Almost Home (Open)

[Mordelain]

Almost Home (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dq_VkETFPzQ)

3130


Closed to one participant.

[Mordelain]

Temple of the Forerunners. Sun newly risen. Mordelain Saythrou waited. Legs parsed and eyes skyward she looked every bit the il’Jhain. The desert was her home. Its people her kin. Its winds a cloak she wore with pride.

“Suresh…is this really a good idea?” She turned to the merchant seated fifty feet to her left.

“You wanted to train didn’t you?” he replied between mouthfuls of pumpkin pie and something promised to be ‘authentic Radasanthian stew’.

Mordelain pursed her lips because he was right again. He always was. The Citadel; ‘practice skills amassed on the less travelled road’. So the Ai’bron claimed. If all went to plan, come spring she would topple Jya’s Keep. Fallien restored; her dream. Whilst the palest wind could strike her down, it would never come true.

“How should I fight?” she quizzed. She balled her fists. Her eyes burnt with the Sun’s mocking fury.

The incalculably tall tower exposed her to the elements. Ai’bron magic, however, lacked the withering zeal of Fallien’s intolerable heat. It was tepid in comparison.

Suresh finished his mouthful and washed it down with adequate measures of red wine. He belched. He slapped his stomach. The lack of audience was a blessing for once. Her gaze narrowed.

“Your kukri because undeniably weak,” he bluntly quipped. He pointed to her hip. “Spidersilk keep it tightly gripped but you must learn to switch stances whilst keeping its curve aimed preferably at a neck.”

Mordelain tugged knife from sheath. Its blade cold, despite the temperature, glinted with unrequited love. An ornate gift from Suresh when she joined the il’Jhain yet appreciated by the receiver. She spun it gingerly to test its weight.

“This will end badly…,” was all she could muster.

Suresh chuckled and left her to a panorama. North, a grand stairway down to the tower’s labyrinthine innards. East, a vast mural, impossibly big for human hands depicted a history long forgotten. West, tall pillars jutted from the sandstone. South, imposing hills marked with cracks and long forgotten odes to dead kings.

“Buck up your ideas,” the merchant barked. He returned to his food, a fourth helping, and tore into the chicken leg greased with olive oil and marinade in thyme.

She hissed viciously and bent at the knee. Wind, accompaniment to her ritual, spurned her to begin a dance. Rotating clockwise with precision, she slashed with the kukri and felt the breeze whip rumbustiously around her. Her lime top and leather trousers grew taught as her musculature tightened. Her form statuesque; dedicated to war and fervour; an idol.

“Good,” he said flatly. His praise lacklustre.

As he spoke, something echoed deep within the tower. The horizon vented thunder and storm clouds. A promise of rain undelivered. Fate glowed on the skyline. Positive aspects for black clouds. At the bottom of the stairs, a paradoxical portal turned into an iron doorway. Sulphur, time, and lightning danced over the ancient woodwork. Hero waiting. Hero arriving. An audience taking to their seats. It was time.

[Otto]

Otto stepped warily through the portal. He looked quickly around, then up, and then he swore.

"Godsdamn," he growled. The air was dry and bitter on his tongue, like old paper.

A helical staircase began at Otto's feet and wound up, and up, and up, towards the distant pinnacle. He had another glance around, but couldn't see anyone else on the ground level. In fact, the place was not just void of life, but also of the signs of life; crumbling rags, that might once have been banners and tapestries, adorned the stone walls, and ancient trash lay scattered about the floor. The only thing that seemed to have withstood the test of time was the tower's stone skeleton, which itself had been coated thick with sandy dust.

Otto looked back up to the far-off ceiling. It was impossible to tell how high it actually was, because the distances all sort of blurred together after a certain point; all he knew was that it would be a climb and a half. Still grumbling, he began his ascent.

After a minute, Otto began to question the wisdom of keeping his armour. When he peered upward, the ceiling hadn't appeared to have gotten any closer. Still, he refrained from unbuckling his hauberk, and continued to climb. Metal plate boots clunked and clanged muffledly on the dusty stone steps, and as Otto climbed, he was revisited by the distorted echoes of his progress. The place was already hot, but he was working up a solid sweat with all this exertion. At least the dry air let his perspiration readily evapourate, which did something to keep him cool.

After two minutes, Otto came to a stop. He parked himself gingerly on a stretch of steps beside a tall window, and took a swig from his canteen. He frowned. The water had warmed during the journey, which left him feeling faintly sick and unrefreshed. He swilled the liquid around his mouth disgruntledly, and distracted himself with the view beyond the aperture. His frown deepened. Far away and below, the earth had been deeply scarred. Otto squinted, and leaned forward. It was hard to tell in the glaring sunlight, but the shadows in the crater seemed a little off - like they should be darker than they were.

"Hello?"

Otto broke away from the desolation and looked up. At least, he thought the voice had come from above; the strange acoustics of the tower made it hard to tell, and the voice had picked up strange reverberations so that it sounded neither young nor old, male nor female.

"Hello," he yelled back.

"Are you coming up?" As warped as it was, the voice managed to retain just a hint of impatience. Otto found himself growing angry.

"Oh, aye," the orc shouted. "Just thought I'd take the scenic route."

There were no more shouts from above, but it took several more seconds for silence to properly descend. Otto hoisted himself up and began to climb once more, albeit it at a much more leisurely pace. Their fault for using such a cheap tactic, Otto reckoned. Let 'em wait.

He climbed, and climbed, and climbed. Otto gauged his height by the amount of pain in his legs, and also by the sinking horizon whenever it came into view through a sand-blown window. His breathing sounded hoarse, and each gasp seemed to scratch down the cracked, bone-dry parchment that his throat had become. Sweat dripped into his eyes, which then stung, so he tried to blink it away, only to find that his gummy eyelids offered no relief. Still, he climbed.

Mordelain whirled around from the precipice when she heard the footfalls shed their echoing quality and emerge into the fresh air. Otto ambled up, somewhat sluggishly, atop the last few steps. He did not pause, or look around, or seem to even register the two other people on the top of the tower. Instead, he just marched over to Suresh's table, collapsed onto a seat, grabbed a pitcher of water and filled a cup up with the contents. Suresh and Mordelain stared as the heaving, dripping orc downed the water in one gulp, refilled it with wine, and began to shove bread somewhere into his beard.

At length, Otto deigned to notice the man sitting opposite him at the table. "Salaam," he growled, spraying crumbs into his lap.

[Mordelain]

“As-salamu alaykum,” Mordelain replied. “I did not expect you to know Fallieni.” She narrowed her eyes. She tried subtly working the orc out. He looked feral enough, but spoke with candour, humility, and nobility. An enigma armed with words and weapons alike.

“A word here. A word there,” Otto replied. His grin was cavernous but charming.

“Do you recognise where we are?” She gestured to the infinite bleakness of the desert. The wind in her hair and the sun on her back pathetic fallacy for her concession. “Unless you picked said words up in bars and markets.”

Otto gave the sand dunes a cautionary glance and true enough, he recognised it. It was clearly Fallien, but he was not going to let slip the fact the tower was entirely alien. He jostled his shield, checked his strapping, and flexed his ample musculature. Though polite conversation did its part in abating his frustrations, he heard an echo of her perky hello, and felt composed to vent said feelings with more than rhetoric.

“Sort of,” he shrugged. “It was a long hot summer.”

Mordelain smiled all knowing. She spread her legs further, until she had to tense her thighs and calves to remain upright. A prowling cat. She spiralled her kukri in flourishes. A deadly pair of claws.

“Do not mind Suresh,” she said with a giggle. Nerves? Malefic? Who knew?

“Suresh?” Otto asked oblivion. Then the truth dawned. The glutton ‘judge’.

She nodded to the stocky merchant. He feigned disinterest and drank wine. His glass reached his lips on instinct alone.

“He is here to nag me incessantly over every mistake he perceives I make.” Her sarcasm implied whatever she did would not be good enough. It was never good enough for him. Adopted father berating adopted daughter.

“Great,” Otto said flatly. “He’s like a drill sergeant, but without the swearing.” Another drive in the sand pits of the Corone Armed Forces was the last thing he needed. If he wanted to fight in inhospitable climates and armpit stench, he could have stayed at home.

“He is here to judge me, friend,” she clarified. She took a deep breath. Air ablaze. She smelt the warm glass in the air that came with dangerous levels of heat. “Just as the desert, and the sun, will judge us worthy.” She stopped spinning the kukri. She fingered its flat edge as though eager to get to use it. It sung to her. It cried. Cacophony.

“Get on with it then,” Suresh burped. He rubbed his stomach, which wobbled, and shuffled on his seat. He did not look up from his accounts nor stop swigging wine between syllables. If they did not kill one another, he was in the right frame of mind to do it for them.

“Give him something to critique if you dare.” She shrugged her shoulders at Otto. It was an offer to strike first. Come thunder’s arrival, and rain’s downpour, she hoped to wipe the smirk of two men’s faces.

[Otto]

Surprisingly, Otto found his misgivings to be waning fast; the banter flowed more readily between them than he had expected, and he didn't even mind that woman had called him 'friend'. That sort of thing normally just led to trouble. Instead, the exchange had warmed him to the pair in a way that the relentless sun did not. But more importantly, it had also been time well spent sussing out his red-headed opponent's arsenal.

The orc had assessed his options, in between mouthfuls of flat bread and rich wine. The woman had a partisan, which was concerning; the weapons were versatile and suited to hacking, slashing, stabbing, tripping, disarming and knocking aside shields, with the added bonus of reach. Otto ran a hand along the links of his steel coat, and surmised that while the hacking and slashing may not be a problem, the rest certainly were. She had a kukri, too. Nasty little blades, those - but again, so long as he didn't let her get a good stab in, he should be fine. He mulled this over a small mouthful of wine, while also lamenting the lack of chilled lager, and decided his spear would be up to the task. It looked pitiful next to the woman's own polearm, but with his long limbs, he reckoned he had the reach advantage yet. He gave a little sigh.

"Thanks for the grub," Otto said to Suresh, but the man simply waved him away without lifting his eyes from the ledger. Otto sculled the wine, slammed the cup back onto the table, closed his eyes and took a deep lungfull of air.

His eyes snapped open. He seized his bench in both hands, jumped up and, with a roar, hurled it bodily towards the woman. The heavy seat tumbled lazily through the air, but Otto was already behind it and rushing forward, his spear in both hands and its point leveled at Mordelain's heart.

Suresh put a hand over the top of his own cup as it rocked with the recent excitement. He still did not look up, although he did frown at the ink trail his jumping pen had scrawled across the page.

[Mordelain]

Mordelain raised an eyebrow. Benches did not fly. All the same, as the bench elevated so too did her heartbeat. Fortunately, she had plenty of time to track its flight towards her. The void called to her. A reply. She vanished.

“Don’t worry junta, she’ll be back,” Suresh said robustly. He raised his palm from his cup, wiped his dripping fingers on his lap, and drank the last dregs. The curse word was not lost on the orc.

Otto came to a standstill halfway between where he had been, and where he hoped to have been. Confusion. Only the lingering signs of aggression, which made valleys out of worry lines, and ravines out of rage, tempered the look of surprise on his face. The bench crashed into a splintered heap in the middle of a runic circle.

“So much for Ang Gijak-Ishi,” he spat. His spear remained levelled at where heart had been. His senses remained alert; every possibility mapped; every outcome weighed. Mordelain Saythrou was proving herself to be found wanting.

“There’s no need for that, Mr. Bastum,” Suresh said sternly. He stood from his seat, awash with crumbs, and made himself presentable. Tidal wave of detritus. “A promise is a…,” he trailed off when Mordelain flickered into. She was a few back from where she previously was.

“-Promise?” Mordelain concluded. She caught the gist of his speech from an expression and a raised eyebrow alone. Intuition played its part.

“I thought you a coward,” the orc bellowed. It was not malefic, more so battle born. He pointed the spear's tip to where she now stood, and resumed his charge without so much as a falter in his stride.

“No,” she rebuked. She shook her head, spread her legs, and observed his movements. “I am, however, cautious to break into unruly steps, with an unruly partner!” She matched his tone and exuberance, to set herself in the mood for finally getting to fandango with the best Radasanth had to offer.

Certain she could engaged without losing an eye, she broke into a regal sprint. One-step, two-step, three step. She arrived spritely. She slipped to the left, turned her shoulder so that she melted under the spear, and bounced. Back she went. Melt. Fade. Around the orc, she travelled like fog. With a flick of her wrist, she lashed back with the kukri. Her intention was to deliver a delicate, bee sting thrust.

“Excellent!” the merchant shouted. He cupped his over his mouth to project his all too ample voice over the din. Mordelain grinned. The sun shone brighter. The crowd cheered. Cacophony of another sort seeped into the arena.

Otto continued to bull rush. Mordelain continued towards Suresh. She used the tips of her toes alone. Wind tore regalia; elegance belied only by the danger in every pirouette. Had she the temperament of a fighter, not a rebel, she might have used it. A battle dance like no other. Staccato heels, vibrato vendetta, and opportunities unlearnt and victories lost.

[Otto]

It was the work of the moment to twist like so, so that the kukri came in at a less advantageous angle. Its tip still snagged the links at Otto's side, but then the blade slipped and raked harmlessly across his tabard. Otto grunted, shifted his weight, and swung the spear haft round like a quarterstaff - but Mordelain had already moved on, making for Suresh's table. Otto watched her go while he tenderly rubbed his ribcage. Taking a stab like that was never any fun, mail or no, and he felt like he'd just been punched. Still, it was preferable to the sensation of a blade slipping between his ribs. He should know.

The pitter-patter of soft footfalls died off as Mordelain slowed, which left just the keening wind and the odd clunk of Suresh putting down a wine cup as the only remaining noise. Mordelain's ribbons settled and blades calmed while Otto, leaning casually against his upright spear, watched her. At last, the woman tilted her head slightly, frowning impatiently.

"Don't mind me," Otto said, jovially. "Just enjoying the show."

Suresh gave a gentle cough. "If you don't mind," he said, "it's not just your own time that you're wasting. Would you be so good as to get on with it?"

Mordelain and Otto locked eyes. She gave another little shrug, and his beard ruffled as he grinned. Then, with exaggerated nonchalance, he hoisted his spear to the fore, while she tensed her calves in anticipation of another assault. Otto did not disappoint; he assumed another pounding charge across the sandswept stones, with the spearhead bobbing a short way ahead of him. Mordelain sprang to her toes again, dancing around as though carried by the wind. The orc flexed his muscles. Steel glinted in the sun. Mordelain made to skip to the left, and Otto lunged - but it seemed that he had committed too early, and fell for the woman's feint. She bounced back well away from the iron tip, and ducked underneath the orc's desperate backswing. She whirled as she moved, putting her entire weight behind the blow.

This time, it nearly took away Otto's balance. He felt the metal links dig in just below his ribcage, felt his bones sway and verge upon snapping - and yet, the mail held. His old coat would have parted like a curtain, but between the new hauberk's quality and the woman's insufficient strength, her kukri was foiled. Some small part of Otto's brain registered his good luck, but most of it was focused on the shock of agony that lanced through his chest. The pain ran up his neck, took control of his throat, and managed to force through a brief scream before the rest of him could reclaim control. He hammered it back down, and focused.

Mordelain was the epitome of grace, like a student of a distressingly martial form of ballet. It was showy, yes, but it also kept her moving, and moving fast. It was also a little dizzying to watch.

Time to put a stick between the spokes, then.

Mordelain spun onwards. The ribbons streamed along in her wake, as did her auburn locks - until a large and hairy limb lashed out to seize a handful, and bring her dervish to an undignified end.

[Mordelain]

Mordelain fell flat on her face. Disgrace leered over her, gloating like a killer with a corpse. Her cessation of movement brought with it stops to three other things. The wind, undulating in its force, died. Suresh, ignorant and dismissive, paid attention. The desert backdrop, barren and lifeless, came very much alive. Progression. Drama. Schemes.

“Now Mordelain. That is no way to represent the Freerunners,” the merchant clucked. He folded his hands over his lap. Siding with disgrace, he stared down disapprovingly. Her guilt worsened. Her burdens became unbearable.

Before she could be subject to further berating, the il’Jhain made every attempt to right herself. Her palms parsed against the rough sandstone, illogical material for such a lofty construct. As she rose, Otto adjusted his stance, wary of the girl’s speed. She would not feint attack him twice.

“Îdhdaer will not see, you camel’s arse!” she retorted. She spat sand from her lips, before it drew the last dregs of moisture from her body. The heat, though milder than home, was beginning to take its toll.

“Grace above strength, Mordelain,” was Suresh’s final word on the matter. He pushed himself up from the chair. Soothingly behaviour had its downsides. Fatigue beyond fatigue set in. Tired and windless he walked to the edge of the tower’s arena. He stared out at the horizon as Mordelain turned, dusted herself down, and squared up to the orc.

“Fuck grace,” she spat. She parsed her legs, clenched her fists, and dropped her kukri. Whatever she could learn from its use would have to wait for another day. She was tired of learning Fallien’s foolish follies, when the partisan, her calling, gave her wings to fly and levity to love. “Let’s try strength.”

Otto snorted. She was talking his language now.

“When you’re ready to fight let me know.” His amusement contained by his battle ready poise. The strange dynamic between she and he was pale in comparison to whatever drove the il’Jhain and the portly merchant to coexist. Love. Bitterness. Money. He was curious, to say the least. “I’m waiting.”

Mordelain smirked. Bruised, but not broken, she flickered from existence for a split-second. When she rematerialized, she held a clunky watch in one hand and the shaft of her spider-silk partisan in the other.

“Would you like me to go easy on you?” she gloated. Though her nose blooded, and her cheek grazed, she was unblemished and undeterred. Bulganin was a small price to pay to level the playing field. Her home gave her strength. Home, after all, was where the partisan was.

“Hit me with your best…roll tuck?” Otto chuckled coarsely.

“With pleasure,” came a cry. It ripped through the nine worlds, ghastly defiance in a thousand tongues. She levelled the partisan forwards. Poise. She broke into an agile run. Grace. Her ribbons tinkled and her bells dangled. Flourish. She leapt to put some strength behind her thrust. Style. Directly at the orc’s embittered, stone covered heart, Mordelain Saythrou aimed all her rage.

[Otto]

Otto almost laughed. They were playing in his ballpark now.

As Mordelain took the run-up, Otto squared off, crooked his knees, dug his heels into the stone, and hefted his spear ahead of him. His response was so ingrained that, when Mordelain leapt, he hardly needed to think his movements through. If, with care and precision, he swept his spear up behind the partisan's head, then he could simply brush it harmlessly aside. That would leave his opponent coming in full pelt at either the solid oak of his spearhaft or the unyielding iron around his fist, and he'd like to see her dance around that.

The partisan lanced in. Otto twisted, and lost himself to a world of pain.

Mordelain's last blow must have done more damage than he had thought. His bottom rib felt like it had been replaced with searing, scouring wire, with tendrils flaring up his spine to claw at the base of his skull. The tiny island of self-awareness that remained prompted Otto's spear to sweep feebly in, but it failed to brush the partisan completely out of the way. The thing caught him with a glancing blow that spun him on the spot, and made his vision temporarily darken. She was too close, his spear was too awkward, he felt like his chest had fractured in half...

Instinct swung in, kicked his fumbling brain aside, seized the reins and cracked the whip.

Otto was toppling backwards. His hands recognised the long, close, and above all, grippable shaft of Mordelain's partisan. He flung his arms around it and held tight, then landed back-first onto the gritty stone blocks. Mordelain was dragged off-balance as she, too, tried to cling to the weapon, and found it being pulled away. Otto could feel the long, awning blade slide restlessly across his hauberk, but clasped as it was against him, his opponent could not gather enough force for a blow capable of cutting through. He aimed a vicious kick at her kneecap, from which she had to twist out of the way to avoid. For a half second, this put all her weight on either the one other leg or propped against the partisan.

A half-second was enough. Otto jerked the polearm to the side. Mordelain stumbled, threw out her arms in desperation, and landed awkwardly onto the hot stones. Otto was on her in an instant, one hand fumbling to restrain her sword-arm and the other desperately seeking her throat. Things were somewhat evened out by the fact that she was making a spirited effort to claw out his eyeballs. But Otto had the reach, and he just leaned out of the way. Sweat and dust swirled into his eyes, the agony in his chest still throbbed, and the sun steadily warmed the mail at his back, but all these sensations had been bottled up and stowed away beneath notice. All there was now was this frantic, grappling struggle in the dirt.

Suresh watched from the sidelines. Very slowly, he raised a palm to his brow, and shook his head in mild disgust.

[Mordelain]

Mordelain consumed with rage. Tides turned. She abandoned training. She shed grace. She let zephyrs be her guide. They whipped up the shaft of the tower, and struck the easterly colonnades.

“Not today,” she spat again. Otto’s fist thudded into the stone, not skin. “I like my face!”

She found just enough strength to pressure the orc’s groin. Like so many males before the smith, he winced.

Mordelain vanished. Innocuous departures once more a crux.

“Ser, might I advocate fighting on equal terms?” the merchant offered.

Otto grunted. Fortunately, for his ancestors and his children, the blow was slight.

“Where does she keep going?” he roared.

Suresh could not explain. Mordelain planes walked. That was who, and what she was. Why, the merchant did not know.

“The question is not where, Otto,” Mordelain said. Her voice was sullen, as though she were indoors. “The more appropriate thing to ask is when.”

From behind the colonnade, inscribed with the history of the Vhadya, the Tama stepped out to the right. Her feet wrapped in bloodied rags. Her hair full of sticks, mud, and slime.

“Stay and fight, I’m getting tired of this!” The orc turned and hoisted his spear ready.

Mordelain circled her partisan around her body, as though it were an extension of herself. She stepped forwards, on the tip of her toes, and spritely advanced across the arid rock. The ribbons she had worn into battle were but frayed strands of colour in her wake. Still, with the desert in her soul, she stayed strong. Whatever she had endured to escape Otto’s titanic grip was nothing compared to what she would have felt had his gauntlet caved in her skull.

“Spear tip to partisan tip, or we stop squabbling,” she spat.

Otto acquiesced, and charged. His subtle nod told Mordelain all she needed to know. Until now, they had merely strolled down the path home. Now, they were running headlong down the final stretch. She smiled. She leapt into a pirouette and as their weapons clashed, she finally came alive.

“That’s wood, not skin!” Suresh roared. He slapped his forehead again, wincing as Otto counter struck Mordelain’s weapon with a snap of his own, stepped into her guard, and heaved her backwards. “Hopeless…”

Otto, seeing his opportunity, moved his grip towards the spear’s end and shot it forwards in a deft thrust. Mordelain, too quick to suffer at the hands of gambits and guile, seemed to melt out of harm’s way with a dancer’s grace. Before Otto could pull the spear back, Mordelain returned the favour.

“Mine!”

Her hand, calloused but firm, encircled his wooden member and pulled hard. With sandy between her fingers, and pain rising in her body, she bolted her spine and rotated, jumping as she did so. With a full spin, she attempted to wrench the spear from the orc’s hand. To throw it out of harm’s way, and finish what she had started with a kukri in his neck was her only aim now.

[Otto]

Suresh watched the next few busy seconds with distant interest, wincing slightly as a sound like dragon's claw running down a blackboard shredded the stifling air. He narrowed his eyes against the glare as Otto stumbled backwards, trembling hand raised to the deep gash around his own neck. Mordelain spun away in a whirl of cloth and gleaming silver, steadied herself, and looked behind her into the orc's rapidly narrowing eyes.

"That," he growled, finger tracing the worrisome scar along his bevor, "is going to take hours to hammer out."

Mordelain rolled her eyes.

Otto took a deep breath, and tried to blink away the sweat and the pain. His arms felt like stout rubber hoses, though no longer stretched down to the ground under the weight of his spear (which lay in the dust some distance away), and he was sure his knees were close to buckling. Curse this heat! Curse those stairs! No wonder the woman was running circles around him; under the bulk of his arms, armour, and growing fatigue, it was all he could do to walk straight. He needed five minutes in the shade, but that wasn't how the bouts usually worked - and besides, what sort of practice was that? He came to the Citadel to test his limits and to learn; in his experience, tea breaks had been largely absent from the life-and-death scenarios he'd took part in outside the arena.

There was one thing he could do, however. He cupped a broad hand around the buds that ran along his breast, and whispered something into it that Mordelain did not quite catch. When the orc removed his hand, the flowers were gently opening, tiny purple stars along a squat central spike. For just a moment, there was a smell of sweet perfume on the air, and also something like a salty sea breeze.

"I think that we should perhaps hurry things up," Otto said, with a faraway look on his lumpy face. He glanced to the side. "At least for your friend's sake."

Mordelain tutted. "I wouldn't worry about him too much."

"Not as though you usually do, anyway," said a third voice from the side. Mordelain waved a hand dismissively at Suresh.

Otto took a deep breath, while Mordelain began warily to circle him. The hot air was no longer suffocating, but merely uncomfortable, and - he rolled his shoulders - yes, the pain had receded to a simple, nagging ache. It no longer like like he was pushing his bones the wrong way with each movement. He gave his spear a desultory glance, but quickly dismissed it; going to pick it up would leave him open to attack, and besides, it had been proven as a less than effective weapon against his opponent. He contemplated using his new hammer for a moment, but decided against that as well - too heavy.

In a flash of movement, he seized his old, one-handed hammer from its hoop and thundered down on Mordelain, stone and dust shaking with each heavy footfall.

[Mordelain]

Finally, Mordelain found her ground. Suresh was being the opposite of a mentor. His presence riled her. His presence unnerved her. His presence, she would lament for days, held her back.

“Get a grip jihta,” she seethed. The use of the most hurtful of Fallieni words, one of her favourite, was incentive enough.

She had no time now to doubt. She had no time to stand, stare, and stutter. She tightened her buttocks. She turned her right foot at a right angle to her left, and bent her knees into a combat stance.

“You are a long way from home here!” Her voice raised. She watched his hammer come full circle.

They met at the centre of the tower’s peak. Dust rose in plumes about his feet, and minuets of dancing movement around hers. Bandage wrapped toes patter pattered back and forth beneath her auburn self. Leather and loam cracked the ancient edifice of pre-Vhadya architecture beneath his.

“Not forever…,” Suresh whispered trill.

Fortunately, for his own sake, Mordelain did not hear him. He returned to his seat, freshly dusted, and sat to watch the now functional exchange between opponents. He was, though he would never admit, just a little bit proud of her blossoming independence.

“Finally found your feet, aye?” Otto grunted, as hammer met forming partisan.

He had not registered her disappearance, nor the shift of her weapon one eighty degrees in a heartbeat. She was leaf strewn and muddied in the blink of an eye, torn from one world, sped through two others, and then returned ready to take the descending meteor.

“Sorry it took so long,” she wheezed. The look of strain on her face contorted her pleasant features into furrows and canyons of redoubt. She tried to push up, against the grain, but felt her muscles weaken.

The cyan sky shone brighter. Whatever the crater in the distance was for, it became apparent in the subconscious. Otto, Mordelain, and Suresh became distinctly aware that here, a century ago, a similar struggle had transpired. Mordelain bided her time, until her strength failed, and she found courage to slip out of harm’s way.

“Gyahh!” they cried in unison.

A guttural cry slipped from orc chapped grey lips. They both began to feel the effects of dehydration. Sweat clung to their skin like thickening date wine. She danced colourfully; legs tucked into her chest like a stalk’s step, and stopped twenty feet away. Her heart raced.

“Kukri, you said.” Otto stood as the rubble from hammer’s impact stilled. The small crater in the tower’s roof crumbled inwards into the cavernous expanse. “Stop fighting around the issue.”

Mordelain, realising that her trip was worth nought if she learned nothing from it, agreed. She tossed the spear shaft to one side. Exposed. She armed herself with the kukri once more. Defended. She ran forwards. The sun went behind a cloud and the wind vanished altogether. There was grace to her movement, as she advanced, spider-like, at Otto.

“Let us begin!”

[Otto]

Otto swung, to which Mordelain ducked and retorted with a slash of her own. Otto twisted and stepped in, felt her blade glance meekly off his shoulder, and followed through with a reverse strike. Once again, the iron spike struck nothing but air as Mordelain skipped back out of harm's way. He took another step forward, a crunching chorus of sand beneath his boots, slowly chewing up ground - carefully pushing her back.

Let there be just one hidden stone underfoot, Otto prayed, something to trip her up. Then it'll be over.

Then I can get a drink.

It was getting uncomfortably warm under his iron helmet. The orc's body continued, somehow, to dredge up desperate reserves of perspiration and sent them cascading down his brow. He blinked away the worst of it, opened his eyes, and wildly parried the woman's surprise attack. She had spied an opening and followed through with a vicious jab, but then almost had her ear canal widened terminally by the hammer's spike. She darted back with a feint, immediately sprang back - and yet again, had to abort lest some tender part of her rendezvous with that solid lump of iron. The hammerhead made a dull whooshing noise as it narrowly missed her nose, and in no time at all it was swinging around again.

Otto resumed his slow advance.

Mordelain eyed the warhammer's controlled sweeps, seeking another opportunity, seeing none she liked. The weapon itself had a longer reach than her own blade, but when coupled with the orc's gangly arms, there was just too much distance to cover before she could reach something vital with her blade. She tried to catch his wrist with the kukri a few times, but when it struck at all, it glanced more or less harmlessly off his thick iron gauntlets.

But... other details began to draw her attention. The orc was blinking more often now, and his eyes were screwed up painfully tight. His shoulders heaved with rasping breaths, and now he sounded as though his lungs were coated with sawdust. And his steps scuffed through the dirt - dragging heavily, rather than stepping lightly over. He was rapidly tiring, there was no doubt about it. Surely, his reactions had been dulled a little by now. Mordelain took another step back, preparing to coil against the stones and leap forward for a second attempt at Otto's heart.

Her foot slipped off the ledge of the stairs instead, and gravity, having other plans, dropped her down into an undignified sort of split.

Mordelain looked up as a weary figure shambled close above her. She saw his entire frame droop with relief, then raise his hammer dreamily up into the air. When it dropped, it fell towards her with the calm inevitability of the judgement of the gods. A gust blew up around them, sending the sand waltzing in skyward circles.

When Otto opened his gritty eyes again, he saw his hammer half-buried in the dirt.

Mordelain aimed a brutal kick at Otto's knee, which sent the orc staggering back - but not so much as when she rammed the pommel of her kukri into his gut. Despite his stout mail and fortitude, a ragged wheeze escaped his throat. The beginnings of a roar nipped at its heels, until Mordelain's kukri hooked his visor and pulled it partway down, so that his view consisted of just a thin line of ground below and a stretch of sky through the slit above. Desperate reflexes flared amidst the alarm bells ringing in his heavy skull and snapped his free arm up to pull the visor the rest of the way, while the other arm lashed out wildly.

Mordelain saw the blow coming a mile off. She twirled in closer, spinning with the hammer strike so that it glanced almost harmlessly off her shoulder. The pain hissed between her clenched teeth, but only made her grip and arms tighten. Her weapon made a blazing arc towards his chest, then a brief scream as it met the steel links. It was the shriek of yielding metal; softened by the powerful blow from earlier, the damaged patch of mail finally sundered.

Otto felt the blade slice in, felt the cold metal slide between his ribs, felt the chill of it enter his chest cavity. For a few moments, the severed ventricles contracted feebly against the unyielding blade. And then... they stopped.

The hammer fell with a dull clang. Otto's arms followed close behind, flapping down limply to his sides, as his immense strength washed away like ink in the rain. His knees struck the earth. Sight, and sound, and touch, and smell, all evaporated away.

Mordelain had already retreated to a safe distance, but it was clearly unnecessary. Both she and Suresh watched the orc's body topple backwards into the fresh crater and vanish from all sight, save for a few telltale scuffs in the sand, and where the grit was black-red with blood. After a short and tense silence, they heard the collision far below.

It had a rather unpleasant meaty quality.

[Amber Eyes]

Thread Title:

Almost Home (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?26208-Almost-Home-%28Open%29)

Judgment Type: Full Rubric

Participants: Mordelain vs Otto



Plot: 21 --- 22

Story- 8/10---7/10

Both of you wove a compelling tale throughout the battle, with dialogue and the interaction with Suresh giving a fun extra element. Mordelain took a slight edge here with her goal of proving herself and the references to her future plans to save her home. Otto, while everything in the thread was very clear, I never got a good idea of why he was there in the first place. Remember that while we don't want to get bogged down with a ton of backstory it is always helpful for the reader to be able to get an idea of where your character has been.

Setting- 7/10---8/10

I was at want for nothing in picturing the scene. You interacted beautifully with the dust and the dry heat. My own throat became parched as I read. Otto’s depiction of the staircase was tiring to read, and gave him an advantage. I also particularly liked the constant reminder of your armor in the heat. It was very well done. For your part Mordelain, there were a few spots where you could have included the taste of blood or sand in her mouth to bridge the albeit small gap. My only other note here is that the audience was mentioned in the beginning and then basically forgotten save one small mention later in the thread. I didn’t dock heavily for it as honestly it would have detracted from the scene but it threw me off when it was brought up again, as I had completely forgotten the mention in the first post.

Pacing- 6/10---7/10

Mordelain, I’m not sure if this is something you always do and I’m only noticing it for the first time because I did my best to pick this piece apart but your use of short sentences vs. long sentences to slow and pick up pacing is wonderfully done. I also enjoy when you place a short sentence at the end of a paragraph to somewhat sum up the situation. Be careful not to overdo this though, as it can at time feel a bit redundant. The battle was a quick read that didn’t feel rushed, so good job to you both. Mordelain, while your sentence structure nearly made up for it, at times your descriptions of movement can be a bit difficult to understand on first read. The writing is beautiful but it does slow you down a bit when overdone.



Character: 21 --- 21

Communication- 7/10---7/10

All dialogue fit perfectly within the story, and had a reason. You kept the conversation short and relevant. Kudos on writing each other’s characters so well, it kept the flow through every post. The interaction with Sorish also gave you opportunity to shine here and you both seized it. There were opportunities to use body language that weren’t capitalized on, but overall it was solid.

Action-7/10---8/10

Beautifully done. Otto, your action was clear and concise the entirety of the thread. Mordelain, again this score was hurt ever so slightly by some areas where technique took priority over clarity.

Persona- 7/10---6/10

I had a good feel for both characters and it came through well even when the other writer took over. Mordelain had a bit more of a backstory included, and the watchful eye of her mentor gave her an edge.



Prose: 21 --- 22

Mechanics- 7/10---8/10

This was a very clean read. Both of you took your time and proofread and it shows. There were a couple issues with run-ons and misused words mostly on Mordelain's side. (Ex- post 1 "Your kukri because undeniably weak")

Clarity- 6/10---7/10

I’ve covered most of this in other areas. I had to reread a few areas but otherwise it was a very clear and quick read. Mordelain, just keep looking for that perfect balance of technique and clarity. You are very close and it really is enjoyable.

Technique- 8/10---7/10

Mordelain shines here. Your use of alliteration and prose is rare to find in a battle, and makes it more about beauty than bloodshed, which is quite refreshing. Otto, your technique is strong without being distracting and that kept this score very close.



Wildcard: 7 --- 7

Mordelain, you improve with every single thread I read. I always enjoy your stories, but truly this is one of the best I’ve seen from you. Otto, this is the first thread of yours that I’ve read, but I promise you it will not be the last. Thank you guys for a very enjoyable battle.



Final Score: 70---72

Otto (http://www.althanas.com/world/member.php?16653-Otto) Wins!:



2100EXP!

100 GP!



Congratulations!


Mordelain (http://www.althanas.com/world/member.php?15209-Mordelain) Receives:


525 EXP!

50 GP!

[Lye]

EXP & GP Added!