Life's A Beach (Closed)

[Arden]

Closed to Scribe of Marwolaeth.

A bristling wind fell down the cliff face, chilling the swordsman from head to toe the moment the icy touch caressed his crown. There was no shelter to be had from the weather in the foot of the ‘giant’s belt’, as the sea gale swept in from the east and exposed his left flank to further trauma.

“Pray he arrive ‘fore I perish,” Arden whispered. There was little strength left in his lips to muster more than a coarse utterance.

He looked to the north. The cliffs vanished into the horizon, and the beach along with it. He turned to the south, and met with a mirror image. Out to the east, the sea lapsed against the shore, and the tumultuous cumulus clouds portended tidal waves and hurricanes.

“On the beach, then,” he resolved. He began to pat his shoulders, heavy gauntlets clanking against moulded pauldrons, and stomped his left foot, and then his right. Anything he could do to keep warm, he would.

All his instincts told him to find shelter. Arden Janelle was a hardened veteran of too many wars and too few victories. The foot of the cliffs had nooks, but non-deep enough to hide him. The beach was some three hundred feet wide, from shore to shale, and some thirty feet more of rising rubble lead to the foot of the white chalk bulwark. The storm drained the cliff’s colour, but even in the overcast light, he could see they were resplendent in the sun.

“If it must be…”

Abandoning his maudlin’ overtone, the swordsman drew his blade, the Fang, and let its tip crash to the soft, wave-worn sand. It cut with ease into the moistened crystals, and there he let it rest, like an eschew gravestone. It would mark as epitaph for one of the combatants come the end of this pathetic fallacy. He stared ahead; opposite from where he had emerged, and hoped whosoever had come to test their mettle came to test it, lest the bitterly cold environment of this strange land do the work for him.

[Scribe of Marwolaeth]

Rounding a small bend in the cliff side, Marawol spotted his opponent.

"Curse this sand," he muttered, "Not solid ground, is not safe ground." He didn't like the look of him, or his sword, but he wasn't sure which he liked less.

Stopping around seven meters away from the warrior, he checked his bow, and with a flourish, nocked an arrow. Flexing his fingers, Mar scanned the area.

"Looks safe-ish... The cliffs are bright enough to blind me. What kind of god would chose to create something so white? There's water, lots of water, we like water," he muttered, spending a few precious moments studying the stoic looking swordsman.

A gust of wind had him shivering, wishing he had worn something thicker than the mail vest with the leather one underneath. Also, that sword looked real sharp, much sharper than his rapier. Not to mention that it could probably cleave his shield in two.

"All right, I better get started before I turn into an icicle. That would be a rather cold fate," he thought, chuckling at his terrible attempt of a joke. Spying a small rock, he scooped it up, never taking his eyes off his opponent. Bouncing it in his palm, he tossed it lightly in the direction of swordsman, taking care to not actually hit him.

"Hello, Sir Knightly-looking, Sir," he called, bowing deeply. "If you are afraid after seeing me, your challenge, you may quake in your boots and retain your honor. Do so now, there won't be much time for it later."

With his pleasantries out of the way, Marawol eased his fingers around the arrow.

"Now," he thought, "Let's get you to show your skill."

[Arden]

With barely enough time to register the man’s words, Arden vanished. It was only by the good grace of Thayne that the arrow loosen from the haggard bow did not pierce his neck there and then, and cut the engagement woefully short. Instead, it pierced the wall of blue ribbons left in his wake, and vanished into the maelstrom of the night.

Arden re-appeared, two seconds later, and ready for war. He picked up his sword from the sand, stomped a boot, as though scuffing to charge, and charged. He leapt up onto a wet rock, glistening black in the limelight, and kicked forwards back to the sand. It shot up around his heavy boots, weighed down immensely, even though his armour was mithril. As he advanced, he measured every inch of his opponent, tried and tested analysis of an inferior opposition.

A crack of thunder rumbled overhead. When Arden was twenty feet away, the lightning that followed illuminated the man’s face. He saw a withered husk of a soul, worn not by fighting, but by time. Despite his aged form, his eyes, pearl-like and luminescent, reflected the purest of midday skies.

“Would you recognise it, even if I did?” he roared in delayed reply.

With the gap closed, his hound emblazoned armour slick with rain, and his hair sodden, the Hound of the Scourge closed in for the kill. He twisted his blade ninety degrees, held it out to his right in a single hand, and cupped his left arm as though he held a shield. At the last, he turned the sword, shot it forth, and hoped to bruise the man’s bow hand with the flat of his blade, or at the least, wind him. He turned the blade so quickly, he was sure his opponent would defend against a blade’s edge, not a blunt barrage.

[Scribe of Marwolaeth]

"Well," Mar thought as his opponent vanished to dodge his shot, "at least it was right on target."

He had no more time to ponder as his opponent reappeared, and advanced with astonishing speed. Marawol admired that. Although the man wore heavy armour, and charged across a beach of sand, he still moved in controlled, almost graceful, steps.

Loosening his shield, he let it drop low on his back. The man had already covered almost the entire distance between them, and Mar found himself having to look up to meet his eye. Once again, he was at a size disadvantage.

The sword came fast enough that for a fraction of a second, Mar was too stunned to move. With no way to stop the blow, his rapier still sheathed, shield slung across his back and bow lacking in solidity, he had to move.

He stepped forward and out with his right foot, planting it firmly next to the left foot of his opponent. Swinging himself around on it, he winced as he slammed back to back with Sir Swift, as he had now decided to refer to the nameless Knight. His shield burrowed into his back, but he couldn't adjust it until he distanced himself from the bite of a certain blade.

Using the momentum of the turn, Mar kicked back, hoping to catch Sir Swift in the back of the knee with considerable force.

Unhappy with placing all his trust into one move, he simultaneously dropped his bow and drew his rapier, and with the previous attempted sword blow still in mind, threw out a light hearted compliment.

"Beautiful control. Much finesse in that attack."

[Arden]

Arden’s knee smashed into the sand with the force of a comet. He grunted, but felt no pain. The shock rocked his leg, pelvis, and spine, and gave life and fervour to his awakening senses.

“Argg!”

When he snarled, and snarl ferociously he did, he revealed fang and infamy in equal measure. Instinct took hold, and he vaulted forwards. His cloak extended as he took to the howling gale, and became twin peaks of crimson cloth, winged and terrifying.

“Allay the pleasantries,” he barked as he turned. His foot smashed down, his legs parsed, his eyes bore holes into the man before him. His shield was no longer a potential problem. Arden concentrated solely on his lips.

Before he could speak again, Marawol lashed against the Hound’s sword. His rapier, quicker than Arden’s bastard blade, found advantage where others would have failed. Arden barked, fangs protruding once more, and allowed the energy in his pauldron to spring to life.

“I am not here to talk!”

Swinging his sword full-circle, twisting his heel to cause a delay and thus a counterweight, he aimed to cleave the man in two. Speed, once more, undid his plan. Marawol found liquidity in the thick air, and, having struck first, the two men began to understand one another as one leapt, and one lashed.

[Scribe of Marwolaeth]

Marawol was getting nervous. He knew that his enemy had an upper hand not only in strength, but in size. His small advantage in speed wouldn't keep him in one piece for long. Even as he dove backwards, away from the screeching horizontal attack, he felt the blade scratch against his chain-mail.

A plan emerged from his panic, and just like his panic, it was quite dangerous, but counter weighed by the immense pay off. Part one was simple, taunt his opposition enough to throw them into a blind rage, and then... Well, he hoped he would survive that long. Kicking sand at the sabaton clad feet before him, he once again found himself on the brink of life and death.

"You know, for someone with as much skill as yourself, you seem rather slow," he grinned, pointing with his rapier, "Has your mother been pampering you a bit too much? Is she waiting outside the gate for your return from such a 'hard days work' at the arena?" He'd seen his grin turn smiles into snarls faster than he could strike with a sword. He just hoped this adversary was as susceptible to world play as others.

Throwing his broken shield to the ground, it would only hinder him now, he took an arrow and held it firmly in his left hand.

"Don't cry now, we're just getting started."

[Arden]

Arden chuckled. It was a coarse, guttural laugh. If he had ever known a mother, he might, just might have stumbled in his stride. Fortunately, for he, the only womanly figure in his life was Ruby Winchester. As it happened, she was standing outside the door. If he did not succeed, then the wrath threw at him from her fiery eyes and deadly spell song would out way whatever hardships Marawol inflicted upon his ageing, battle-hardened form.

“You stay after the battle,” he teased, eyes narrowing onto the arrow as it went from feeble form to fletched fancy in a notching motion. Suddenly, Arden realised he had no room, and thus no advantage to avoid its path. “Meet her, if you like.”

A crash of waves against rock drowned out the swordsman’s cry. It dragged out, contrition in ardour, and faded only when the encroaching tide receded back along the blackened shore. Under normal circumstances, a man would have dropped to the ground, either dead, dumbfounded, or dying. Arden Janelle was no ordinary man. As he strained against the pain, flexing muscles to tighten the wound to slow the bleeding, he shunted a pauldron, the pauldron, the titular Hound, towards his opponent.

“I warn you, though, she don’t ‘alf nag.” His street twang emerged from behind his ordinarily cold façade. He finished fighting fair. He finished fighting kind. He finished pretending.

Two things happened; the Shadow Mastiff emerged, landed with a thunderous rush of blood to the head, and turned, instinctively, towards the nearest threat to its master. Second, Arden rose to full height, abandoned his thick, flat, and deadly blade, and produced two short swords from the monstrous scabbard strapped to his back.

“I have no intention of crying, mind,” he quipped. At that moment, the waves to the south crashed into the rocks again. The tide continued to come in, slow and steady, deadly and sure.

“Shame…,” the man retorted.

The Shadow Mastiff was on Marawol by now, and at the last, leapt, maw wide, ready to crunch on whatever part of the human he could. Arden held back, forgoing strength for speed, but knowing with that sacrifice went much of his advantage, and much of his own defence. He had little time, and though he had endured, and could endure much, he calculated two; perhaps three arrows in his body would make him every bit the corpse.

[Scribe of Marwolaeth]

To say that Marawol's situation had gotten bad with the appearance of the shadow mastiff was an understatement worthy of punishment. He had moments before the mastiff was upon him, and raising his rapier, he needed to heckle Sir Swift once more. As the mastiff's leap impaled it onto his rapier, fangs sinking into his left arm, he let a single cry leave his mouth.

"I'll bed the wench!" With that he collapsed onto the ground, throwing the mastiff away, the rapier protruding from it's chest. His arm was ruined, a deep, surprisingly thin gash ran from his elbow two thirds of the way to his wrist. Multiple smaller lacerations spotted his arm, yet he felt no pain. It must have been shock, but as the blood pumped from the wound, Marawol had to act fast.

He dove into the water, shallow as it was, and plunged his arm in. Turning to face the mastiff, he fell into a zone of focus. He felt individual water droplet react to his skin. Caressing it, sending tiny shivers running along his spine. The mastiff roared, charging. He had no more time, the familiar image of a dagger drifted to the forefront of his mind, a template he often used, and with a burst of power, his hand exited the water with a glistening ice dagger held in its grasp.

Again, the mastiff leapt, fangs bared at him. This time, he was ready. The predictable pounce had it sailing overhead, Marawol's quick duck had left him under the mastiff's attack, and under its exposed belly. Plunging the dagger to the hilt, he grabbed the rapier with his good hand, and was roughly pulled over as the momentum of the mastiff dragged him along, opening his wounds further.

Marawol screamed, the shock had finally worn off, and tearing open the wounds more had been too much. The pain was so intense that for a moment, he contemplated cutting it off, and positioned the dagger at his shoulder. Tears streaming down his face, he looked over at his rival. The man stood there, his feet planted in a firm stance, an arrow embedded next to his armpit, swaying slightly. Marawol mood changed as he looked into the man's eyes. They were mocking him.

With another roar of pain, he again placed his arm under the water. This time, he had a different template. He pictured the wounds in his arm, but filled with ice, and let the energies flow. His dagger dissipated into water, and his arm grew stiff. Inspecting his handy work, he grimaced in disgust.

The entire wound was filled with ice, and to ensure it stayed there, he had frozen part of his flesh into it. The meld of flesh, blood and ice had turned it a sickly, frost red. His left arm wouldn't move, but at least it also wouldn't bleed.

Turing back to the mastiff, it growled feebly, staggering onto its feet. With a swift blow, Mar pierced its heart, and shielded his face as it exploded into a ball of flame.

"Now it's your turn." He trudged out of the water, and stopped a short distance from his challenge. With only one arm working, he had little chance of winning, but he had one last chance to take them down together.

His shoulder twitched, and he fell to one knee, the pain streaming back into his arm. The ice was melting. It wouldn't last for long. Straightening up, he stared dead into the red eyes ahead.

"I am Marawol Aligiri. That was a cheap attack, and I intend to kill you for it."

[Arden]

Arden fought against the rising hatred he felt at the Mastiff’s death. The creature, though a phantasm, was a part of the blood mage’s soul given life. He clenched his fists about his short swords, until the knuckles whitened.

“Intention is the ruin of many a man.” His words echoed with Ruby’s barbed wit. Marawol could try to bed her.

The storm overhead abated, for a brief moment, as a singular bolt of sunlight pierced the obsidian clouds. Beneath Arden’s feet, the sand drained. The tide rolled away from the beach, and the space between ocean and cliff widened. Rocks whitened. Gulls cawed. Skyline scintillated.

“But words mean nought without action!” He stomped his foot, which made a white halo beneath his leather sole, and raised his blades. “So get up.”

A bark came through in his command. Charisma, a weapon in the hands of one such as the Hound of the Scourge, compelled the man to rise. Icy wound, and withered heart, and certainly arrow shaft to chest could not stay their aggression. With the pain still circling in his torso, Arden threatened Marawol with a solitary step forwards. He hoped to incite a reaction, a revolution, a rage. He felt his strength weaken as his muscles unravelled around the entry hole.

“Get up!” He roared. He leered over his opponent, ten feet away, and blades held out like wings. The halcyon bolt rolled down the beach north to south, shot up the cliffs, and away across unseen meadows and peaks and troughs. Darkness and calamity returned.

[Philomel]

EXP and GP placed up after request by competitor. Unfinished piece of work as Scribe of Marwolaeth is unknown as to status.

Thread Title: Thread Title (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?XXXXX)
Judgment Type: Full Rubric
Participants: Arden vs Scribe of Marwolaeth

Final Score: 54---52

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


2365 EXP!*
55 GP!*

Congratulations!


Scribe of Marlowaeth (http://www.althanas.com/world/member.php?XXXXX) Receives:


675 EXP!
45 GP!*


*Extra at discretion of judge

[Alyssa Snow]

EXP & GP Added.

Congrats!