded. “What lies below is not a fate I’d wish on anyone,” he said, reflecting on the torment Otto Bastum had felt when he had plunged into the ether. The kami still gibbered his name in the dark. “So...Let me set the pace,” he continued. When Phyr reacted by preparing his knife, Arden took it as a sign to proceed.

With heavy, sure-footed advanced; he rotated his blade through simple circles, raised it, dropped it, and spelled out a kanji in the air. It meant nothing to the audience or to Phyr…but to Arden, it spelt honour, and with that in mind, he drew close quarters with an edifice of his past. He saw himself in Phyr, and pride tempered his strikes, and respect held back the beast in Arden’s heart.

[Les Misérables]

Phyr fought to keep his breath even as he parried the Hound's words. His muscles burned from the explosion of energy that had propelled him through empty air. Bloody mana-wielders. In his days as an officer in Alerar he would have scoffed at the need for magic, but since losing his arm he'd picked up a spell or two. And like most of the cleverest things about Phyr Sa'resh, it wound up on his list of dirty tricks.

Janelle came forward but he hesitated at the birth of each blow. The Hound's armor growled against the waterfall's laughter. A clean breeze ruffled his cloak and replenished the lungs of his opponent.

The silver-haired crippled circled backwards again, refusing to engage. He gritted his teeth through a grimace that deepened with every other step. His knee had locked up like it did whenever he banged it hard enough. Only Phyr's tenacity and waning adrenaline spike kept him on his feet. He backed toward the edge of the bridge and paused, glancing furtively over his shoulder.

Sa'resh advanced at the Hound's left side, raising his dagger for a foolhardy slash. He paused with his back to the wind. His shoulders rotated and the stump came forward, aimed like a blunderbuss at Arden's head. The mechanism on Phyr's shortened triceps clicked, triggered by his arcane tug on the metal components.

A cloud of cayenne smelling liquid dust unleashed toward Arden's face. The chemicals could burn any skin they met, particularly the eyes, and nose and throat. But they did not burn hotter than the old drow's rage. He let the Hound become the elf who had named him a traitor, the vampyre who robbed him of a lover.

Phyr put all the breath he'd regained into a triangular sequence of three steps. Backwards. Left. Forwards again. The heavy iron bayonet swiveled in his grasp. He lifted his arm and stabbed downward at the side of Janelle's neck. He wanted the taste of victory on his tongue when he washed it down with turkey.

[Arden]

There were many dangerous things in nature. A blind lion, a cornered rat, or a flightless eagle. The same desperate need to survive was common in humankind, if not more dangerous. The second Phyr’s supple dust covered Arden’s face; he became all those, and more. Driven by something more oblique than rage; loathing, the swordsman levelled Fang at the elf, but found only cold, kami-touched air.

Mirror.

The word meant something to Arden. He had practiced sword steps and parrying stances through countless dawns and nameless nights. He saw blind spots with keen eyes. He heard tells even in perfect, echoing silence. Though pain wracked his simple features, turning pallid skin red and pale complexion burning, he pictured the unfolding pirouette. Phyr would side step, and then, knowing the elves to be anything but honourable, he would try a critical strike.

Sunlight.

The only way to avoid a dagger to the neck, or a sword to the gullet, would be to divert that downward thrust. On his knees, Arden had little chance to roll to freedom without careening off the bridge, and to a fate far worse than whatever his opponent could inflict upon his corpse. He twisted back, pulling his shoulder of the way of where he thought the strike would come.

“The ancestors are laughing at me,” he said, alone on a jetty, overlooking a mercy sea. In the Aria, a fragmented realm of the Tap itself, Arden appeared as he had done five centuries ago. His hair was long, wild, and amber. He wore nothing above the waist, and his loose fitting trousers held up with a silver chain and stark red scarf.

He had spent so long fighting gods and monsters; he had dulled his senses not only to simple conversation with peers, but to their ways, their wicked obsessions, and their talents. He was every bit as wild and kindly as the kami he fought in the name of. He spat. The gobbet fell over the edge of the rickety wood, but suspended inches above the holy waves, lest his loathing taint the essence of Althanas itself.

“This has to stop,” he promised. He felt the sickening rise of return, and vanished.

On his knees, Arden still burnt. The dagger had stopped a flinch of surprise on Phyr’s face as his opponent ceremoniously disappeared into thin, ribbon wreathed nothingness. He had two seconds to consider the outcome, the surprise, and the possible counter attack. When none came, save for a reforming and wounded pup, his rage only worsened.

Arden had not twisted enough. His momentum had carried the dagger away from his neck, but his body had reformed around the tip of the knife, leaving it cleanly impaled into the perfect curve of his shoulder. It slipped in between the joint, severing tendons and tempers, and leaving the silent swordsman without a sword arm. He went limp.
“I…,” he gurgled. He closed his eyes, to save the burnt retina from the chill of the Akashiman night. He wavered.

The waterfall stopped falling. The wind stopped howling. Dragons, butterflies, and cranes, formed of light and love flickered into and out of existence through the stagnating water, crystal drapes to a mysterious world Phyr would never see.

“I think I wish to meet the forefathers.” He half leapt backwards on unsteady feet, Fang loosely gripped in his left hand, reddened right arm hanging without stability. He trundled back, Phyr’s dagger still protruding from his shoulder, and one dark elf bewildering observing the unfolding events. “Send me on my way,” Arden dared. He stood on the edge of the bridge, held out his arms, and looked skyward.

“<Push…>” said a spirit into Phyr’s ear, a gibbering, and mammering cacophony to sin.

[Les Misérables]

The fire-haired swordsman vanished once more, tearing the iron bayonet from the old elf's startled hand.

A potent solution of panic and fury throttled Phyr like an invisible collar. He turned right and saw nothing, skipped into the empty space and twisted to check his flank. Still no re-appearing pup, but one of Sa'resh's boots slipped on slick stone. His weakened knee folded and then popped as he fought for balance. The absence of cloak and foolishly spent money pouch allowed the one armed drow to stay upright, and he prodded tentatively at his locked knee.

The Hound's latest soliloquy cut the waterfall's song and Phyr grimaced, wondering how much of his ungainly dance the other witnessed. The elf stepped backwards until his heels bordered on the edge of the bridge opposite Janelle. He scrunched his eyes and scrutinized his opponent. The Scaran's habit for fighting those that feared him had left him off balance, and he'd gotten the worst of it each time the combatants closed distance. The blood running amidst the mist on the bridge measured the Hound's loss of life.

How severe are his wounds? Phyr knew firsthand that a one-armed enemy was far from finished. Phyr rode a dark horse of anger through fields of starvation and desperation, but he was no fool. Deep within his black soul a competitive fire blazed, a need for victory. Not a lust for the sweaty panting and parrying of such duels, but a drive to overcome those that opposed him, no matter the stakes. And his old bones would rest better at night knowing he still had it in him to snuff out the Scourge of Scara Brae. He shifted awkwardly on his locked knee, painfully aware of how evident the straight leg was without his voluminous cloak. Perhaps I may draw a tactic from this pup's own repertoire...

Phyr could not hope to charge the swordsman bladeless and limping. But he still had the eye-torturing contraption on his stump, and his greatest weapon of all: Patience. The longer they talked, the more Janelle bled.

"Ancestral reunions are not my specialty," he said apologetically, raising his empty hand to display a scarcrossed palm. "A leap of faith may be required if your forefathers wait below." He twisted cracked lips into a horrid grin. "Or if you've mind to take a lesson in the art of the light blade, you might toss that frogsticker at my feet."

[Arden]

“Then…humility killed me the moment you stepped onto the bridge.”

All it took was a simple shift of weight. He moved his centre of gravity from the bow, to the heel of his feet, and let nature take its course. The rush of wind, the wave of inertia, and the scent of dew in the air. It fused together and intoxicated Arden’s senses.

Though Arden plummeted down, down, and down into the mists, his epitaph was rising up. It lurched over the edge of the bridge with a tumultuous roar, a howl, and a shake of its mane. When its paws landed heavily on the surface of the arch, the bridge shook, though not with strength, but passion.

“Grrrr,” it growled. It lowered its front legs, weighing up his prey, and with cold, calculating eyes, it assessed with instincts sharper than a mere dog.

As the silent swordsman fell silently to his death, many leagues below, the Hound, an altogether deadlier foe, charged across the narrow bridge. With a short lived and iterant desire to tear Phyr’s throat open, it lunged. It was a last minute, and perhaps futile effort on Arden’s part to scrape together a victory. He had seen many paths when he travelled through the Yukyo Shrine, but not this.

The red archways either side of the pathway had served his ancestors as divining pools for centuries. Relatives watched for the spirits of their loved ones through its heights, vigilant until the final, telling end. He turned mid-air; to face his end as it rose upwards to meet him. The wind drowned out his thoughts. The gale whipped his auburn hair into a flame. His armour, lacquered with blood as it trailed in spirals from his neck, a rusty coffin for eternity.

“<Hello, Janelle-san>,” he gurgled. The spirit of his father, hated in life, reached out a hand from the abyss to welcome his son home.

[Les Misérables]

Phyr bit heartily into a well roasted chicken leg, fatty juices smearing down his silver stubbled chin. He tried not to recall how the mana-dog's fangs had done the same thing to his throat minutes - or was it hours? - ago. The dog's charge had driven it and the old elf off the precipice, and he remembered little after that. He'd opened his ancient azure eyes in the small stone chamber lit by twinned torches either side of the door. His belongings were piled on a long table, including the sack of coin that had split and scattered. Whatever god the Ai'Brone order prayed to, it was a benevolent one. Phyr put down the chicken leg as he chewed and seized an iron fork, spearing an assortment of green and yellow beans that dripped melted butter.

His right sleeve still hung pitifully slack. The Ai'Brone gods were not so benevolent to grant him a new arm.

A knock echoed through the door, and a moment later the familiar smallish monk followed. He tutted at the way the door's hinges creaked, and the cogs beneath his shaven pate made a note to oil them later. He smiled and sat opposite Phyr, watching the Alerian shovel vegetables into his mouth.

"You fought well," the monk said. Phyr snorted so hard he almost died again, drowned by half-masticated mush rather than mystical water. He coughed and cleared his windpipe, still chuckling, tears of mirth rolling down azure cheeks. True merriment shone in his eyes, reflected by flickering torchlight.

"I fought like what I am," he amended when his laughter and anguish subsided. The combination was not unknown to Phyr Sa'resh; few things in his life came without pain. "A one-armed mongrel with two lifetimes of killing experience." He whisked long silver hair out of his eyes impatiently and retrieved the drumstick. "It was bloody worth it though," he muttered as he tore off a slab of dark meat.

"And yet I stand by what I said," the monk replied, no longer smiling. His hands were steepled between the wide sleeves of his habit. "Many warriors could learn much from facing you in combat. Hard lessons, and difficult to interpret," the lacquer-nailed man continued, "but necessary, certainly. It appears this arrangement could be to our mutual benefit," he indicated the bag of coins so courteously mended, and the ample if simple meal. "You might even find the means to turn your life around with the Citadel's support." The monk said pointedly as the old elf dropped the chicken bone with a clatter.

"I'll fight your dogs, and your cats and rats too if it brings me a steady source of grub." Phyr picked up his fork and collected the last of the potatoes, sopping leftover juices from the clay plate. "But please, brother monk, don't try to inspire me. I'm happy with what I am." Pride flared as Phyr tasted the last of the rich food. He could scarcely believe he'd defeated the Hound. The Scourge of Scara Brae. It seemed almost as impossible as... no longer needing the drink. But he'd climbed that mountain following Elena's violent passing, and slain the monster atop the peak.

"Agreed." The monk said after a short pause, and then nodded respectfully and stood. The chair legs scraped and the door hinges squeaked and Phyr Sa'resh was alone with his thoughts. He sheathed his dagger and slung his cloak around tired shoulders, fastening the clasp with a deftly practiced motion. His stump ached where the arm had been severed so long ago. He hefted the sack of coins and wished he could trade it and the world for another night in Elena's arms. And then he pocketed the burlap bag and made for the door, something close to a smile and not quite a scowl gashing his face.

If I'm going to fight more of these mad-eyed buffoons, I'll need a proper weapon... he thought as he crossed the threshold. With the day's coin and some he had squirreled away, he might be able to afford a chintzy Coronian version of a proper Alerian gunblade. He chuckled at the thought of how much easier his next meal would come with such a fearsome sidearm. Might do to keep my legs in better shape too, he decided as he neared the outside world. If his knee hadn't locked up, he might have avoided the Hound's final desperate attack. Cronen mentioned a training ground, what was it called... the Gargantuan Gym? Perhaps if he dropped the Breaker's name he could find a means of getting them to pay him to visit the facilities. Such wonders existed in Radasanth, or so said the sources of Phyr Sa'resh.

Thanks for the battle, and sorry my conclusion took so long. Let me know if you need time to edit, elsewise I'll submit this shortly.

[Philomel]

Thread Title: Road to Nowhere (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?XXXXX)
Judgment Type: Full Rubric
Participants: Arden vs Les Miserables



Plot: 17 --- 18

Story- 6/10---6/10

In general the story was enticing and captivating. As a battle, though it was short it had high moments and low moments, with a good rise (climax) and fall in the atmosphere of the piece. In particular posts 7-10 seemed a little weaker than the really strong start, mostly because of lesser-quality writing in terms of sentences and less-fluid descriptions. However, you did write well together and had a clear beginning, middle and end, which was very well done.

Setting- 5/10---6/10

The setting itself was very well written, imagined, and described by both parties. A good strong opening from you, Arden, however all in all Les Mis put a lot more effort into using the setting for his own benefits. All in all both of you could have exploited the setting better, and mentioned it more. Despite the strong resembelance at the beginning you lost a certain amount of strength as you bound together and focused more on the action rather than the sense of place.

Pacing- 6/10---6/10

Pacing could have done with a minor amount of adjustment. At times, particular in the middle of the piece it seemed a little rushed. You final posts were very good, though Les Mis it would help to balance your own post lengths with Arden's. As the two of you are interested in how you write together I would say you need to work on keeping at the same pace, and holding the form together in symmetry (post length and paragraph length).



Character: 19 --- 19

Communication- 6/10---6/10

Communication was, in essence, good for the characters in context. It seemed right considering Arden and Les Mis' backgrounds. However, weakness lay in an unequal balance - Les Mis, you relied heavily on action and had little dialogue at all and Arden you did the opposite. To write as a pair successfully you want to try to mirror each other and let the paragraphs flow. You are against each other, yet still you want to co-operate as a duet. You both have destinct characters with their individual ways of phrasing, but unfortunately at times they seem uncomfortable, awkward in comparision with one another.

Action-6/10---6/10

Action was well written and structured. In particular enjoyable parts were posts 3 and 4 where you were both particularly artful at combining your actions as two characters and bringing them as one battle. Being central to a battle it was expertly written and set out as the characters seeming should to. However, marks are down because of imbalance - see "Communcation" for more detail on this. Actions did fit together, however, like woven threads.

Persona- 7/10---7/10

The persona for both of you shone well. Les Mis your particular strength was in post 4 where you ended your post with: "What have I become? ... the Citadel's canon fodder? Oh Elena... why couldn't I have gone with you?" as a thought from Phyr Sa'resh, showing a definite idea of who and what your character is. Arden, your use of thought processes likewise was powerful and engaged with the reader well, and use of particular references to his body and how that felt, ("Arden felt his arm weaken", post 5) was a good strength.
A slight weakness, hence the mark being less than perfect, however, was the overall flow from post to post, and it did cause jarring in parts, distrupting the flow a little (posts 2 and 7).



Prose: 18 --- 19

Mechanics- 7/10---8/10

In honesty there is very little incorrect here. All full stops are in their correct place, and paragraphing is very well done. It would have helped, perhaps, at times to place a new paragraph after a line of speech, as is technically correct (post 9 in particular, hence Arden's slightly less mark), but all in all well laid out.

Clarity- 7/10---6/10

Les Mis, your paragraphs could have done with being a little shorter at times, and more varying in size to help communicate the rise and fall in action better. Arden, you could have perhaps helped to mirror here, and either made posts a similar length or communicated a little alongside Les Mis to help cut down some. However, for both of you everything was rightly set-out and demonstrated a clear line of action and reactions.

Technique- 4/10---5/10

It would have been good to see a general amount of deeper description from you, Arden. From your first post you only used simple adjectives, though in general it was very good and correctly done. Les Mis you did fair a little better on this, but both of you could have done with use of metaphor and similie. It would add a little more depth to both of your writing. Try just looking back quickly after you have written and see what maybe you could add in terms with the help of a theasaurus of phrase-dictionary.




Wildcard: 5 --- 5

Introductions and the relationship between Les Mis and Arden was a particular strength. Post 3 was a great power for this, in their introduction to each other, and the continuous use of nicknames for both after this, and following. Well done!



Final Score: 59---61

Les Miserables (http://www.althanas.com/world/member.php?XXXXX) Wins!:


2250 EXP!
74 GP!

Congratulations!


Arden (http://www.althanas.com/world/member.php?XXXXX) Receives:


675 EXP!
71 GP!

[Lye]

EXP & GP Added!

I believe our winner Leveled Up.