Round 1 Veteran: Roht Mirage Vs Leoric

[Silence Sei]

Battle begins tonight at Midnight CST. Good luck!

[Leoric]

Leoric was enjoying a good laugh in a local pub with a few other drunkards when he had overheard a tournament had recently started up.

“What Tournament?” Leoric barked as he grabbed the poor guy by the scruff of his shirt, catching him off guard. A chance to show off his skills, become an idol to people, and get prize money? He was all for any tournament as long as he got paid.

“what? That Magus Cup?” The drunkard stammered as he looked in Leoric's eyes. there was a clear passion and resolve burning behind his eyes, that or it was the whisky he had been drinking all night.

“Magus Cup eh? Where do I go to register?” The brawler inquired as he dropped the drunkard back into his seat.

“Over that way, about a days ride” The Drunkard bumbled “Can't miss it! I swear!”

“Well boy's it's been fun, but I gotta jet! I have a tournament to win!” Leoric smirked as he grabbed his whisky from the counter and drank the last of it and headed for the door.

“Oi! You still have to pay mister tournament winner” the Barkeep said as he nodded to his muscle at the front door, who abruptly straightened up and walked over to Leoric. Leoric eyed the man and smirked, sure he may have been a bit taller then himself, even a bit bulkier and wider. However, Leoric had range and strength on his side. “You got three seconds to get over here and pay or old Bill there gets his way with ya”

“I will save you the trouble of counting” Leoric said as he took one step towards the barkeep and then quickly spun around and nailed the 'Bouncer' as hard as he could in the chest. Several cracking noises could be heard throughout the bar as Leoric's fist cracked several of the mans ribs and sent him doubling over on the ground. The brawler quickly jumped over the bouncer and tipped his hat, if he was wearing one, to the barkeep and took out through the front door. He quickly ripped the reins off a post and jumped on the back of the first horse he found.

“Whats a little more on my bounty eh bud?” Leoric chuckled as he patted the horses side and quickly took off in the direction he was told. Upon arriving Leoric immediately signed up and probably seemed like every other over eager boy trying to make a name for himself, and by all rights he was.
After waiting for what felt like have a day he decided to go ask when there nearest bar was. He was starting to feel the effects of his hangover and wanted to nip it in the bud before it became a problem. A Local had told him of an old bar that was just down the street, Leoric smiled and took off towards the cure for his hangover.

-----------------------------------

Leoric sighed as he walked through a pair of heavy oaken doors, he had requested some directions to a local tavern so he could relax before his tournament matches. one look around the tavern and his sigh was warranted. there was several tables, chairs flipped on top of them and everything had a thin layer of dust. The room only had enough space for a couple of tables and corner booths.

"Great, I wonder if their is even booze behind the counter" Leoric said as he quickly walked around the bar and his eyes went wide with glee
"It's fully stocked!" he exclaimed with glee as he grabbed a few bottles and put it on top of the bar and uncorked them. "Guess I can get drunk here without worrying about others."

Leoric jumped on top of the bar and grabbed an open bottle of whisky and began to drink while the morning sun started to dart across the sky.


Short post, but it serves it's purpose

[Roht Mirage]

The polished oak door cracked open on silent, well-oiled hinges, revealing only a faint sliver of light and one steel grey eye. Long lashes fluttered in a startled blink.

“Only an hour?” Astarelle asked the Ixian guard beside her.

He refrained from peering in again; just simply nodded. His helmet cast a shadow that hid his expression, but she could hear the tweaked nerves as he cleared his throat. “I locked them in an hour ago, ma'am. The room was perfectly normal. But, now...” He trailed off as her grey eyes narrowed hazardously.

“You did what?” she asked. Her lip curled like a snake readying its fangs.

He raised a hand smoothly as if remembering that he was the larger of the two, and the only one armed. “I had to.” The authority returned to his voice. “They stole from one of the kitchen staff. Pulled the tray right out of her hands.”

Astarelle snorted. “They're just kids. Hungry kids. I'm sure you were never as hungry growing up as they used to be.”

“And the rings from her fingers.”

She bit her desert-toned lip. “Then take them back.”

“Most of her dress... as well as some hair.”

“Bury me,” Astarelle breathed, “They haven't done that in a while.”

“I've seen locusts take a field, ma'am, but those things.” The guard shook his head like a man haunted.

“They're little boys,” she hissed.

“Or they stole the skins of...”

Inside the room, a wooden thok, thok, thok was uninterrupted by their murmurs. Six small boys were using the severed limbs of furniture to bash bent nails into their new home: a lopsided tower of head boards and seat backs that had once been the accents of a comfortably-posh guest room. The unnatural structure had the same look of permanence -in intent, not necessarily stability- as a religious idol erected to worship the high window on the far wall. Another group of boys, numbering somewhere between six and eight (it was always hard to tell when they clustered) were drawing strewn bed sheets into their midst to work some mysterious voodoo upon.

To her, they were far too clever and industrious to deserve their colloquial name. Ferals.

“How many floors up are we?” Astarelle whispered, sounding truly concerned for the first time.

The guard thrummed beats in his throat as he counted. “Eleven.”

Astarelle clicked her tongue. “If they think they're going to rope their way down-”

“Peeping, Miss Set'Roh? And catching Samuel up in it,” a curt female voice tsked behind them.

Astarelle spun, flinching, and muttered, “Lina,” as if it was a curse word.

The guard, apparently Samuel, nearly jumped out of his plate. “We were just-”

“Don't bother,” Lina cut in, ever the time-minded steward. Her skewered bun of hair swayed with the brisk shake of her head. “Miss Set'Roh, on behalf of Master Orlouge, I would speak with you about the Magus Cup. Do you know what it is?”

Astarelle scowled, drawing lines across her divinely marked forehead and sun-kissed Fallien skin. “I know blasted well what it is,” she snapped, no longer caring if the ferals overheard. “That's why I've been avoiding Sei for weeks.”

“Oh, he could find you,” Lina quipped with her nose in the air, “If he really wanted to. But, he's far too busy. He simply wanted me to remind you that, as a Knight of... some renown...”

I won the sand-blasted Cell, Lina! she almost said, but sucked it back down. If not for that, this conversation wouldn't be happening.

“... it would be appropriate -or I should say expected- for you to enter the Magus.”

A sudden frenzy of whispers burst through the cracked door, making Astarelle all-too-readily turn away from Lina. “We'll talk after I-” She pushed the door open, then froze. Bury me. One boy -indiscernible from the others due to their time-wrought uniform of matted hair and long-ago-laundered clothes- was atop the awkwardly pious tower, his hands against the window that they all so yearned for. The assorted sheets were attached to him, but not as a rope. With tiny knots, they were affixed to his thighs and shoulders, and they draped heavily in great swooping rolls. His small hands swung the glass outward, and the sails twitched like the virgin wings of a freshly-molted moth. “Don't you dare!”

Panic. Feral boys scattered like roaches, howling and careening off walls is it dawned on them that they had no escape. Only the one at the window did, but he leaned over the sill with some trepidation. He looked back over his shoulder, twitching indecisively.

From under her shirt, Astarelle lifted a sapphire pendant and ripped it from her neck, leaving a harsh line where the cord snapped. Immediately, smaller gem chips bounced from their setting, hovered in the air, then dove into her other palm as she clenched her fingers shut. The pendant swung, its delicate metal now adorned only by the larger sapphire at the center. “No,” Astarelle commanded.

The boy's eyes searched her's, quivering. His body swayed toward the edge, then back. Samuel, apparently snapping from some amazed stupor, moved into the room with long strides, but the boy kept his eyes locked on Astarelle. There was fear, a longing for her to free him of the dreadful decision, and there was pride. So much pride. The fear flashed to insolence for a single, fleeting moment. Specifically, the time it took for him to exit the window. Samuel would never reach him, but from the final flicker of the boy's eyes, it was clear that even he -in a flash of realization- wished otherwise.

Astarelle whipped the pendant toward the blue void, sending it straight through the window to impound itself in the billow of his makeshift wings. In a mystical flash of blue almost invisible against the sky, the boy was gone.

Lina caught up to the sudden events, which she appraised with a high shriek of terror and a step back as if that small span might determine whether or not she heard the splat. The boy screamed also, higher and closer, as his bottom hit the tiled floor beside Astarelle's feet. He looked up, still wailing, to see her tense face half-hidden by the plume of his parachute. In the hand -knuckles pale- that had once held the estranged gem chips, she now held the reunited pendant, as well as the wing of one foolish little Icarus who had been towed along in a magical blink.

The boy quieted -as did the entire room- and started to creep away, but she yanked on the fabric at the same time that she flowed down to her knees. He crashed against her, and her arms encircled him. “Roh bless you, you stupid stupid boy,” she said in a whisper that filled the silent scene.

Samuel sighed loudly and reached over the furniture effigy to close the window while Lina stammered, “Why did- How- What in flaming Haidia, Astarelle?!”

The Fallien woman ignored her. Instead, she eased her grip on the boy enough to look him in his slack, stunned face. “Are you okay?” she asked as tenderly as could be expected of one who spent little time with children.

“Uh-huh,” the boy squeaked as appreciatively as any shunned street urchin would dare. The failed wings draped around his feet, and his eyes caught on the pendant in Astarelle's hand. After an uneasy moment, she held it forward, and he took it gingerly in both hands as if finally finding the diety of freedom that -it turns out- had not been waiting outside the window.

“Lina,” Astarelle said calmly as she stood and squared her shoulders against the harpy of a steward. “Sei already registered me in the Magus, didn't he?”

She cast her eyes sheepishly to the floor for one delicious moment, then snapped them back up with tempered fire. “You were nowhere to be found, sneaky Miss Set'Roh, and there was a time limit.”

“Ah, but I've heard from a very reliable source,” Astarelle said while waving one smug finger, “That Sei Orlouge would have no trouble finding me... if he wanted to.”

“That's- uh...” Lina clicked her mouth shut in defeat, but still managed to scowl at Astarelle's bug-eating grin.

“So, if our dear master has assumed my consent, I will assume that he has already agreed to my terms.”

“Terms? How would he know what your terms were?”

“How would I know that I was already taking part in the Magus?”

In the center of the room, Samuel choked out a long-suppressed laugh. The boys laughed also, not so much at the joke, but at the pleading look Lina shot toward the guard. “Would you help me here?” it said.

Astarelle crossed her arms. “For each round that I take part in, one room will be given to these children. No more stowing them away in servants' quarters, and no more blasted locking them up.” That quieted the adults and set the ferals to a chorus of wooping.

“You want more rooms to end up like this?” Samuel sputtered, waving his hands around as if she hadn't seen the gory, splintery remains. The air still smelled of resin and sawdust.

Astarelle flipped her long hair over her shoulder as she turned. “Why would they break their own stuff, Samuel?” she asked.

“Why, Samuel? Why, Samuel?” the ferals parroted as they scampered laps around the wreckage, kicking bits of wood into the air triumphantly.

“Lady,” said a soft voice under the din. Astarelle looked down at the small hand on her pant leg, and the other holding her pendant aloft. She took it with a nod, then noticed the cord hanging over her fingers. It had been retied with a knot as skillful as it was tiny.

Lina threw up her hands. “Fine. If they break anything, you'll just have to pay for it. And this,” she pointed flippantly into the room, “will be the start of that debt. You are their mother, now, Astarelle.”

I'm not their mother, Astarelle thought on reflex, but she smiled as she watched her winged one join the others in capering about. But they sure do need one.

~

The heavy door felt familiar against her hands, warm yet imposing. She just couldn't remember why. Just do it, she scolded herself, and pushed her way through.

At such an early hour, she expected a few drunkards or retirees with no constructive hobbies. She planned to have one drink -one- in memory of that embarrassing night before the Cell. It was an evening full of holes, and the parts she did remember were horrible enough to ward her from remembering the rest, but it was none-the-less the catalyst that had launched her toward that accidental victory. To not honor it would be a bad omen.

A few minutes. One drink. No kissing. She could deal with that. What she couldn't deal with was a sudden inhale of stale dust. Hacking, she covered her mouth and felt the hood of her forest green cloak fall back. So much for avoiding the spotlight, she grumbled as she rubbed her eyes. At any other time, she would have worn her sand as a disguise over the distinctive mark on her forehead. It was a mark the whole blood-lusting side of the city knew. Some merchants were even hawking sashes, swords, and dinnerware emblazoned with it. But, she hadn't disguised herself during that debaucherous and fateful night (she had been out of her blasted mind) and now, at the very least, wanted to keep true to that.

Her long reed staff clicked on the floor as she righted herself and looked around warily, her eyes growing wider and wider. Never mind fans who would recognize her; there wasn't a soul in the room save for one stern-jawed and well-muscled man sitting on the bar with a bottle upended in his mouth. He seemed just as surprised as she was.

Behind her, the door clicked shut like an insistent clearing of the throat, and she felt an awkward faux-smile appear on her face. “So... anything good?” she asked as she pointed one end of the staff toward the bar that he... tended? No, he didn't have a whisper of 'tending' about him. The bar was his domain, and he the lord and master of all that lay dustily before him.

[Leoric]

Leoric looked out of the corner of his eye at the newcomer into the bar. He was worried she may be the bartender or owner. However, the words that came out of her mouth next assured him she wasn't.

“Name your poison, it is fully stocked!” Leoric gurgled under his whisky as he leaned back to grab a bottle from behind the bar. However in his time of chugging back some booze, he hadn't realized just how hard it was hitting him. He was quite tipsy and in his failure to realize this he slid off the bar and landed head first on the dust covered floor. Without missing a beat he grabbed a few bottles and placed them on top of the bar and stood up as if nothing had happened.

“Whisky, Vodka, Gin, Scotch, good ole fashioned Ale straight from the barrels themselves” He pointed with a thumb behind him at several large barrels of ale. While Leoric waited for his rather attractive visitor to make a choice he grabbed a mug and poured himself an ale and drank it back as fast as he could when an idea dawned on him.

“Care for a drinking competition? You would seem like a tea totaller, if you weren’t in a pub alone with a man” He smirked as he eyed her up and down, hungrily. Wondering what she would look like bent over one of the tables or even upstairs with him amongst the sheets.

He wasn't a reserved kind of man... if he wanted something he went for it, no matter the consequences. That was probably the reason why he had so many bounties on his head already, But what is life without a little fun every now and then? He quickly poured himself another Ale and leaned forward over the bar, eagerly awaiting an answer.

[Roht Mirage]

His desire burned like Fallien's sun at the break of dawn, pleasant and welcome for the short time before it became uncomfortable; a point he had already reached when he proposed his game. Most women would have turned for the door. Astarelle Set'Roh, however, had some experience with this dance. When to seek shade, that was the question, from the sun as well as men's lustful 'schemes' (if one was to describe them charitably).

A few minutes. One drink. No kissing. There was some give to the first two rules. The third... not on his life.

“Tea totaller? We don't have this word where I come from,” she said smoothly, her Tradespeak wreathed in more of her home accent than she would dare use in more distinguished company. “But, I am always ready for a contest.”

With a definite sway to her hips, concealed somewhat by the draping cloak, she started to approach the bar, her staff tapping contemplatively at her side. She returned the appraising glance, her intentions vastly more tactical than his -the vest betrayed that he had no armor over his impressively muscled torso- and yet there was some grudging approval... of the more animal kind. Some other woman, at some other time, might partake.

He seemed a very benign rogue, though one who apparently didn't think twice about raiding a pub. Granted, it was clear that the place hadn't been open for business for... weeks? Months? She gingerly brushed a finger across one tabletop as she passed, then held it up to the streams of dawning light that squeaked through the equally dusty windows. Her fingertip was colored a grey more ashen than the bitterest of old crones. Sniffing, she flicked the dust off on the edge of her cloak.

“Though,” she mused luxuriously as she came to a stop at the bar, “What is a contest without a prize?” Bracing the staff against her hip, she undid the clasp of her cloak and shrugged one shoulder out of it. Her jet-black leggings and loose, high-necked white blouse seemed at equal odds of being ruined by the dust, but she paid no mind. She simply gathered her cloak in one arm as his predictable eyes rove over the elegant lines of her legs and the promising yet mysterious curves of her upper half. “If you win, you will receive a kiss. Maybe more.”

Bury me, this is bold as the depths. But... it seems to be to his tastes.

Indeed, he seemed ready to leap back over the bar -presumably with more stability- and seize his prize right there. Curtly, Astarelle spun on her heel and walked to one of the tables. She could almost feel his gaze on her rump. Years of dance had gifted her with a shape that, at least there, was all natural. The twin curves filling her blouse were somewhat less so. The fabric was loose to allow her to hide sand against her body, but it looked positively -and rather unexpectedly- enticing when she willed the sand into a shape more scandalous than her own.

Stepping a little more slowly than normal, she continued, “If I win, you will accompany my entourage to each of my matches in the Magus Cup. I assure you, it's a very good seat.” Her back was still to him, making the double entendre as obvious as her face was hidden. Blast it. I'm going to make myself blush if I'm not careful. Her staff clattered loudly across the table, maybe breaking him from his trance, maybe not, and her cloak slumped heavily over it. In the folds of the cloak, sand was hidden as well, and a little remained in the sleeves of her blouse, because only fools wore empty sleeves.

Before turning, she swept back a long strand of smoky-brown hair that had escaped her braid, settling it behind her ear. Concealed in the motion, a small globule of sand rolled from the billowing cuff, across her cheek, and disappeared between her parting lips. The sand grated against her tongue, then her throat. She resisted the urge to gag as she held it there, just askew enough to leave her speech unaffected.

With a spin that set the braid swinging, she caught his unapologetic gaze and stepped quickly to the bar. She neglected to take a seat, instead sidling between two stools as she placed one hand delicately on the bar's edge and, with the other, nudged the bottle of vodka toward him through the cloying dust. “Wash the glasses first, please.”

[Leoric]

Leoric crooked an eyebrow and smirked as he grabbed a pair of glasses from under the bar and a nearby rag. He shook the rag as a ploom of dust billowed out towards the window. Rays of sunlight streaking through the dust as it gently fell towards the floor. He smirked and poured some of his whisky onto the rag as he cleaned and made the cups as good as new. He poured the two drinks and gently slid it across the table.

“A mere kiss doesn't seem like quite a prize now does it?” The tipsy man responded as he downed his drink and got ready to pour another “And, I will have to decline the fancy word thing you said if I lost. I have also entered the Magus cup... it wouldn’t do well if I had a match at the same time”

Leoric smirked as he looked up and saw that his company had finished her cup of vodka almost as fast as he had and quickly topped her back up.

“However, I do have another wager... whoever losses our little drinking contest has to pay out any and all winnings they get from the Cup to the other” He smirked as his words began to slur. It may seem quick for a veteran of the bar, but he had yet to eat anything and, he had already finished a full size bottle of whisky. “I could use some extra money, by the way, My name is Leoric I figured if you were going to kiss me you might as well know my name.”

Leoric finished another drink as we felt his muscles begin to itch. The same feeling he always got before he started so many bar fights. His muscles were begging to be used. On the outside they would appear to be small twitches or bulges in his arm. However, for the sake of the pretty face in front of him he tried his best to restrain his primal urges. The drunken brawler was in a losing battle, if only he knew how true that was.

[Roht Mirage]

Bigger than I expected. The glasses, that is. She had hoped they would start with shots, not full pints. Any proper bartender would have a mind for the strength of the drink, or more likely the cost of it. This man had not a care for either.

Grumbling internally, she mirrored him on the first drink without thinking. A fraction of the vodka was absorbed in the sandy trap at the side of her throat, and the rest shot through her like a gout of fire from a cracked forge. The firmness with which she set the glass back down was due entirely to shock, yet he seemed to take it as a challenge and immediately refilled the vessel.

With some cringing relief, she realized that his refusal to join her 'entourage' may have been a blessing.

~

“After what they did to the Cell spectators?!” Lina barked. The ferals careened past her feet as both her and Astarelle came to a dead stop in Ixian Castle's great hall. Her outrage would have echoed in the cavernous room for days if not for the long central carpet and hanging banners of house colors.

Astarelle sighed quietly. “I'll ask for front row seats to keep them distracted. After all, I am the Ce-”

“Do you know how quickly that will be forgotten?” the steward snapped, “Each year, we see a half dozen champions of something-or-other. Do you remember any of their names?”

Astarelle bit her lip and looked down at the last of the children capering around her to reach the hall's yawning doors. They didn't know what kind of adventure they were in for. But, regardless, they were excited. Some might say dangerously excited.

“Maybe...” she thought aloud without making eye contact, “if someone went along to watch over them.” She didn't need to look up to sense Lina's glare, a mixture of disbelief and horror.

With an sardonic chuckle and a turn of her head that set her nose pointing at the rafters, she glided toward the hall entrance from which they had come. “Good luck finding anyone here who will babysit those monsters,” she said, obviously smirking, as she left Astarelle to the empty hall and the raucous squeals of the children outside.

Babysit? No. I need someone who can survive them.

~

Survive. Leoric might have been up to the challenge. He had abs that could survive a hurricane -were they twitching?- and shoulders that could hoist an small ox. However, Astarelle did not want to find out what the boys would try should a certain confuses-alcohol-with-water someone get the poor things sloshed out of their minds.

No, best that he was left to his own hobbies; tournaments and drinking, apparently.

A smirk stole away some of the allure from her face. “I don't know if the winnings are a fair bet. Given my record, you would stand to gain quite a.... Wait. You don't know who I am, do you?” she asked, her surprise only partially faked. With a feline smirk, she planted one elbow on the bar and rested the side of her face in the upraised hand. Her other hand gripped her second glass of vodka and moved it to her lips at a laborious pace. “Does the name Astarelle Set'Roh sound familiar? Or,” she cringed, “Roht Mirage?” Her speech was slightly slurred, though less from the drink than from the manipulation of sand between her palm and the corner of her mouth. A trickle that rivered up from her sleeve was just enough to sneak between her lips and scrape the saturated glob from her throat. Bury me... She couldn't help but wince. The sensation of itchy tonsils was horrifically indescribable.

Chaperoned by dry grains, the wet ones made it into her sleeve discreetly, and she considered doubling down on the tactic. More sand. Enough to steal way the majority of a whole glass of vodka. She gagged at the prospect, but seriously considered it. Unfortunately, he was giving her no time to steel herself.

Third blasted glass, already to his lips. Astarelle glared hotly under her lashes and gulped back her second. To her unobstructed throat, it burned more than the first, and her stomach clench belligerently. Is this a race now? Her throat heaved in an attempt to halt the flow, making her slam the glass, half full, back to the bar as she coughed wetly.

A phrase she had learned from the illustrious Relt Peltfelter came back to her, and if it was ever called for, this was the time. “Fuck this!” Astarelle shouted loudly enough for it to echo in the room, or it would have if the layers upon layers of dust weren't cushioning the sound. “You win. No bets.”

She tried to turn away, but a band of dizziness gripped her skull. Muttering another of Relt Peltfelter's phrases -something about a 'horker'- she forcibly seated herself at one of the bar stools. Leoric, still across the bar and who knows how deep into his third glass, was to her left side. She looked pointedly to her right. With a warning growl from deep in the throat, she waved a hand flippantly to ward off any gesture or outburst from him. One moment, then I'm gone, she told herself, though the lingering dizziness seemed ready to prove her a liar.

[Leoric]

Leoric slammed his third glass down on the table and cackled as he looked up at the roof. The booze was really starting to him as he fell on his ass behind the bar and smirked. He was correct, she was a teetotaler, she couldn’t handle her booze. At this point many would have been passed out drunk with the amount of booze he had consumed. However, as Leoric spent every night in some bar or getting drunk, he seemed to be able to handle it much better then others.

He got back up and looked at the maiden across the bar, he was on her left yet she was facing the right presenting the back of her head to him. At first Leoric contemplated running his hand through her hair and maybe even taking that kiss she promised if he had won. Yet for some reason another though came to mind. ”We are both enrolled in the Magus cup, I would eventually end up fighting her at some point or another...” His thoughts continued as his hand fumbled for the heaviest bottle of booze under the table ”If I take her out now, it would give me a free pass on to more interesting opponents”

his hand gripped the largest and heaviest bottle under the table and he quietly and slowly pulled it up over his head ready to just break it over her skull, His arm muscle twitched begging him to do it quickly and right away.

“How about one more drink before we get underway!” he grunted as he swung the heavy bottle with all of his drunken might towards the top of her skull. Yet, it dawned on him he probably shouldn’t of said anything as she began to turn towards him to answer his question. Leoric winced as he tried to push more strength behind the bottle to get it to her quicker then her reaction time could block or deflect.

[Roht Mirage]

“Only if you stand on your blasted head and pour it in your-”

She paused for one brief moment of realization, giving a small utterance, “Scorpion piss,” before the bottle connected. The tiniest of dodges avoided a blunt impact, but the bottle still skimmed off the back of her head. It didn't break. Her skull, however, felt like it might shatter, if not from the impact, then from the rush of pain and sound that bounced within like a harpy's shriek in a cave.

Belting out a scream of her own, Astarelle fell to the floor without any intention to and only managed to avoid a broken nose at the last moment. “What in the-” she began to shout as she tried to unwind her arms. The sound of movement silenced her. She didn't know if he was circling the bar or bounding over it, but she sure wasn't lucky enough for him to fall in his face this time. Wriggling with all the grace and speed of a cripple on fire, she scuttled under the nearest table.

As soon as she was under it's comforting shelter, she reached for the back of her head, which drew a wince and an instant recoil. Her hair was sticky and her fingers, even in all the dust, were dark with blood. You bug-sucking piece of... He was moving again, somewhere. Astarelle recoiled to the far side of the table's shadow, then bit her lip. Hard. I will not run from you.

With a scream as if the harpy careening around in her head had finally escaped, she rolled onto her shoulders and kicked upward. The table took to the air with an aged groan and crashed down just past her sprawling legs. With another kick, she tried to flip to her feet. She only managed a lackluster roll forward and had to hoist herself to herself the rest of the way using one of the table legs that pointed skyward like the hoof of a tipped and rigor-mortised cow.

She tried to pinpoint her staff and cloak, but the dust thrown up from the flung table blurred her vision as surely as the throbbing in her skull numbed her sand senses. “I am the champion of the sand-blasted Cell!” she howled at what seemed to be his approaching shape. Her eyes were running. She tried to blink them clear. “Who in the depths do you think you are?!”

[Leoric]

Leoric seethed with rage as the bottle narrowly missed his mark, he wanted it to shatter not skim through her gossamer like hair. As a thud could be heard echoing throughout the room. The drunken brawler quickly ran around the bar to just barely make out her silhouette disappearing behind a table. "well shit, I guess I need to use it after all" Leoric spread his legs so they were about shoulder width apart and lowered his body. he glanced down at her hands as sand began to wrap around and form blades as she cried out in rage.


"Me? I'm the one night stand you can't forget, yet hate to remember" he smirked as a gust of wind erupted from him. Kicking up dust and pushing it to the back wall, moving some chairs and tables slightly as he took off towards her. Just as he was nearing striking distance he tripped, in his drunken stupor. He used the momentum to carry himself through a roll and used it to get a solid quaking palm strike into her stomach. She slid back several feet as she tried to cry out in pain. Instead she was met with the vodka making another appearance.

Leoric smirked as he stood back up and braced himself on a nearby table. As his hand connected he looked down in surprise and saw his opponents staff. He wrapped his fingers around it and picked it up before he began to cackle, ominously.

[Roht Mirage]

Bunny was approved.

Vodka, flowing upward, burned just as much and tasted twice as horrible. For some reason, that was the thought that filled her mind as she careened backward. She caught herself on a table, but only after the table caught her by planting it's edge into her lower back. Sand splashed in her wake, forming a multi-hued slug trail from where she had been standing. One second more, and the sand that had billowed from her sleeves would have solidified into blades. Yet, with the formation halted, it became little more than stylized spray as the brawler throttled her around the pub.

If not for the armored corset under her clothing, the blow might have undone her. Fear was fleeting, though. The whole situation was too surreal. Him, from tavern jester to villain so quickly... and her, a would-be temptress looking down at her deflated blouse with a dark, wet pattern of alcoholic bile. Wiping -and ruining- one sleeve across her mouth, she looked up at him and growled, “One night stand? Not on your- Hands off!”

The smug sand-licker's grip tightened on her staff, and his eyes said, “Just try to take it from me.”

A wry, pained smile turned her face. “Leoric, dear lord of the bottle,” Astarelle razzed as she pushed herself from the table, “Would you care to join me...” The sandy trail painting the floor vibrated and separated, color from color. The majority returned to rest, but the whitest of the white grains swept toward her shoes, then spiralled upward. Brushing her sinuous legs, her subtle hips, and her humble chest, the tinkling points of white crystal raced, as if drawn by a vortex, to her face. “In a dance?” she finished as her voice was cut off. The sand formed one solid mass, a featureless white mask, nothing but benignly-slanted slits for eyes.

With as much speed as she dared, she spun toward the next table, keeping it between her and her abuser. Sand, as if answering her call in his stead, moved with her. The trail across the floor kicked into the air, rattling hard against the undersides of tables, and the granite-toned sand hidden in her forgotten cloak burst to life, towing the fabric for a moment before it broke free. The air filled with sharp, glistening grains and softer, thicker clots of dust.

The all-encompassing whisper of the desert hid the sound of Astarelle's shoes as she attempted the tight spin of Farohtian dance and only succeeded by bracing herself, hand over hand, on the table's edge. Her head felt a pace behind, and her sheltered eyes a world away, for the dust that joined her sand in the air rendered the room nothing but off-grey shapes. She could feel the room, though. Each collision of sand spoke to her -in its own time- to tell her the shape of all that impeded it. She could feel Leoric... in more detail than she wished. The twitching lines of his muscles, the fluttering of his hair, every flex as his body responded to the tepid storm.

Coming full circle around the table, shifting from toe to toe and handhold to handhold, Astarelle sensed a clear path to him, or where he had been when her whispering sand was obstructed. She planted both feet, locked onto his direction with her blank face, and lunged. The sand rushed with her, giving a forceful push as she reached forward and beckoned to the staff.

[Leoric]

Leoric was starting to enjoy himself, first the all he could drink booze, then a little bar brawl that he figured would be over shortly. His opponent made her move, using all the dust he had just made airborne.

"I don't dance, similarly to how you don't drink" he smirked as he felt the staff in his hand tug forwards. The lord of the bottle, as she so eloquently put it, surmised the staff was trying to go towards his opponent shrouded in the sand. At that moment many ways to attack came into mind, yet as the thick sand/dust mixture kept getting thicker, he figured it meant getting closer as well. Leoric lowered his grip on the staff and pulled it back behind his head, prepared to swing it like a club.

The momentum from pulling the staff back had thrown the drunken man off balance as he spun in place. Without losing the opportunity given to him, he flexed his arm muscles and swung into his swing? Hoping that the stick would connect with his opponents face and send her careening clear across the room, Leoric would then straddle her and proceed to throw punch after punch into her face until she begged for mercy or passed out.

[Roht Mirage]

With her breath stagnant under the mask (it was porous enough for shallow breathes, but not for the panicked, drunken kind) she gulped even more air. Let go! she willed as her staff was held from her. It's position was barely discernible... high, slanted, ready; just as she held it before knocking some fool's head for the parapets.

Bury me!

She might have had enough time to duck, but she didn't. She would not dodge her own weapon and leave it in the hands of that booze-brained bastard one second longer than necessary. In a move that betrayed just how intoxicated she also was, she turned her charge into a leap and caught the end of the staff on her shoulder. Her hands wrapped around it, one strongly, the other limply as pain blasted down her left side. Her feet slide on the floor, working with the traction that her scattered sand provided, and she braced herself to a stop as she glowered at him through the slits.

Immediately, three events took place. First, the storm staggered to a halt. The sand remained airborne, nothing more than an irritant, and the dust drifted lazily down as if tired from the windy adventure. Second, a sparkling line of crystal blue jumped from the neck of her blouse and over Leoric's head like the tear trail of an invisible pixie. Third -and this was the part that turned the anguished grimace under her mask into a horrible grin- the sand hidden in the pores of the reed staff sprang to life. Two thin tendrils of burnt-gold burst from spots near each of his wrists, skimmed a hair's width over his flesh, and reconnected with the staff to form cuffs -bladed cuffs- slanted so that any attempt to quickly escape would skin the backs of his hands to bone and knuckles.

Astarelle suddenly dropped to the floor. Her rump struck first, painfully vibrating her bruised torso, then the end of the staff thunked to the floorboards. A bulb of sand emerged from the reed, delving into the cracks of the floor and hardening to lock it in place; the staff now one with the weathered wood. Then, Astarelle was gone. Where she had once been, there was only a rapidly-fading outline of blue like an image burnt into the eye.

At the same moment, the flecks of sapphire coalesced into a single point behind Leoric's shoulders. It was a small, sparkling seed... that heralded the instantaneous reappearance of the masked woman. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her breasts crushed to his back, and her right arm came up and over his own. The elbow, vice-like, clamped down on his shoulder as she took his hair in one violent handful. With abdominals quaking, Astarelle reared back. A whole swathe of sand drifting around her collapsed onto the brow of the mask, forming a row of three-inch spikes like the plated frill of a prehistoric beast. She let out a scream that reverberated diabolically from the mask, then snapped her head forward and down to bury the ridge of spikes into the left side of his neck.

[Leoric]

Everything seemed to happen at a blurring speed. Leoric's intoxicated brain couldn't keep up. One moment the staff connected with his opponent, it is then pulled down towards the ground and some sand thing had encased his hand. any attempt at moving caused sharp pains to run through his arm. Then, all of a sudden, there she was on his back. He instinctively pulled his right arm back as he let go of the staff, tearing his hand apart. At the last second he realized he just wasn't fast enough, her spiky forehead perforated his neck and he dropped to the ground in agony.

“Dammit!” He coughed as the blood began to pour out of his neck holes “And here all I was going to do if I won... was put you in a bed upstairs … with a note, making you think we did something...” He hacked and cough as he started to get cold. “I guess, this is what death feel's like” as he heard his opponent move he knew he couldn’t move to react or counter, he was done for, instead he simply uttered a few very weak words.

“Care for one last drink? My pretty lady.” In all his bar fights, in any of his fights for that matter. He had never been so close to death. His match with Zack blaze had ended in a double knock out, neither of them close to death. His master, had never taught him what being close to death felt like. The sensation actually scared Leoric, for the first time in his life he didn’t have a snarky comeback, or one liner as he was defeated. Instead tears began to well up in his eyes as he feared for what was to come.

[Roht Mirage]

Astarelle had slipped off his back after the impact, washed down in the first burbles of blood like an insect with wings damp. The crimson screen dripped down the mask, found the slits, and forced her to close her eyes. Her sand, airborne but still, told her little of his movement. Wheezing, incapacitated, she skittered back on elbows and heels until her aching skull bumped against a table leg.

“Liar,” she hissed in the confines of the mask, “You were going to... take what all men want.” She tried to say it with venom, but his wet whisper of death made the hostility run from her. It's over? The white mask melted from her face, taking his blood with it. Though, some did stick in her hair, glistening darkly.

Warily, Astarelle circled him. She kept her body low, but only because it felt so heavy with inebriation, exhaustion, and the vengeful return of pains that resented being ignored. Skittering through the dust and sand, smelling the bitter scent of blood, she came to the end of the staff that was locked to the floor. With eyes wide, she looked at his neck. Blood spurted from the holes at each ragged breath. His eyes leaked, empty of bravado, and clearly emptying of life.

She couldn't believe that his intentions were as benign as he claimed. Not after he had struck her from behind. Not after he had pressed the attack so hard. He would have to be a fool with not a stitch of foresight.

Astarelle felt the vodka flop about in her stomach.

“You're a blasted idiot, you know that?” she spat angrily as she reached for her staff. The sand retracted into its core, releasing the floorboards and his hand that he had not filleted through the cuffs. Instantly, he fell face first into the blood that pooled on the floor. It couldn't drain way between the boards as quickly as he was replacing it.

A weak bubbling announced that his nose was crunched under the tide, and Astarelle instinctively dropped her staff to tilt him over. His head came to rest on her lap. The horrible wound soaked her thighs. “Idiot. Booze-sucking idiot,” she rambled as she looked at his slackening face. It was painted in red as solidly as if he was now the one wearing a mask.

Of course, his last request would be a drink.

With one red hand, she reached into her blouse for the sapphire pendant. The sickly warmth of blood ran down between her breasts, pooling in the valley of the corset. She bit her lip painfully, forcing herself to concentrate on the gem particles in the pendant, and sent them toward the bar. In a moment -one of so few remaining for the fool- the bottle of vodka, nearly empty, flickered to her hand.

Leoric weakly raised his right hand -the bloody mess that remained of a hand- on the strength of habit alone. Astarelle huffed and moved the bottle to his lips herself. Yet, when she tilted it for him to take the last dregs, he didn't swallow. The light went from his eyes as if she had poured water on guttering coals. Vodka sloshed from the corner of his mouth. She tilted the bottle away, clanking its bottom on the painted floor. “This is real,” she told herself after a long time staring at him, and him staring at her... unblinking. “I'm a murderer.” Part of her begged for her legs to move, to go find an Ai'Brone to perform some sort of miracle. But, even they had their limits, and Corone, blood-lavishing place that it was, had laws. Bury me. Astarelle lifted the bottle to her mouth. She could taste his blood on her lips, her tongue. Then, the burn scoured it away.

The heavy doors creaked behind her, and the smooth, shuffling footfalls of multiple bodies moved into the pub. The authorities. Astarelle squeezed her eyes shut, wringing out tears, and resolutely finished the bottle.

“Astarelle Set'Roh?” said a kindly yet cautious voice.

“Hoak?” she choked out. The last drops of vodka rolled down her chin as the bottle clattered to the floor beside her and rolled. She dizzily turned her head, grey eyes wide and uncomprehending. “Hoak?” she asked again, “What are you... What?”

Among the cluster of approaching Ai'Brone, only Hoak had his hood down. The weathered lines of his face were heavy with apology. “I told them it was too cruel. But, they insisted. Real drama for the spectators. They didn't know how hard you took your first match here.” A half-dozen hoods swayed toward him, hiding either anger or amusement.

Astarelle looked between the forest of their robes and out the open door. The polished stone of the Citadel, and another heavy door on the opposite wall, were all that could be seen. Her head tilted to the side as if her mind literally had broken in two with one chunk larger and weighting down the right side of her skull. “I entered from a street... in the city.”

One of the dark hoods chuckled. “It's not a trick we perform often, or for just anyone.” Astarelle blinked. “Welcome to the Magus.”

She looked down at Leoric's dead expression, and she swore she could hear his spirit laughing smugly, luxuriating in the feel of her lap. “Son of a horker!” she cursed as she dumped him unceremoniously to the ground. The Ai'Brone were just far enough away to not catch him before his head slapped -satisfyingly- onto the bloody boards.

Instantly, she was on her feet, or trying to. Hoak's iron grip caught her and helped her stand. She looked him in the face, but his eyes were elusive and ashamed. “You...” she slurred. He looked away with a grimace. I wanted to recreate that night before the Cell. Bury me, did I ever. She expanded the list in her head. More than a few minutes; check. More than one drink, and shared with the most uncouth kind of person; check. A bar brawl; check and then some. Only one omen was unfulfilled. “Fuck it,” the former priestess muttered as she gripped the folds of Hoak's robe and towed her face to his.

~The sound of Leoric's body -again- hitting the floor.
A cluster of sharp, astonished intakes of breath.
The wet resonance of a passionate, relieved, too-long kiss.~

Astarelle pulled her mouth back from Hoak's, marking him with vodka and blood that ran down the edge of his lips as he stared, jaw dropping. She playfully pushed away from him, then wobbled and grabbed his arm. “Don't just stare, boys. You've got to sober me up for round two.”

[Max Dirks]

Interesting battle. Since you two are classified as veterans, my commentary will be limited. Overall, I feel Roht Mirage had a better handle over the writing aspects of the rubric whereas Leoric dominated the RP elements. I'll be combining my comments. RM refers to Roht Mirage and LC refers to Leoric.



Roht MirageLeoricNotes

Story
6
5
RM: Your twist conclusion earned you an extra point here.



Setting
6
5



Pacing
5
6
RM: Your overuse of elipses hurt you here. Also, the flashback to the boy's home seemed forced. You hurt yourself by turning away from this storyline.


Communication
5
4



Action
4
5
LC: You did a better job of establishing and playing your character drunk. Moreover, you maintained him as such whereas RM had a few posts where Astrella did not seem affected at all by the alcohol. Also, towards the climax of the battle, both of your characters' actions became somewhat convoluted. It became unclear of what was actually happening without several slow re-reads.


Persona
5
5



Mechanics
5
5
RM: Your overuse of elispes had the same affect as excessive comma usage in your writing: run-on sentences. For example, this line, "One boy -indiscernible from the others due to their time-wrought uniform of matted hair and long-ago-laundered clothes- was atop the awkwardly pious tower, his hands against the window that they all so yearned for..." required multiple rereads to discern your intent. Simply adding a connection word, like "who" can clean that up. Also, try to avoid ending sentences with prepositions. LC: You had some issues with run-ons as well, but not to the extent of RM. Also, read through your post before submitting it (even if you're using a word processor). I noted far too many grammar, capitalization, and spelling errors for my liking. For example, in your first post you didn't capitalize two sentences in a row! You're better than that.


Clarity
5
5



Technique
7
5
RM: Though sometimes unnatural, the breaks in your writing gave it a flair that made it enjoyable to read (and reread when I misunderstood the meaning of what you wrote). When you are in a grove, your writing flows. As an advanced writer, I encourage you to start adding simile, metaphor and foreshadow to your writing. LC: I can't tell you how many times you repeated the same actions between dialogue. "Leoric smirked" was your favorite. I used to have the same issue. Overusage of certain terms (in general writing) and actions (in stories) makes the writing sound repetitive. It makes you seem less creative that you likely are. Brevity is a good cure here. Say only what you need to say and don't worry about filler.


Wildcard
5
5


Total
Total
53/10050/100



Roht Mirage advances to Round Two!
Leoric is very much alive in the Loser's Bracket.

Roht Mirage earns 1750 EXP and 75 GP.
Leoric earns 525 EXP and 70 GP.

[Lye]

EXP & GP Added!