View Full Version : The Ophiomancer (Open to One)
It did not take much to rile Dalasi Yrene to war. The slightest insult against his people unsheathed his sword. He was the antithesis to his brother; a calm, collected, and calculated individual on the forefront of political and academic research. The Hummel called them the Sword and the Shield. One protected. One destroyed. Both were necessary in preserving the future of the grey elves.
“I would prefer my opponent to be alive,” he spat.
Cydnar rolled his eyes. He pointed disgruntled at the door.
“Whoever waits for you through that portal is quite alive brother. In fact, I am certain of it. A corpse is not going to teach you any manners after all.”
The day was still young and already they argued. Repeatedly they entered into bitter exchanges of competition, tacked onto half-hearted insults and forced smiles. Though the Hummel had ventured to the surface and begun to build their new home, they were far from safe.
“I meant an opponent who is alive so that he will be permanently dead when I am done.” The swordsman jostled his slender blade.
Cydnar knew Dalasi referred to the Umber Hulks. They migrated (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?25794-Of-Living-Rock-And-Liviol&highlight=umber+hulk) beneath Salvar’s broken landscape in huge numbers. Soon they would find their way into the soft sunlight and bring ruin to the surface. That day, fortunately, was not yet here. The gaping maw of the greatest threat to the Hummel and the Dwarves was a terror-inducing apparition of hell itself. They consumed anything. They favoured metal as an aperitif, regardless of the flesh still attached to it.
“Prove your worth against a foe of calibre and I will see to it you lead a frontal assault.” The council member folded his waif like arms across his chest, careful not to press against the pleated silk and chiffon robes that marked him as a politician of his kin. He gave a grim nod. “You have my word.”
“I do not need your word Cydnar.” Dalasi cocked the sword over his right shoulder. The flat of the blade rested against his exposed collarbone. “I need only your eyes to bear witness to my training.” With that, he advanced.
Naked feet traversed the hot sand without noise or disturbance. His pallid skin danced in the torchlight of the entrance chamber and illuminated every rippling muscle undefended and unhindered by leather or steel.
“You speak as if doubt your station Dalasi.” Cydnar narrowed his gaze at the small of his brother’s back. Dalasi stopped as the doors opened outwards. “Never forget that you are a Salthias. Never stray from the path of the South Swain. Never fear…,” he trailed off. The inference for Dalasi to finish the colloquialism was obvious.
Dalasi let out a knowing laugh. He stepped into the sunlight and uncertainty of the Ai’bron battleground.
“…anything that fears darkness, for we are born from shadows.”
The purse landed on the table with a jangly clunk, and Jak winced at the sound. The pounding in his head made him envy the peaceful life of his anvil. Though he was sitting in a dim bar, the smith wore his hood up, and it was from under the hood that he glared up at the noble. The elf's clothes sneered at Jak more profoundly than his face ever could. The smith blew a long sigh and pushed himself up from his slump.
“Never known a man or an elf to give money away for nothing. What d'y'want?” The elf sniffed and folded his robes, gingerly seating himself opposite Jak.
“I want to hire you to fight somebody,” he pronounced generously. “A young noble, in the Citadel.” Jak hacked a laugh from his chest and sipped at an ale.
“Dead, or taught a lesson?” he mumbled.
“Whatever you can manage,” the elf said. Jak reflected on the quality of his voice; pure-bred elves always struck him as having a susurrant tone. This one was particularly unsettling in its liquidity. Jak raised an eyebrow.
“'Whatever I can manage?'”
“The purse is yours, win or lose, so long as you fight him and do your best.” The elf sniffed again. The smith's eyes narrowed.
“I'm missing something.”
“Yes, you are.” The elf offered no further explanation. Jak decided to demand one.
“You can inform me, or find somebody else.” Sighing, the elf rolled his eyes.
“Very well,” he drawled, “I work for this noble's family, and I have been asked to secure him an able match. You seem to have a reputation as a particularly dangerous fellow.” His lips closed like a bear trap.
Fight a noble, eh. Some fine-edged kid looking for a thrill, looking to test himself against a 'real fighter,' to give himself a pat on the back. Well that, that could be fun. Jak caught the elf's eyes and smiled, the hammering in his head beginning to ease.
The door opened opposite Dalasi, perhaps thirty seconds after he finished speaking, and out from the shadowy archway stepped a brawny form. The smith. He wore dark clothes under a shirt of steel scale mail, with leather armor on his limbs and a hood hiding his features from the sunlight. On his hips were his short sword and knives, and his left fist clenched his bow.
Jak eyed the elf across from him. Nice long sword. Pretty. He'd never known an elf that wasn't quick as wind; even the slow ones were damnably fast. Jak could not afford to give him a chance to see him coming. Hit hard, hit quick. He'd been told he didn't even need to win to earn his coin. That was no excuse not to try his damnedest: besides, Jak had found that adrenaline was good for hangovers. Before the door closed, Jak had nocked and launched an arrow, aiming it at the elf's chest.
Jumping to life Dalasi twisted and writhed. He appeared dissolved and free of rigidity. The arrow, piercing death whistling through the gloom made short work of his defences. He had barely opened the door into the arena before his opponent deemed the fight begun.
“If this is your training I am not impressed.” Cydnar’s dry wit cut deep. The scholar circled his brother, upright but pained, and admired the accuracy of the man yonder.
Dalasi ground his teeth and lowered his sword arm. He ran a finger around the shaft of the arrow, dug deep into the muscle above his left hip. Fortunately, for he, no true damage inflicted and save for the agony of a misstep he could fight on.
“Watch from the shadows as is your way,” the swordsman spat.
Advancing through the door Dalasi took in the environment. The arena was a sandy wasteland. The floor; barren, glistening desert. Cracks formed where moisture once thrived, and the sun was so hot he was glad he chose to shed his armour for speed’s virtue.
“I fear you have advantage, ser,” he bowed. A nervous smile, undone by trembling tone gave mixed signals. “I will fight on.” He gripped the arrow tightly with his left hand and snapped off the flight. “A second shot will not fly quite as true.”
A guttural snap broke the shaft away shortly after, leaving the head a bloody notch on a muscular statue pallid and pale in the illusion of an Alerarian dawn.
Jak smirked slightly at his enemy's growl, nocking another arrow to his bowstring. He stepped away from the door, circling along the wall to his left.
The elf was poised, yet waiting. Inexplicably, he made no attempt to close with Jak, to deprive the smith of his advantage. Jak frowned at that, fingering the arrow's fletching.
“Planning on doing something about it, are ya?”
Thirty feet of sand separated elf from man. Jak knew he'd be able to get off one arrow before the other fighter closed, and if he timed it properly, he'd be able to get his weapons ready in time. If he failed his timing, though – the smith realized that he was backed against the wall, with little room to maneuver. Elves are quick sorts... better now than later.
As the elf broke off the first shaft, the smith quickly aimed and launched his arrow, fishing another from his quiver as soon as his fingers left the string. He would have to be quick. Jak had fought half-elves before, never a full elf; but even those half-bloods were unsettling swift.
By some small miracle, the second arrow missed its mark. It flew inches above Dalasi’s head, twixt his elongated ears, and away into nothingness and out of memory. That singular fortune afforded the elf all the encouragement he needed. It gave him all the time he would require.
“Hopefully,” he quipped all too late.
He broke into a run; naked feet arced to walk only on his toes. The advantage it afforded him, that hair’s breadth extra speed combined perfectly with his balance and dancing step. He felt the warmth beneath him rise up his thighs and invigorate his soul. The desert was burning as bright as his bloodlust. The sun shining as sharply as his battle prowess.
Examining every inch of his opponent, Dalasi adapted his sword fighting and style to counter whatever speed the human had. As he ventured out of long range and into all too close sword swing, he span his blade through a riot of motion, set its flat edge away from the archer, and brought its edge into the man’s left flank with a cleaving motion. His flaxen hair danced blaze in the halcyon glow. His teeth snarled, serpent like. His eyes burnt with passion, pain, and portent. His skin moistened with sweat and expanding tributaries of blood from his wound.
Jak blinked in the instant after he released his arrow, and then the damnable elf was already moving, surging towards him like liquid fire. He had bare instants to respond, and not nearly enough time to launch his next arrow. A breath hissed out of his teeth, a breath hissing like metal quenching.
The bow and arrow fell from the smith's fingers to clatter in the sand, and Jak's hands leapt to his belt. No time to draw his blades properly, not even a moment. His right foot slid forward, and his left hand, grasping the hilt of his shortsword on his left hip, jerked upwards. With the flat tight against his ribs, Jak winced and was knocked sideways when the sword-blow impacted, sliding a half-step to the right on his back foot.
As his beloved shortsword saved his life, Jak's right hand flicked a throwing knife from the sheath on his right flank and jabbed it forward, aiming to lacerate the elf's outstretched arms in that paused instant of impact, and then slashing upwards towards his throat and chin.
The smith could see the elf's fury. He was passionate, angry, intense - compromised. Jak had fought a lot of angry warriors, and seen a lot of them fight other men too. Every time, the hot-blooded warrior, brimming with training and emotion and purpose, lost to the cold-blooded fighter who kept his head and fought to win.
Jak was Salvic. His blood ran ice-cold.
It was funny, the gods thought as they watched their chosen one. Strength and prowess oft befall foul of fate. Kroom’s knife flicker, a second in time unforgettable, ended the Southswain’s advances quickly.
“Nyack,” he gurgled, odiously and slick with blood.
A puncture wound on the arm signalled his death. The slice across his windpipe, unkempt by iron threaded hair or haematite armour marking out his end in the ebb and flow of time. Whilst there was no glory in the crimson markings, there was a wry sense of purpose, beauty, and intention.
“Cydnar…,” was all the swordsman could muster. His last, dying breath meaningful in an arena full of parables.
As the light in Dalasi’s eyes died unceremoniously, the arena illuminated the luminescence in the elf’s opponent. The crowd, cheering as ever in victory or loss, cajoled the man’s spirit into echelons of ecstasy unrealised anywhere else but here. The Citadel. The carnal pit. Pallid skin. Pointed ears. White hair. Bloodied by battle, and lost to the endless list of corpses of this day.
Cydnar, from the battlements, could only shake his head.
“Dalasi,” he said softly. His brother’s corpse burnt into his vision, the Salthias – leader of his people, turned on a swift heel and departed for the apocathery’s hall. There, he would commence his brother’s induction into the halls of humility and hindsight. For gifting him that small grace over his upstart sibling, he prayed in silence, sand, and solitude for Kroom’s continued fortunes.
The elf hit the sand like a chunk of de-boned meat, and Jak stepped back. His features were expressionless, blank like an anvil. His movements were mechanical as he wiped the bloody knife on his own sleeve, rather than the dead man's hide. It was a sign of respect, a last small grace to a worthy opponent. The elf had died quickly because of his own folly - rushing in like that - but he had fought with passion and vigor, and for the few instants they had known each other, Jak had almost liked him. There had been an honesty about him, and a warrior's honorable spirit.
Worth, passion, vigor, honesty, and honor. All qualities Jak knew himself to be sorely lacking.
And that's why I'm still alive.
He sheathed his weapons and turned back to his own gate, feeling oddly slow. His feet dragged, shuffling in the sand. Passing silently through the iron door, Jak paused for a moment and looked across the ring. In the shadows of the opposite gate, an elven figure stiffly turned away and vanished.
Poor bastard'll at least be mourned. More than could be said for a lot of the people that Jak had killed. The smith felt an odd clenching in his stomach. It wasn't supposed to have been fatal. A training match, he'd been told, not a death match.
Just wanted a 'training match,' did he? Stupid, stupid elf... should've worn his armor. Always train in your kit. He kicked at the cobblestones. Shouldn't have hired a slum-killer to fight a noble kid like him. Stupid, stupid elves... The iron door closed, and Jak quietly left. Maybe he'd drink a pint for the dead elf when he got home.
Quentin Boone
06-08-14, 04:51 PM
Because the thread doesn't meet the minimum 10-post requirement for judgement, you'll both just receive EXP and GP. If either of you want feedback on your writing, please feel free to PM me.
Dalasi receives:
389 EXP
48 GP
Kroom receives:
357 EXP
48 GP
Congratulations!
I know you guys will want to know a winner: Bragging rights go to Kroom! Well done.
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