Round 2 Newcomer: Callan Vs Philomel

[Silence Sei]

Fight starts tonight at 12:01 Central Standard time! Good Luck!

[Callan]

Callan's silver eyes moved lazily from side to side as he watched the small black birds hop from branch to branch above him. There were few trees in his native Fallien, and none that he knew of with the seemingly infinite clusters of leaves belonging to the tall maple tree blocking the sky from his view. He drew slow, long breaths as he peered into the foliage.

Green. Never had he seen the color in such magnitude as was to be found in Corone; forests stretching to the edges of what his keen eyes could see, grass plains reaching farther. It was a calming color, but also one full of vibrant energy and promise. Looking at just a single massive tree filled him with a strange sense of communion with the world. It was as if he could feel the life coursing through the bulk of dark brown wood that formed the maple's trunk, and he almost could not tell where his russet hair ended and the grass below began. Homesickness was a rare occurrence when the swordsman could meditate under the branches of one tree or another nearly anywhere in the sylvan continent.

It had been a few years since the Fallien had left his home and arrived in Corone, and still he found it easy to mentally lose himself in forests, or even just the company of the lone tree he now laid under. The maple was in a park of sorts near the middle of the city, and Callan visited it often. It was his place of peace. Though he lived for the thrill of combat, the surge of energy coursing through his veins, he was not one to ignore the harmony of a quiet moment. It made battle all the more electrifying.

To say that the first round of the Magus Cup had been underwhelming to Callan would have been an understatement. It had been downright disappointing. A game of chess? He hoped that the spectators had been too busy with more highly anticipated battles to bear witness to his 'victory.' At first he had found some measure of entertainment in playing the fool in front of the wizard that had sat across the chess-board from him, but as the game dragged on and he realized that there truly was to be no physical combat at all he had lost interest.

It wasn't even that he particularly disliked the purported sport, he had simply been astonished that there had been nothing else to spice up the first round. He had asked around and heard tales only of bloodshed and skill. Two combatants had apparently been tricked into thinking they had really murdered each other, and another had supposedly fought against a bloody ghost. Bad luck, he supposed. Hopefully the tournament designers were saving the more creative arenas for later in the contest.

In any case, Callan's period of relaxation was at an end; his second, hopefully more interesting round was due to begin soon. He stood up. With a practiced hand he pushed his scarf back into position, having bunched it up earlier to use as a makeshift pillow. He swept off a few loose strands of grass that had parted with the earth and clung to his cloak and trousers, and then held his arms out to stretch, his body forming a cross. He held the position for a few seconds, yawning as his back crackled with the stretch. A faint smile crossed his lips as he relaxed and started to make his way out of the small grove. Stretching after a long period of idleness felt wonderful.

With a contented sigh he let the peaceful trance of the birds flitting from one branch to the next drift away completely, and welcomed the rush of imagination as he focused his mind on the possibilities of his second match of the tournament.

[Philomel]

Eyes closed.

Heart beats.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

What can you hear but the sounds of nature? As the senses stride to expand and take in the universe, all you can hear is the beauty of nature, the forms and melodies, the colours and silences; the whole cornucopia of existence is there in your hand as you focus on... nothing really, just everything.

Her hooves were planted straight onto the grass ground, her hands were spread before her, holding up her form as she let her awareness spread out. Spread far and wide, using this form of earth magic she knew, the only form of earth magic she knew to see the life around her. A three mile diameter, in the middle of this wood to be open and just simply listen. Here she was, in this arena of sorts, free yet ready.

It seemed that this wood was, in itself, the second round of the tournament. A circular realm of trees and earth, where ash, oak, elm and firsttwigs abounded in abundance. Creatures flittered from branch to branch and over the grasses that created the soft green green carpet underfoot.

Philomel knelt further forwards, her knees pressing into the earth as she gently laid her forehead on the ground in front of her. She searched, vehemently.

Trees to the right and left and around, that were all deciduous. Grasses. Roots. A small stream. There was very little life apart from the usual squirrels and birds and insects. Nothing larger than a duck, anyway. Unless this being who she was most generously being set up against had some sort of cloaking ability she was sure she would sense him. As an interruption to her thoughts, maybe. Or maybe not. Maybe he would just slip past her, sneak up behind her and stab her in the back. Then win.

But three miles multiple by pi of wood to track and hunt her opponent. Philomel, here, was in her element. Literally. Earth was her home, it was where she felt the closest connection. She had been born to hear the whispers of nature, smell the scents of sap in the pines, touch the edge of a leaf belonging to a great tree which was destined to take over the universe. Here she was, here was beauty, in the centre of Corone, in a place oh so holy.

So quiet. So perfect.

Time ticked by.

Boredly she sighed, her search for intelligent life giving her nothing, except a complete lovely interior map of the entire "arena", of where various types of trees grew, what precise animals nested in the various copses and clearings, where one tree ended and another started, the best routes for hunting, tracking, searching.

The assassin whore stood, returning to her own mind. She took her parrying dagger in hand, sword in the other and slowly turned in a circle, waiting.

This fight, certainly, was going to be interesting. An experience.

And she had very little idea who would win.

[Callan]

It had taken less than a quarter of an hour for Callan to arrive in the grand halls of the Citadel. Leaving the quiet grove, he had been assaulted by the sudden noise and bustle of the streets of Radasanth. Perhaps it was merely a trick of his mind, but it had seemed almost as if there were some barrier he passed through that separated the solemn wood from the busy city. Although he would have enjoyed another hour under the towering maple tree, he had welcomed the sudden jolt he got as his feet settled onto the cobble streets. He felt awake. The sights, sounds, and smells had forced his mind back to full awareness.

As one of the Ai'Brone led him down a hallway towards his second match of the tournament - and away from the ruckus of the mass of spectators at the front - the noise slowly drifted back down to a pleasant near-silence, lending Callan another moment of calm. Only the swordsman's light footfalls and the hushed sweep of the monk's robe were audible. He was led to a large wooden door before the hooded figure nodded, gestured, and left the way they had come. Maple, he realized, almost disappointed. The door was beautiful, a dark brown with a slight reddish tinge, but it was likely nowhere near as impressive as the tree it had been hewn from had once been. He wondered if this was mere coincidence, but given that the Ai'Brone were responsible for its existence he quickly decided it likely was not. Their ways were as mysterious as the maple tree was tall.

After a small, sharp inhalation, Callan hesitated no longer. He pulled the door open by its intricate handle, and entered... into an expansive wood, not terribly unlike the one from which he had just departed. The halls of the Citadel faded instantly as he stepped into the arena, replaced by forest. The fresh, earthen smell was almost overpowering. These woods seemed totally untouched by anything save the wild animals that inhabited it. A wry grin emerged on his face and he let out a short chuckle, scarcely more than a nasally exhalation. It seemed improbable to Callan that this arena was any more of a coincidence than the maple door.

With a slight shake of his head at the magics of the Ai'Brone, he began walking. He headed in no particular direction, but kept his senses heightened to catch any sort of movement or sound. As he walked he loosened his sword in its sheathe on his hip, and drew his dagger with his left hand. Although nearly ambidextrous when it came to fighting with knives, he favored his right hand for his sword and thus left it free for the moment. He did not want to unsheathe his sword just yet; holding a proper sword stance while moving would be needlessly tiring, and it would be easier to strike as he withdrew the blade than it would be from a casual saunter.

He gripped the dagger in a reverse grip so that it would be easier to parry any sort of surprise attack, and continued to wander aimlessly through the wood. The spongy ground gave way beneath his feet as he walked, the slightly wet grass leaving a clear trail. His tactical mind instinctively examined the surrounding terrain. Moist earth could be difficult to fight on; the dirt absorbed some of your force when you lunged, and if you were forced to retreat hastily it was hard to predict whether your feet would slide on the slick grass or stop suddenly, tripping you as they dug into the wet ground. Thankfully the soles of Callan's leather boots seemed to grip the earth better than he might have expected, but he mentally cautioned himself to still be wary of quick movements.

After perhaps ten minutes the Fallien stopped suddenly. Ahead and to his left it seemed the birds were chirping ever so slightly more than he had heard during the rest of his walk. It could be nothing. Or they could be alarmed, or at least interested in something, and that something could be his opponent for this round. With nothing better to go off of he made his way in the direction of the birds, guessing whatever they were excited about was still at least a few hundred feet away, obscured by the many trees. He gripped his dagger tightly and kept his senses peeled for any further signs of his foe.

[Philomel]

Slowly she turned in a circle, taking as few steps as possible, twisting her body as her eyes flickered as fast as bees wings beat.

Keeping her elbows tucked tighly in, she kept her breathing steady, counting in time to the old nursery rhyme her mother had taught her, sucking air in and out, in and out. "Hundred elephants walking by, skipping by, running by. Hundred elephants running by to the old wood."

It kept her calm, at least for now, as she stayed there and simply waited. Whatever might come she tried to tell herself that she was prepared for it. She blinked a few times, then stopped as she tilted her head towards a sound as curious as a red moon in a clear night sky. Birds, singing. Chirping, cawing. But not any ordinary birds; strangely, in this time of the day, there were nightingales.

A most fortuitous portent then, Philomel whispered in her thoughts, and a smile came to her face. Nightingales, the dawn callers she was named for. So beautiful, so calm, so elegant, yet so symbolic.

The assassin-whore turned around and began to softly tread towards the sound of the birds, chuckling lightly to herself as she did. Was it really, seriously, all going to be this easy. Sliding her parrying dagger back into her belt, and her sword into its sheath she took up a more agile stance and began to run, deeper and faster into the wood. The signs of the woodlife were around her, flashing by as she passed them, squirrels fled in her presence, a vixen hissed for being disturbed in her peaceful slumber.

Three, two, one, and Philomel leapt, right high. Placing one hoof slightly forwards and using the other to push off from the soft grass ground she accelerated her cloven and horned body into the fresh air, taking a lungful as she did - after all, why not? - and landed, right, sweetly into the larger branch of a tree, where she collapsed into the trunk.

Three metres off the ground the faun was at a delightful vantage point to to watch life around her. Leaning into the bark of the tree she smelt ash wood, which she took as another blessing.

Wood; this was her home, where her heart belonged.

Oh nature, come to me, consume me from the interior, out. Breathing softly she slid out her throwing dagger from its belt and waited until she heard the quiet steps of her enemy approaching. Tightening her fist on the hilt she took her moment, paused ...

Then threw the dagger as hard and swift as her strength allowed, just as the russet brown hair could be subtly sighted amongst the emerald green leaves.

[Callan]

The Fallien paced slowly as he approached the copse full of chirping birds, careful not to make more noise than absolutely needed. The soft earth yielded gently beneath his boots. It made scarcely a sound as long as he avoided loose twigs. He took small glances to his sides and focused his hearing behind him as he walked, not wishing to lose in just the second round by a hidden archer's arrow or the deadly blade of an assassin's ambush. Callan was less intimidated by the latter. An attack at close range could be parried by the dagger in his skilled hands, but an arrow shot through his neck from range was far more worrisome.

Winning a contest of skill by eliminating your competition before they even had a chance to react was rather under-handed, Callan thought. Certainly, concealing oneself in the woods and perfectly aiming an arrow or spell took skill in its own right, but the swordsman could not help but be biased against those who chose not to partake in a drawn out melee of technique and precision. While he considered himself a generally logical person, and tried to adhere to the principle as best he could, he recognized and did not chastise himself for his lapses in rationality. He realized that the reason he considered sword-fighting to be so much more honorable and skillful than other forms of combat was merely because he grew up with the sword. Combat with knives felt perhaps more intimate to him, and took a great deal of adroitness as well, but he considered brawling, unarmed, to be far less technical than either and not as personal as knife-fighting. There was no particular reason save familiarity that he prized fighting at the close range of a sword or dagger and thought less of anything closer or farther.

Another departure from logic was his penchant for letting his mind drift away on reflective tangents. He recognized this flaw as well, but was not as forgiving towards it as he was towards his biases. With a slight shake of his head he let his thoughts slip away, returning his attention to his surroundings. Trees of all shapes and sizes enclosed him, and here there were many thick, aged roots breaking the surface of the otherwise soft ground. The delicious scent of untouched forest was still present but Callan was already becoming accustomed to it. He placed one foot after the other, slowly now that he was close to where he had thought he may find his opponent, and was careful to avoid tripping on the roots of the many trees. Had he continued to contemplate the nature of combat, he likely would have been injured or even slain outright by the very tactic he was mentally disparaging.

His lips parted slightly as the dagger caught his eye. Trained reflexes took over as he spun and ducked, instinctively knowing he would not be able to fully move out of the way in time. His timing was nearly perfect. Nearly, for the dagger still tore through his grey shirt and tanned skin as it slid along the side of his shoulder. "Fuck," he said plainly, more cursing himself for not reacting faster than at the pain. He wasted no time examining the wound - he knew it was not deep enough to hinder his arm's movement but had sliced into him far enough to bleed rather profusely - and instead quickly traced the throwing knife's trajectory back to the tree ahead and to his right. Flipping his dagger around in his left hand, he stood and drew back his arm.

The figure was just barely visible through the dense foliage of the tree; he could not see much more than an outline and a glimpse of purple, perhaps hair or clothing. Bringing his arm forward in a practiced arc he hurled his dark iron dagger at his enemy, red wood hilt spinning end over end. He knew the throw was powerful enough to break through any of the leafage blocking its path, but his foe would have far more time to react to the attack than Callan had. He had almost used his mysterious powers with metal to launch the weapon with his mind, but decided to leave that tactic as an ace in his sleeve for now. Turning, he quickly fetched the small throwing knife that had scored his shoulder. This dagger would not follow his mental commands - it seemed only weapons he had owned for a long time heeded his call - but he would not mind having to physically jam his enemy's own armament into their heart. That would be a pleasure.

Drawing his sword in his right hand, he charged back towards the tree he had thrown his dagger into. He could feel that it had stopped, but whether in flesh or wood he did not know. Anger boiled his usually cool blood, the pain in his shoulder and his contempt for his own reaction time feeding it. If his foe did not come to meet him on the ground he would chop the bloody tree down.

[Philomel]

As soon as she had thrown the dagger, Philomel pulled herself upright. Glancing around she measured and marked the next few branches in the sturdy ash she had landed in. Her leg muscles still ached slightly from the way she had slammed into the wood, but now was not the time for childish moaning. She was, after all, a woman trained in the arts of endurance, be that fighting or sexual pleasure, and she knew she could continue for some time whilst amassing bruises.

Flickering eyes around she made a swift list of the places she could travel next. Firstly, left and down a foot, towards her opponent. Then another, perpendicular to her own thick foothold, but around the back of the tree and around two and a half feet upwards. From there the branches began to grow more densely, arching off to the East and West, creating a vague cover as she might catch her time to consider. She paused for a very little time, and chose the most obvious; the branch perpendicular and higher up. Placing one hoof firmly on this branch she swung up into the coverage, ducking behind the thick trunk that the opponent approaching would not see her. From what she could hear he, or indeed she, was nearing rapidly with heavy footsteps. A vague sniff of the air with her exceedingly sensitive nose gave Philomel the clear sign that her throwing knife had found its mark - and caused substantial damage, at least where bleeding was concerned. All she needed to do now was concentrate on that wound, that single weak point and cause so much pain that the miserable bastard could no longer stand it. Maybe he would even cry out in pain and she would be filled with a melody so brutal and yet sweet she could die in peaceful bliss.

There was a short lived thud, and the assassin-whore blinked, then tilted her head. Likely her opponent had done the same thing as her, and retaliated with the same movement. Copying now, is he? she chortled to herself, Oh darling, are you really that desperate? A sly grin grew from ear to ear, and she stretched her body, placing her feet comfortably beneath her in a balanced stance, ready for any movement necessary. Keeping her breath calm she lightly drew her keris dagger - the waving one, with the double fuller, that was designed to cause more damage coming out than it did going in - then held onto the branch with the same hand, the dagger comfortably nestled there also, ready to strike.

Like an eagle hovering over its prey she waited, biding her time and clicking her tongue, watching the ground, as her opponent made his way within eyesight, right beneath her. Pausing, then grinning vastly more Philomel waited for him to make the first move, loving the fact that this... man, human it seemed, was searching for her. And the idea that he seemed to think that he was going to win, by the way he held and presented himself arrogantly, amused her to no end. It was all amusing, all terribly amusing.

She chuckled under her breath, then opened her mouth.

"Lovely day for a stroll," she cooed down.

Then skipped her way back around the tree to the other side again, away from him and around the tree, turning this into a game of Chase-The-Faun.

[Callan]

Every heavy step Callan took as he charged towards the tree seemed sillier than the last. It was not usually easy to provoke the swordsman, and he realized now that part of his anger was due only to the fact that his opponent had succeeded in drawing his ire. This recognition threatened to draw him further into the shadow of his wrath; why had he bothered to meditate all morning in the grove if not to mentally calm and prepare himself for this fight? This was not like him. He had seen fury lead to great feats in battle - giant axe-wielding berserkers had slaughtered the guards of towns in terrifying gusts of blood when Callan's band of outlaws had raided Fallien settlements in his youth - but he had always strove to maintain his composure in combat, wanting to win his fights through sheer skill rather than ferocious, unchecked strength.

As he neared the tree he smashed his boots down into the ground with every step. He let his anger flow out through his feet into the spongy dirt. Thoughts of the time under the maple flashed through his mind, slowing his breath and cooling his blood. When he had rounded the tree, little of his rage remained. The figure had fled to another branch during his reckless charge, and now he searched the foliage above for traces of the coward. His own sword in his right hand, his foe's dagger in his left, he kept his mind alert for any more throwing knives, determined both not to let them hit him and not to let them pull him back under the current of his recent furor. Now that the anger had fled his bones and blood, the pain in his shoulder increased, and he was aware that it was perhaps deeper than his original estimation. No matter, he thought, deciding he would have much longer than needed to finish the fight before noticing the loss of blood. He forced the pain out of his mind as he searched for his fleeting foe.

She spoke just as he located her with his eyes, calling down in what seemed an attempt to keep the warrior in a bloodrage. Strong, pelt covered legs crouched on a branch above Callan, the reddish brown fur abruptly ending as it reached her mid-section to reveal nearly the woman's entire torso. An ample bosom, far too large for Callan's tastes, pooled in a leather bodice below a slender neck and a head draped by brown and violet braids. And atop her face, a pair of black horns. The swordsman paused and gaped instead of starting an assault. Although the leaves and branches obscured parts of her body, he saw now that her legs, ending in two hooves, were not clad by pelt leggings but rather seemed naturally covered in fur. He'd never seen a faun before, but from the stories he had heard there was little doubt in his mind what he now beheld.

For a brief moment he speculated that this was some Ai'brone creation, meant to populate the mystical wood and provide an added layer of competition for Callan and his opponent. But something about the way she had spoken drove this thought from his mind; he supposed it was not really that surprising to see a faun in the tournament, given Radasanth's many different species. Just yesterday he had purchased his breakfast from a scaly elf-like man who breathed through slits in his neck not unlike gills. Having grown up surrounded almost exclusively by humans in his pseudo-family of bandits in Fallien, he still sometimes was taken aback by the many different folk inhabiting Corone, even after a couple years of living there.

A sigh escaped his lips as he realized he had let his mind drift off again, albeit it for barely a couple seconds. He did not chastise himself for it this time, and merely watched for another attack as the faun scampered off again through the branches. Glancing at the tree above, he considered chopping down some of the lower branches that were in his lengthy extremity's reach, but decided against it. He did not care about dulling his blade, knowing it would be returned to pristine condition upon leaving the Citadel arena, but did not want to expose himself to another ambush. Besides, there were so many trees that the nimble woman would like as not be able to jump to another with ease.

Instead, he made his way slowly back around the tree, keeping his focus on the branches above but not ignoring his surroundings in case she overcame her fear dropped down to her level. He kept his sword arm elevated to be prepared for an attack from any direction, and held her throwing knife so that he could whisk the projectile off as soon as he saw her, ignoring the sharp ache in his shoulder the pose induced. Speaking clearly and slowly, he finally replied, "it seems a lovely day for cowardice as well."

[Philomel]

Very gently she pressed herself into the trunk of the tree, her back against the bark as she manouvered herself slightly more. Stepping ever more to the right she gained even more height, then paused and peered around cautiously to check the opponent was not there. Taking a moment's breath she snaked out a hand, searching quickly, before finding the hilt of his dagger embedded into the tree itself, then pulled it out with a low grunt. Anyone else might have taken it as a grunt of finishing pleasure, Philomel used it as an expression of her strength. Almost as soon as she had done so she pushed her body forwards, hooves on the trunk and forcing herself to swing away. Leaping from this height, perhaps twenty feet or so now off the ground, was easy, landing was the difficult part.

And landing without any immediate danger. Which was exceedingly near impossible with a watching enemy behind her.

Cowardice... Philomel did not think of it as cowardice. Instead she was being evasive. Which she had no problem with at all, in fact, in her understand, it was rather intelligent. And using the natural abilities she was born with she could leap and land with grace and agility, with speed and confidence - much farther than any normal human. Flat out she knew she could make thirty miles at a sprint, perhaps more, all due to the mass of muscle in her legs. But for now, this was not a flight exercise. This was a fight. Or at the very least, protect thyself.

Therefore, she firmly tucked the keris dagger back into her belt, checking the tightness of it, moments before she threw herself from the tree and landed some distance away from the man, slamming hooves into the ground and one fist. She tilted her body at the last moment, landing, balanced and body spread. She forced herself into a target smaller than he would like, and rolled her right shoulder forwards, where the shoulder guard rested, and raised her other arm with her keris dagger in it, ready to deflect any missles. She stared into the eyes of the man who so clearly longed to kill her right now.

Anger, hate, rage. He seemed far too irritated for an art as noble as fighting like this. There were precious few micro-seconds before she had to move, and she counted them down in her head. Steadily. Before he struck.

Five, four, three, two...

[Callan]

The late edits in Posts #9 and #10, and the accidental bunnying (Philomel charging Callan in Post #10) approved by both parties.

The nearly white steel of Callan's double edged sword shimmered as the midday sun shone down through small holes in the foliage above. A light breeze had started, causing the trees to sway ever so slightly and the light to dance on the blade. The pattern was mesmerizing. The constantly changing lines and eddies of light were vaguely reminiscent of the rapid sidewinding motion of the Sunaris, the small black Fallien snake for which the weapon was named. While the snake was almost entirely harmless, the sword was far from it. Callan had wielded the broadsword for perhaps three years now, and the leather grip had molded perfectly to his right hand. Holding it now gave him a feeling of calm and confidence, almost of comfort. He had long ago lost count of the number of duels he had won with Sunaris.

As he rounded the tree once more, calm eyes tracked the branches above. Unclouded by rage, he found his opponent much more easily, and watched as she drew his dagger from the tree with an oddly sexual grunt. Perhaps fauns enjoy combat even more than I do, he thought with a smirk. He forced himself not to let the grin grow any wider when he considered the implications of her holding a weapon belonging to him; he did not want to betray his intentions. Many foes had made the mistake of trying to use Callan's tools of battle against him, and few had survived. It was not wise to meddle with what one did not understand, and luckily for Callan he had so far found not a single person -- wizard, warrior, or otherwise -- who understood his strange gift for manipulating metal with naught but his will. I suppose that includes me, but if using this power marks me a fool I welcome the title, he reflected bitterly.

He had decided not to throw her dagger back at her unless she resorted to more projectiles; he had never seen a faun before, much less fought one, and did not want to end the fight too soon, wound on his shoulder be damned. As she leapt from the branch, he tracked her with focused eyes. When she first left the branch he had thought she was jumping to another tree, but quickly saw with satisfaction that she was headed for ground. Her descent ended in a graceful three-point landing, and Callan quickly took note of the iron bastard sword on her person. With any luck she'll know how to use it, he thought, eager to put Sunaris to use.

Instead of drawing her sword as Callan wished, she rose swiftly and charged towards him, aiming her metal spaulder directly at him. Quickly he assessed her form and posture; he noted his dagger in her right hand, straight and simple, and hers in her left, asymmetric and artful. He had lowered Sunaris when she had descended, and knew he would not have enough time to properly draw the blade back for a back-handed slash. Simply turning his side to her and extending the blade crossed his mind, his intention being to let her impale herself, but immediately decided that tactic would end badly she if was well trained with her daggers. Instead, he decided it was time to use the ace that he had wanted to delay far longer.

As the faun neared the Fallien, he performed his hasty plan with exceptional timing. First, he stepped to his left and brought his sword up, preparing an attack that he would not usually have enough time to perform. As he did this he quested out with his mind to the his dagger resting in her hand, and shoved it as hard as he could with psychokinetic force alone, the two warriors' bodies remaining completely apart. He had considered attempting to stab her with the weapon, but that would require turning the dagger around and he had found that he was able to muster more force when he tried to move an object in a single direction. Aiming the push directly away from him, he hoped that any reaction she made would be favorable for him. Three outcomes had passed through his clever mind: perhaps most likely was that the dagger would simply slip from her hand if she was not holding it tightly, and the sudden action would surprise her long enough for Callan to follow through with a forceful slash of Sunaris. If she tried to hold the dagger in surprise it would likely drag her briefly, probably causing her to spin and crumple to the ground. The third option was that he had underestimated her, and it was for this reason he held her dagger up, under his sword arm, ready to thrust.

If she were to prove stronger than him or anticipated the mental assault she might hold on to the dagger without even stumbling, and if she were well trained she might simply let the dagger go and bring her own around in an attack aimed at Callan's exposed neck. A mere split second would be all that was needed to attack with his sword, but if she somehow foiled his plan and drew nearer to him he was ready to use her own dagger against her, heedless of the pain using his left arm might cause. This was what the swordsman had longed for in his first match: a true competition of strategy and tactics, created and employed in the blink of an eye, not long thought over and as inconsequential as the moves made on a chessboard.

[Philomel]

Memories flittered as she thought of the warm summer's day she had first received the sword.

Her teacher, lover, and later, friend, had presented it to her, after she had demonstrated a rather elaborate series of parries and strikes, ones that he could not even get to the same speed as. Her hooves had created a rhythmic beat as they danced upon the stone, swinging her arms to and fro, moving her body like a graceful swan, then striking with the precision of a Gore-Wasp. She had imagined, in her mind, she was surrounded by Craban, the dark magic forms of crows, and had been slaying them one by foul one, until they created a mass of black and bloodied feathered bodies around her. When the last one had been "slain" he had broken out into rapturous applause, beat her on the back, then showed her to a narrow room. In the room there had been an altar, dedicated to her goddess, Drys; on that altar there had been a deep emerald cloth; resting on that cloth had been the sword she knew was the most beautiful form she had ever seen, and it was hers.

Her kastane, her blade, usually forged merely as a ceremonial object but made for her as a weapon of death, one for slaying, fighting, defending her right to live. It sat in her hand well, the leather hilt made precisely for her hold, with the pommel not ending but instead extending - curving up, and around, to join back to the crosspiece and create a rudimentary hand guard.

Rudimentary but useful, in every way. As the dagger, his dagger, suddenly pulled itself back, Philomel grunted, but did not look. She had seen such things before. Magic and telepathy, telekenisis, this way of controlling swords - she had seen much with the many travellers that came to the brothel, had had many clients who desired things... unconventional, and dealt with them her own way. As the dagger pulled out of her right hand, she let it do so, actually giving it a little support. With luck it would fly back and very firmly inbed itself into a nearby tree. Or get lost somewhere in the foliage. With luck, he might not be able to find it again, or else he might. Nevertheless, she was not going to let one single knife get in her way. For it was her kastane's turn, and it whipped up as this arrogant dick of a man.

As his sword and what seemed to be her throwing dagger in his hand were pulled smartly up to defend himself, she smoothly drew out her parrying dagger. Two people can play at this game, charmer, she grinned to herself, and prepared to knock him to the ground. His sword flew down, she neared him with fleet hooves, dancing merrily as if in a orchestrated stage battle, and twisted her kastane at the last moment. The hand guard on it, with the small curve at the crosspiece smacked onto his blade, and growling slightly she forcefully twisted, shoving the blade away from her body, then took a ducking step out of the way. Knock and twist, that was her method. Knock and twist and stab and dance. Her legs were as fleet as a mountain goat's clambering nimbly across a cliff edge.

Just you wait, she breathed. Just you wait, fool, for my blow and my ability.

[Callan]

Callan's anticipation and excitement at the thought of a sword fight easily trumped the disappointment that cropped up at the failure of his mental assault. His dagger flew easily from the faun's hands, seemingly causing her no more surprise than the daily ascent of the sun. Eyeing the exotic sword in her hands, Callan pushed all anger and disappointment from his mind, striving to control his body with logic and strategy instead of emotion. He exhaled as he brought his sword down in an arc, no longer expecting it to do any real damage. Now it was merely a form of initiation, and his thoughts were already racing to the second, third, and fourth strokes that he would make after she parried the slash. His strategy sought to avoid underestimating her again, and he planned his next movements and attacks with the distinct impression that she would defend against them completely. In this way her reaction would surprise him only if it led to her injury, and he trusted his quick reflexes to take over and shift his course of action immediately to account for any sudden advantage.

His sword crashed against hers and was deflected with ease, as expected, and she wasted no time in advancing and counterattacking. Breathing out deeply once more, he welcomed the calm that came with the exchange of sword strokes. He gave up ground at first, taking short but precise steps backwards as he parried her attacks with broadsword and dagger. The throwing knife he had picked up was not of proper size to be properly wielded as a main gauche, so he relied primarily on his sword as he defended against the onslaught. He dared not try to parry any attacks from the kastane with the small dagger for fear of the sword cleaving the throwing weapon in two, likely taking part of his hand too. Instead he used it as a sort of distraction, making short thrusts and jabs under her larger blade to try to keep her parrying dagger busy. Besides, though he could move his arm without restriction, each action caused a ripple of pain to emanate from his shoulder. He likely would not have been able to deflect a strong blow even with the appropriate weapon due to the sudden pain that would erupt on impact.

After a few seconds and perhaps half a dozen steps taken in retreat, he decided he had gauged her abilities enough to try switching to the offensive. She was skilled with her two blades, and provided more challenge than most Callan had fought. Too many people used their sword as a weapon of great force, trying to cause grave injury with every strike. This, in Callan's estimation, was plain and simple misuse of a tool. Perhaps not as ineffective as using a spoon to cut meat or a knife to ladle soup, but certainly as awkward as trying to dig with a rake or using a shovel to corral leaves. It was certainly possible to dig a hole or cluster leaves with the wrong tools, but it took far more effort and was less efficient. The sword was a weapon of precision and speed. A fight between two skilled opponents was far more likely to end when one of the combatants, exhausted and having lost too much blood from sustaining many smaller injuries, erred and let an attack slip past his guard rather than when one of the fighters made some perfect strike that was impossible to defend against.

This knowledge was why Callan had willingly given up ground at first. He had already sustained the first injury of the battle, and though he didn't expect the cut on his shoulder to lead to his defeat he knew that taking more wounds would quickly stack the odds against him. If he had taken a stand immediately he would have been far more likely to catch one of her attacks with his body rather than his blade, and so he had retreated in order to get a feel for her skill and avoid unnecessary lacerations. But now he pressed the attack, careful to work around her nimble footwork and avoid letting her dance around him if possible. He brought Sunaris to bear against her, brandishing the weapon with accurate strokes, waiting for one of his blows to slide past her blades.

[Philomel]

The day was rather fine, and the sun was bright in its mediocre orb form overhead, hanging in the blue sky like some bored old man. It glowed brightly, but seemed unenthusiastic as it floated exceedingly slowly with no companions in the cloudless atmosphere, apart from the few birds who did not even get anywhere in the vacinity of being in hearing distance to it. Instead the sun was a lonely one, a friendless one, and it watched the fight with little interest and a great amount of ease, wearing on as the sweat dripped from Philomel's forehead, continuing as the faun fought with more and more determination, unblinking as the assassin-whore tried to make this man become another unfortunate subject to her wiles.

Yet no, this was not to be. This time her foe was surprisingly powerful. When she had been in the tree, dancing around as a nimble monkey, watching him briefly before disappearing from his sight, she had watched the way he had moved. His stance was similar to any warrior; strong and wise. He knew he could hold his own, could defend for some time, without faltering. Despite the fact she had damaged his shoulder already he was parrying her attacks with enough endurance to keep a small army at bay for a while. Perhaps, in another situation, Philomel would have found this man a likely companion to fight beside, not fight against, but the tournament was as it was. It was, indeed, a time to fight. At least this time her opponent was physically there and not some ghost like the other had been - the spectre of whatever cursed death had befallen him.

Therefore this fight seemed ... fairer would be the word, as their swords clashed together with resounding rings of tubular ironbar melody. Fair in the meaning of the phrase that they were both of equal physical standing, and fair in the idea that they were almost identical in skill. They were in fact almost equally matched it seemed - whenever Philomel made a disengage with her kastane the human met her move with a swing of his own blade. As she took a faltering step back he would approach, and then it was jsut as easy to swing around and advance upon him in a like manner. It was if they were destined to fight, and this was their fated first dance of a romantic relationship - not that this daunted Philomel for "romance" was one thing that she was perfectly capable of portraying, despite the fact she might not believe in the concept of love herself. So she danced with the russet-haired man, twirling with as much passion as ferocity as the sun watched unenthusiasitcally from on high.

The minutes went on by, and edged into the half hour.

The man seemed to falter a few times, due to his shoulder injury, but this never seemed to impair him. So far neither of them had managed to strike a blow, they had guarded and debuffed equally. Philomel was throughly getting bored. Her eyes were trained on his and his weapons, dodging the branches that came in their way, opposing the roots that threatened to trip them. She had not used her weapon oh-so-glorious yet, and was rather irritated in the fact he still had her throwing knife in his hand. As the half hour mark came she grew impatient, or at the very least over eager and pushed her advantage forwards.

Deftly she feinted, swinging her kastane down just a moment too fast and opened her defence for one precise fraction of a second. She pushed her bare shoulder forwards, daring the man to strike towards it, and tried to keep her expression plain, ordinary, unimpressed. Like she wasn't glowing with pride at her suddenly brilliant idea, and that this sign of weakness was not a trick at all. She did not even grin as she flourished her blades again - then opened the defence once more, for slightly longer this time.

Come in, she chided, Come in, you bastard-fool, and fall for my trap. Her voice was sickly sweet in her head, and she rejoiced in the fact. She was the assassin-whore and she could lure any man to his death with her trickery. She was sure, she was determined.

She prayed to her Goddess in the back of her mind that this man would not be the one who proved this truth to be false.

[Callan]

Callan was enjoying himself. He had only been able to stay on the offensive for a minute or so before being forced to give ground once more. The faun clearly understood that a sword fight had as much to do with positioning and movement as it did with physical violence. Their fighting had turned almost rhythmic, with each combatant likely knowing that deviating from the battle's cadence was as likely to lead to their defeat as to their victory. Briefly, the thought of how spectators would receive the match passed through Callan's thoughts. It was not improbable that most found the fight rather boring: no blood had been spilled since Callan's early injury, and most people like as not could not follow the contestant's blades in their rapid, deadly dance. Perhaps those who had fought with swords would appreciate the skillful bout, but he doubted many others would. Besides, some of the other competitors in the tournament were well known throughout the land, and their matches surely drew far more of a crowd than those of relative nobodies.

He let his mind wander for only a couple seconds before resorting to his constant strategic reverie. Glancing at the faun's damp forehead, he thought that she might be flagging more quickly than he, but he knew that endurance often was more a matter of willpower than true strength. His own brow was certainly not dry; though he had spent hours sparring under the intense Fallien sun in his youth, he was unaccustomed to the humidity that came with the array of plant life around him. It seemed unlikely that either of the two would make a grievous mistake soon, unless his foe was far more tired than she let on. His eyes followed her chest to prepare for her next assault, a task complicated by her sex. Though Callan did not let himself fall into distraction as lesser men might, the swell of her breasts obscured the muscles in her upper body. Thankfully her dearth of clothing helped to assuage this difficulty, as he was able to read most of her attacks from the tensing of her abdomen, the movements of her shoulder, and the small bit of pectorals not covered by breast or breastplate.

A slight grin came to his lips when he considered she may not have fought someone who used the chest as their primary optical focus. His wandering eyes and now his smile could be easily misinterpreted as carnal attraction. Perhaps it will distract her, he thought with amusement. He decided it unlikely though, as if she was able to hold her own against him she had almost certainly faced many foes in combat. Callan was, after all, far above average with a blade. His cunning, however, had lead to nearly as many victories as his dexterity, and he turned his mind towards ways that he could twist the fight in his favor.

He could try to simply keep pace and hope to emerge the victor of a contest of stamina, but the wound on his shoulder complicated matters. It had been perhaps a quarter of an hour and the faun could likely fight for another hour at the least, and in that time Callan would be slowly losing more and more blood. That left him with two options: press the attack again with more vigor and wager the match on his ability with a sword alone, or introduce another element to the fray to break up the rhythm of the fight. Though confident in his swordplay, he strove to force his ego out of the decision. There would be a time for arrogance when he had won the tournament, and not before. He chose the second option.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he forced the fight in one direction. Never too much at one time so as to let on what he was doing, he used just enough pressure to make constant progress. For every dozen steps he took in a given direction, he'd taken a dozen and one on the path he meant to follow. The combatants still danced around one another, so at times he moved towards his goal backwards or sideways, but he kept his footwork focused on his objective. At times he would let the fight be carried as the faun wished, but always he would eventually return to his chosen course. In the next quarter hour he succeeded in moving their duel perhaps forty feet from the tree the woman had first attacked him from. Intent on not showing the movement was purposeful, his eyes had not strayed from her upper body during almost the entire time. Once or twice he had had to glance down to check for roots blocking his path, but otherwise he kept his focus on the exchange of blows. Now he waited only for his opportunity.

"You're not so bad with a blade," Callan acknowledged as he waited, flicking his eyes up to meet hers briefly. "I don't normally accept students, but I would be happy to teach you after the tournament. For a fee, of course."

For a few more moments neither swordsman nor swordswoman opened their guard. Then the faun feinted, but let her blade linger a split second longer than necessary, exposing her shoulder. Too short a window to capitalize upon, Callan lamented, but not even seconds after this his foe let her defense slip again. Perhaps his taunt had worked better than expected? Though wary of the sudden shift from perfect form, the Fallien decided instantly that he would not get a better opening, whether it was of her own design or not. He aimed Sunaris in a thrust towards her lower torso, and at the same time focused his mind on his dagger, lying concealed in the bushes perhaps ten feet behind him. A forceful exhale accompanied the burst of physical exertion and willpower as he launched the dagger at her shoulder, hoping that even if she saw it in time she would not be able to defend against both attacks at once.

[Philomel]

They seemed equal in near everything. Every step, every thought, every strike. Almost equal in height and that was saying something. Unusually tall for a human he stood three or so inches above her, making up for the times she stretched her leg to its epitome of length - her version of "standing on her toes" as it were; essentially aligning hip bones, femur bones to calf bones. His wound was no longer bleeding, indeed, it was apparent it was not hindering him in any way. The form he was using, a typical human combination of fighting manouveres and series of tactics, relied on solid shoulder strength, and this he seemed to possess in abundance.

Their dance was swift and complicated, their footwork rapid. As Philomel pulled back her blade, and subsequently feinted, her opponent at first ignored it. Indeed, where his eyes rested was something ... familiar. She pursed her lips as she noticed, quite suddenly that his attention had been drawn to her breasts for the past ten minutes or so. Of course, he had glanced around at the trees as they pressed slightly backwards on her side, as any learned fighter might - for keeping aware of your surroundings was elementary in the art of swordplay, yet his attention was somewhat drawn to her cleavage. Something she was rather used to, being a whore but inwardly she sighed.

Honestly, you too?

Muttering under her breath, Philomel allowed the next feint to sweep wider, and this time he seemed to fall for it. His seemingly silver blade twisted in its current designated course, aiming now for her exposed belly, where the tattoo of the outlined ash tree rippled with the delicate abdominal muscles beneath. As he came forth to strike, she skipped slightly forwards, just an inch but an inch was all she needed, an inch out of their supposed choreography. Her dagger twisted to ctach the blade of his sword, yet the rest of her body moved in accordance with her plan. She let the energy she had been storing within her back ripple up her spine, almost as if a spasm was travelling through her nervous system; an entire series of pulls and squeezes, forcing an enormous thrust of energy to snap her neck up, back and then forth, so her whole head slammed down towards her opponent. And what followed was the blessing Drys betstowed upon each of her faun children, born of the woodlands and earth - her ram horns, that thus flew down to collide with the man's skull in a movement that was not unlike the bobbing of a chicken's head ... but much more graceful, she sincerely hoped.

Hoped, yet something ulterior occurred, a rather intriguing and shocking happening that she had not been expecting, no, milady, not in the least. As she cast away the blade that swam towards her belly, and aimed horns to collide with skull of the human a jarring and terrible force stabbed into the back of her shoulder. It threw her slightly off balance, but not too far off course. Her headbutt found its mark, albeit slightly off-centre, as the pain came to reality. It flooded through her system, one moment it was there, then it was not, staggering in blows like a tree being struck by lightening over and over again. Force one, two and forth and-

Pain. Laceration. The something-thing, the causer of the pain stopped against her shoulder blade, twisted and scraped along the bone. She let out a cry of agony, yet not before the skull collision. A blow, and a stab, those two occurred at similar rates, and Philomel only saved herself by twisting the stagger off to the side, and then backwards, into a place she knew a tree lay with branches spread like open arms.

"Ffffuucckkk," she grumbled, as the liquid began to flow down her arm. "Fuck you." Her sight was beginning to swim but she could see the effects of her controlled, then controllable horn-strike. She twisted away from the man, angrily, moving back, into the comfort of the tree, raising her kastane to fend off any attack in this semi-docile state of hers. Even though she was hurriedly gulping air to clear her head from the effects of blood loss, and she hoped the man was at least dizzy from the slamdunk of her horns meeting his round head, nothing could be certain.

Nothing could be. If this fight had shown her one thing, it was just that.

Philomel dropped her parrying dagger and reached up to rip what became soon clear to be a dagger from her shoulder and grunted back a scream of pain.

"Fuckwit turtles!" she growled, "Fuck all the mothers of death, you bloody nut-twisters."

And then she cursed some more. Rattling them off endlessly for the next minute.

[Max Dirks]

It seemed you guys ran out of steam at the end of the battle. As you both are considered newcomers, I'll be providing extra commentary. PL is Philomel and CL is Callan.



CallanPhilomelNotes

Story
4
4
CL: Sometimes you added so much to your posts, that you detracted from the main story. I know you explained this IC by explaining that Callen's mind likes to wander, but all it really did was detract from the pace of the battle.



Setting
4
3
PL: The thought of a faun jumping from branch to branch was interesting, but your descriptions of doing so were highly repetitive. CL: Though you described the look of the setting well, you need to focus on all the senses.


Pacing
4
5
CL: The manuevering your character does considerably slows the pace of the battle. Please check my comments on Story and Action for more times on how to improve your pacing. Brevity is key. Try to convey what you need to say in fewer words. PL: One of your strengths is using shorter sentences to build urgency. However, when you weren't using those shorter sentences, your run-ons and unintentional fragments hurt you.


Communication
5
5



Action
4
4
PL: I noted several instances of bunnying from you. Even though it seems you two worked through the first instance, I noticed you did it again with the headbutt in your final post. If you have permission, please note it. CL: You use what I call active battle technique. This means you have your character react as if no time has passed. It's typical with T1, where it would make sense to act while a mage was conjuring a spell, for example. There's nothing wrong with using it here, but it really draws out your actions. This slows the pace of the battle and frankly, makes it boring. In your last post, you could have simply started with "When the faun lowered her guard, Callan struck."


Persona
5
5
Both of you have a good grasp of your characters, but were too heavily reliant on pace slowing flashbacks to convey feelings


Mechanics
5
4
PL: You used a lot of run-on sentences. Remember, if you can use a period instead of a comma and have two complete sentences, use the comma. You also used quite a few sentence fragments. For example, "Her kastane, her blade, usually forged merely as a ceremonial object but made for her as a weapon of death, one for slaying, fighting, defending her right to live" is missing a verb (was).


Clarity
4
4



Technique
4
4
CL: Sometimes you added unnecessary adjectives with almost every noun. In your first paragraph, you used "silver" "small black birds" and "long slow breaths." I encourage you to show, not tell. While you probably couldn't change silver, you could use crow to describe the birds or heavy to describe his breaths.


Wildcard
4
4
PL: I took off a point for powergaming. CL: Since the battle was incomplete, I considered timely posting

Total
Total
43/10042/100



Callan wins!

Callan advances to Round 3!
Philomel is very much alive in Round 2 of the Redemption Bracket!

Callan earns 450 EXP and 60 GP
Philomel earns 135 EXP and 59 GP.

[Lye]

EXP & GP Added!