The Cottage by the Bluff

[Sighter Tnailog]

((This battle will be, for all intents and purposes, based off my current profile. A little storyline finessing and minor knowledge will be Findelfin's that wasn't present in the profile, but major powers and strengths will be based off that.))

He examined his face in the steel basin, its bowl polished like a mirror, filled with water from the cool stream that ran a mile or so down the slope from the small cottage. The stream continued from where he was another two hundred feet, where it formed a small pool before jettisoning off the edge of a small cliff and running another few miles into the sea. That sea spread before him, wide and inviting, but he paid it no mind. His thoughts were on the face in front of him.

A few deft strokes, the appliqué gliding with expert ease across his face, the powders in his small pouch palette carefully mixed for different colors, purposes. As he mixed he sung, ever so softly. Passersby from afar would see only a man bending down to the river, filling a bowl for his evening chores. But the powders and creams resting against his face, though, shimmered at the sound, and seemed to sink into him. His face changed, tracing the outline of his art, dipping into and out of his skin, settling and moving until the crushed flowers and ground dust in his pouch had become part of his face.

He had to do this ever so often. His arts in woodcraft and enchantment were not the greatest the Raiaerans had ever known, and even they had seen their ability to delude and misguide the eye much degenerated since expelling the last of the Enarlin bards from their courts. Enarlin. He would find them. He had to know the truth.

But for now he had to stoke fires, and chop wood, and go into the small town some miles away on a weekly basis to purchase what small items he needed and small amounts of cornmeal and flour and dried beans to supplement what he was able to trap. He dared not hunt too extensively with a bow and an arrow; his skill with the weapon would be too obvious, and would attract some share of talk. Talk was what he did not want. Too many books to read, too many leads to follow, too many trips in the dead of night to points north and points west, hunting for his quarry.

Finishing up his application and staying his song, he shouldered his basin over his shoulder. From this angle, an observer would note that it was actually an old soldier's shield, emblazoned with the insignia of a Salvaran regular of some minor lordling or another. He had taken it off a body he found in the high passes, pressing his fingers to the man's eyes and intoning the Psalm of Passage as he did. It was possible to despoil the dead without spoiling them.

Suddenly, he became aware of something else. A trick of the light, another might seem, but he knew the signs and they made the hairs prickle on the back of his neck. And a trill in the air, a slight thrumming, as if the grass itself was murmuring a melody only the mindful might discern. The wards had been tripped, subtle wards, keyed to the song in the hearts of the daffodils. A child, perhaps. Or perhaps not. It never hurt to be ready.

The cottage in view, the ground steep leading towards the place, he knew enough of where the wards had been tripped to know he'd already sacrificed the high ground. If it came to that. But perhaps by weaving sideways, as if making for the animal pens, he might give the appearance of normalcy while positioning himself in slightly better footing for confrontation. He hoped it was a child. He would give her a daisy, and smile with a toothy grin that looked for all the world like simply the kindness of a wizened old root of a farmer, and she would never know that she had spooked one who had once commanded armies and who had become a hunter-after-secrets.

His hand crept, ever so softly, to his belt. Beneath his clothes he kept it there, under a glamour enchantment that made it appear a simple belt knife. He fingered the hilt with idle care, and kept walking at his brisk, careful pace. Be ready for anything, he thought, always ready. He hoped he would not have cause to draw Ainalindil today, for many reasons. But one reason ate most steadily at his mind.

Namely, he was out of practice.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

It had been over the better part of a week of travel for Jensen to reach the destination he was at. Kyla Orlouge had used the beast of teleportation, Misery, to get Jensen to the Ixian stronghold on the Salvar continent. He had a simple mission to see if he could find an old aquaintence of her father, Sei, to aid her in the upcoming war in Eiskalt.

Arriving in the northern regions gave Jensen a soft chill, the hairs upon his arm lifting into tiny bumps. He kept his trenchcoat tight ot his body, the myriad of weapons upon his body softly swaying in the breeze like wind chimes. Their pitter patter of echoes was akin to the herald of the enigmatic immortal, but upon the road the warrior felt no need to shout his intentions.

Findelfin, as his target was named, had vanished from the history of Althanas for reasons that stumped even the keenest investigators. Yet Jensen knew that Sei had the answer and as he thought he left Kyla a tome of information. The powerful telepath developed a way to keep psychic "tags" upon his close comrades to know when they were in danger, or needed finding and wrote the last location he knew the general was. Jensen took that information with him and, with the help of the Ixian General Talen Shadowalker, managed to pinpoint a general area where the old commander decided to lay low.

So it was upon the steps leading to the cottage Jensen pondered how he would talk to this man. He was a great leader, or so he heard, but Sei's choice in characters had recently not been stellar. Cassandra Remi and William Arcus both orchestrated the events of the Night of Debauchery, causing untold casulaties to the Ixian Knights. Then the nation state of Moria had backed Jasmine Dracosisus when she flipped out and returned to her home. There were stories upon stories of the many mistakes the Mystic made upon his choice of character, but the last straw on the camals back as far as the immortal was concerned was Joshua Cronen. Self titled "Breaker" was a man who took over the investigations team and during the Cell relished in the blood sport for the sake of entertaining a crowd. He brutally beat women, attmepted to beat a child, and for reasons unknown avoided the one unanimous person in the Final round that should have had all the Ixians rallying; Draug Remi.

The fact he eliminated Jensen wasn't much comfort either he mused with a charming grin.

The point remained though. Sei had welcomed unreputable warriors into his ranks, and Jensen vowed not to let Kyla make the same mistakes as Sei. He reached the cottage where Findelfin was supposedly located and he pulled out one of his throwing daggers, twirling it lazily in his fingers as he reached for the rusted doorknob, tapping on the wooden portal as he entered.

"Hello? Anybody home?" Jensen called to the darkness. He could clearly tell that someone had lived here, and recently too. His dirty boots tracked mud into the house as he looked for a letter or notepad that may have the name of the one he was searching for. "Oli-oli-oxi-free!" Jensen shouted a but louder. He heard nothing coming from within the cottage and with a sigh he looked to the bed for any kind of travelling sack.

The hairs on the back of his neck softly stirred as he kept his back to the door, looking at the window and spotting the reflection of the open frame. He kept his gaze upon it warily, but softened his stance waiting for someone to poke their head around the corner.

If it was Findelfin, Jensen figured he would dodge a throw of his knife with ease. If it were an intruder, well...one less mouth for the world to feed. He knew that dark desire wasn't natural, but after his confrontation with the mysterious leader of the Order, Jensen had been looking for a fight to really let go. But one thought did cross his mind.

If it was Findelfin and he killed him...

Better to cull the weak, Jensen mused darkly ignorning the words of the bastard Lye that softly spoke in his head.

[Sighter Tnailog]

In his brief period with the mages at the Warded Wood, Findelfin had learned how to set rudimentary wards. Before that day, when he awoke cold and alone with his equipment beside him and Pelektar nuzzling him somewhere in the northern reaches of Salvar, he had been taught how to make them...sing. What the Enarlin mages and the Ainalin monks could do was nothing short of remarkable. They could almost read intentions. The trees themselves could peer into the hearts of those who arrived and bend themselves to merely puzzle the minds of those who stumbled into the woods. The same trees might break their boughs across the necks of those who came with fire in their hearts. They might part aside for the person who came honestly.

He had not fully learned their arts, though, before he was removed from them. The grass that murmured to him now was almost able to tell him who it was that had tripped their nets. There was a harmony in their voices, a hint; echoes of the heart which now stalked within his small fiefdom. It seemed ambiguous, a tone that set him on edge but did not make him quake with fear, a quietly whispered song which spoke of warning without immediate threat. But he did not know these arts well enough to trust the instinct. It could still be a child. Or an assassin. He was not yet wise to read the voices.

He knew where the wards were set. He knew how long it would take someone to arrive once they were tripped. He felt he had time. At the stables he quickly soothed Pelektar to keep her from whinnying, and went straight to the small chest buried beneath the hay bales. Pulling them aside with a stifled grunt, he quickly dispatched the lock with a softly hummed word. Throwing back the heavy lid, he revealed his secret treasures: his bows, two of his three daggers, a quiver full of arrows, and various pieces of armor. Grabbing the armor pieces he strapped them on hurriedly; the bows would be of less use, so he laid them bare. The final item was a fine golden torc set with three mystical gems. Fastening the clasp around his neck, he resealed the chest with another quiet tone. Even if what he had learned of Enarlin was nothing better than a series of parlor tricks, they were at least practical.

Covered with a little more protection, now, he walked out. The afternoon was well underway; in another hour it would be dark. Best to finish this while there was still light to see by. Crossing the open terrain carefully, approaching the cottage by the rear so as not to be seen by anyone who had approached by the front, Findelfin went through exercises in his mind. The things a novice would do, essentially; he was a feather on the wind, he was a reed cut off and drifting in a stream. It had been more than a year since his last real spar, and even farther back since his last battle with more than honor on the line.

The horde of Valinatal, the assembled host of Elves, their sunken eyes, their biting teeth. They charged, their speed made more frightening by the shamble of their undead gait. He leveled Ainalindil, and charged. He felt the glamor settle over him as the Bladesingers around him fell. He felt the fingers of an elf he had personally promoted grasp at his throat. He knew he was dead, and then he was taken.

The novice exercises had made such visions rarer, but still they persisted. He blinked it away, finally at the cottage. He sidled along the wall, and peered towards the door. Nothing. But the grass had been humming, and he could hear a voice crying out inside to see if anyone was home. Confirmation, at least, that his visitor was no lost child. Although they seemed willing to make themselves known, so they were no common burglar. Caution was called for. Putting his hand to his throat, he pressed the gem lying alongside his right jugular. Nothing about him changed, but he knew that the air around him had twisted, and he had little time. He would only be invisible for a few short seconds.

Quickly, quietly, silently -- growing up a woodsman had taught him that skill, at least, one that would never leave him -- Findelfin crossed to the door and slipped in, his footfalls making no sound against the floor. Lightly he stepped into the room, noticing at a glance the man stooped over his effects. The man seemed intent on the bed, but his eyes were glancing to the windowframe in the mirror. And his body tense, prepped. Findelfin did not know why the man would be so tense given that he had called out to announce his presence, but there was no time to think it through. Only a few seconds left.

Sitting himself in a nearby chair with preternatural quiet and projecting a nonchalant air, Findelfin steeled himself to move with coiled swiftness at need. He waited a moment, then spoke the second his instincts told him that the glamor of invisibility had disappeared.

"What brings a man this far into the wilds of Salvar? And what makes him so interested in the trappings of my bed?"

[Enigmatic Immortal]

The words spoken by someone behind the immortal caused him to recoil faster than striking snake. Swiftly lifting his weapon up to his chest in a defensive position the knight turned to face his new foe. Fingers curling ready to let the metal fly loose he spoke in a controlled manner with eyes searching over the person seated in the chair before him.

"Not going to lie there, bud, not many people get the jump on me. Well done." Nodding his head in earnest and relaxing his shoulders he stood a bit taller to get a good look at the man who spooked him. Processing several ideas at once Jensen concluded the way he sat exuded confidance and an heir of authority. His speech, poinent and elegant, noted a higher sense of intellect. He was a rather tall man, half a head or so taller than the immortal and clothing, despite being a little in need of a wash, were still maintined and cared for. He was fast, or very good at magic, something not unheard of on Althanas but to get the jump on Jensen Ambrose indicated a higher degree of training. All signs pointed that whoever this man was, he was not a common beggar, pick pocket, or denizen of the nation state.

Smiling the immortal concluded that he had indeed found FIndelfin ap Fingolfin. But no need to rush the pleasantries he mused as he took a soft step forwards, lowering the throwing dagger to a neutral position. Something about the warrior before him made Jensen's blood start to sing. The knight looked over the surroundings and spoke in a rather bored manner.

"Came in looking from some grub," Jensen lied, fingers patting his stomach in a steady beat. "Been travelling a while and my food supply is getting low, and the taste is getting stale. Only so many times you can visit the same fish bone for meat, right?" Jensen started chuckling at his own sarcasm while he observed the cottage didn't have much in the way of terrain. He looked back to his charge and it was then he noticed what caused his blood to stir.

Pointy.

Fucking.

Ears.

Findelfin was an elf. Violent tendencies spurred upwards as Jensen took a long drag of the air in the room. Racial intolerances and a desire to beat his ass merely for being such a creature pumped fresh adrenaline into his body. His fingers began to itch as they flexed in and out of themselves. It took a tremendous force of will for the immortal not to just go berserk and lay into the man.

Wouldn't Sei be proud to see Jensen's restraint?

Jensen gave an apologetic bow of his head realising that he got lost in his own world for a moment. He decided to go the diplomatic route with this one. Keep it by the books and do the Ixian Knights proud. Extending his hand out in generosity, the immortal spoke. "Could you spare me a pint and some food?" He smiled, warmly, showing no hostility as his eyes remained open and wide.

Of course, the second Findelfin opened his mouth, Jensen already planned to throw the knife resting in the pommel of his other hand.

[Sighter Tnailog]

((Based on our conversation in chat and on my intro thread, I bunnied the dagger toss. Hope you don't mind.))

Findelfin regarded the man with his cool green eyes, listening as he spoke. He had long known the art of painting his face, but it was a limited skill. Useful primarily in the woods, to hide from deer, to blend against the backdrop to sneak against an unwary foe. But it was not the best of ruses against a foe with time to study the face of the man in front of him, for paints and mixed powders could run or rub, and reveal the truth beneath a second skin.

The Enarlin bards had taught him simple songs; how to sink the powders into his body. He could make them smooth and supple; they would ripple when he laughed and crinkle at a smile, become frightening with a frown. He regarded the man now with a neutral expression. He could do much with his arts. The man would not see the famous face of Findelfin ap Fingolfin, pictured in woodcutter's prints and in the pages of the Radasanthian Reader. But still, he looked at the man with green eyes. It was a tell, one he was not advanced enough to hide. He could not change how the light struck his eyes.

Something in the man's glance puzzled him for a moment. He had been reading the man the whole time. Studying the magic of the Sixth Lore, Turlindalë, had given him a keen sense of people. The man had been courteous, obsequious even, and surprisingly straightforward that his purpose had been seeking food. Someone actually seeking it might have been more sheepish at being caught in the midst of a likely theft. When he had first spoken, though, the thrum in the energy that passed between them had been more forceful than that of a simple hungry traveler or a sneakthief out to steal a potato from a farmer's larder. There was intentionality in the man, an excitement. The kind of thrill that ran through a man as if he had found someone he had long sought.

But the man's glance had shifted, shifted slightly, and the feeling between the man had changed. It was contained visibly. Findelfin noted that it was contained very well, in fact, for no outward sign accompanied the change. But there was a turbulence in him suddenly as though a team of chargers had burst the horselines and the grooms were trying to flag them down and soothe them one by one. The soothing was happening, the man was obtaining control. But what was it? What was it he had seen?

The man had finished speaking his piece and Findelfin was obligated by social convention to offer an answer. But he kept his eyes on the man, sensing him out, studying him exactly as he imagined a poor farmer might study a man who came begging. Social convention, at least, allowed for a moment of silence to ponder. The man was not a particularly good guardian of his thoughts, and the anger and intention cried out to Findelfin from just beneath the surface of his beggar's bravado. No. This was no traveler. And he wanted more than food. Blood, perhaps. There was anger beneath his smile.

If it was a trap, might as well spring it. Even the steeliest of mercenaries might flinch, as wound up as this man was. Findelfin leaped to his feet with alarming alacrity, moving slightly sideways to occupy a different space than he had occupied. It was a nonthreatening maneuver, but it was swift enough to surprise someone already on edge.

The man was clearly on edge. As Findelfin made his move, his hand flashed and a knife flew and embedded itself in the wooden chair back. Were it not for the layer of leather between his skin and the blade, Findelfin could have sworn the breeze would have disturbed the hairs on his arm.

Ainalindil was dull in the dim light of the cavern, but it still glimmered with its own vague internal light. As it flashed from his side, the glamor that made it appear nothing but a belt knife, Findelfin could almost hear the smooth sound of metal sliding against leather as the sword's own cry of relief. It had not tasted the air in a long time, save for a day when night was deepening in Ettermire.

He raised one hand absently to toss the hair out of his eyes and force the full weight of his countenance upon the "beggar." As he did his fingers brushed against his ears. That was it, he thought with a rueful inward grin. The ears. A dead give-away. I am not very good at this espionage business.

"Strange way to request food, traveler, with a knife in your sleeve and malice in your heart. Why have you come?" Findelfin's voice was hard, his tone firm. He did not speak like the man he looked like, the craggy farmer. He spoke like one who had once driven armies.

You would never guess he had driven them to doom.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

"You fast mother fuc-" Jensen had to twirl to keep the elven man in his sights. The immortal was not used to those who moved faster than he, but who better than an aged old elf to show up the knight. His weapon was brandished from his belt, a simple blade that was o more threatening than a kitchen utensil in Jensen's mind. With a flick of his wrist, fingers darting to his own belt the warrior brandished the heavy weight of his switch-blade sword, the gun-blade Lawbreaker. With a mettalic click the weapon yawned with tension as the pully brought the dehlar edge into the housing. Sights set upon the elf the immortal held the gun-mode of his weapon within sights of his prey.

Yet he didn't pull the trigger. Not yet at least. Jensen's heart began to burst at the seams with the desire to let go and start a brawl with the warrior before him. This was fast becoming less about Jensen bringing a new member home to the family of the Ixian Knights and a true test of his own control. Had he not been so in the moment he would have been terrified to realize he was losing control of his actions more and more. Yet with all the will power of a man pulling tight on the choker of unfed dogs, Jensen reeled in his emotions to let out a soft gasp of a laugh.

"I'm looking for someone," Jensen revealed with a wide grin. "Some ass-twat named Finger-fuck. Know him?" Jensen kept his breaths measured and controlled, biting his own tongue to keep the torrent of laughter boiling within the pit of his stomach. "So we got some options here. Tell me who you are, or tell me where I can find him, or let me beat the shit out of you until your a bloody, whsitling potato of a bush humping elf, then tell me who you are."

Jensen kept his weapon trained against the elf's chest, fingers squeezing the trigger preparing for rapid fire. Either way, he wasn't going to let the man make another move and escape. No, he planned to fully test if this legend of a warrior was really worth the time of day that he was promised.

[Sighter Tnailog]

Guns. Findelfin truly hated the things, to the extent that it was a marvel he even recognized the contraption now pointed at his chest. They were probably half of the reason he had clung to Raiaera as long as he had. At least there the things were outlawed, and rendered inert through an invocation he now seriously wished he had taken the time to learn. Not only were they messy and impolite, but he hated them for another reason. He really had no sense of how to defend against them.

This could be difficult, he thought, his blade angled slightly downward, his poise written in every feature. The tip gestured carefully, so as not to alarm, the stance of the wary fighter, not the aggressive attacker. Finger-fuck? I see he has a stench of humor, too. Whatever it was, there was no time to talk, and he was out of little tricks. The man had a glint in his eye that said he wouldn't be fooled with fancy footwork one more time.

His sword still angled towards the man's lower body, kept low to be non-aggressive but high enough to be whipped up in a flash, he spoke, "Finger-fuck? You've found me, guilty as charged. But if you're seeking someone different, and I suspect you are, I may make you beat it out of me." That man died long ago He kept himself from saying that aloud. It wasn't true, though it was, and it was too much braggadocio to lay on a man with a gun trained on his heart. Melodramatic, self-important; he had been that once. It was a part that still struggled for air as much as he tried drowning it.

He opened his mouth as if to say something else, and at that moment he struck without warning. With a single jolt of concentration, he sent three sparkling white bolts of energy out of the tip of Ainalindil, which he had rather expertly been twisting carefully between his hands at the first two target points, deciding what would be weakest. First for the feet, to bind the legs, then the hip, to break the stride. And then the gun, to wound the weapon. He had thought about the gun first, but clearly pointing the tip at the gun for any length of time, would have telegraphed too much. Better to let it flash up at the very end of the move, as Ainalindil swung upwards and he began to leap into a forward roll.

The blasts flew almost at the same time, so rapid was his motion and his control, but he knew they would not cause much damage. Were the man a zombie, he might well fall to the ground, finally lifeless. But he was not, so it was bound to be no more than a stinging surprise, especially to a well-trained mercenary. As he stood out of the roll, positioned down and to the left of the man, he hurled his basin upwards in defense and swept Ainalindil wide and forward in an attempt to follow through on his simple attack with one that was a little more lethal. Though he often used the clunky round metal piece as a water-basin, it was at its birth a steel shield wrought with the characteristic curves of Salvaran infantry. Those curves were designed for use against muskets.

He hoped they had been designed well.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

The immortal saw the enchanted bolts of magic pulse forwards like lightning. They split into a trident like attack form meant to incapacitate the immortal and with nihilistic glee the knight grinned processing the patterns faster than even the most astute soldier. With a sharp side step he avoided the attack at his feet, boots clicking on the wooden floor as mud caked footprints were left in his wake. He fell backwards in a free fall, hips rotating in a corkscrew as he lifted one leg up over the other in a spin. His gunblade ativated again, the heavy metal chord swishing in the air. The blade was released from its bondage and came out to resemble a modified curved blade which he used to absorb the attack of the energy.

Dehlar was known to be an extrordianry substance for absorbing and resisting the effects of magic. As expierence had taught the brawler, sometimes magic would just get the better of him. Witnessing one too many tournaments where a mage obliterated his foe with cheap parlor tricks was the nail in the preverbial coffin to find some way to counter such harmful attacks. He knew he had speed, he knew he had cunning, but he knew one day Dehlar would be what he needed to save his life.

So glad I bought this toy. Jensen thought dismissvly as he swung the blade into the projectiles, shunting them aside. He landed in a low crouch from his spin like a lioness preparing to pounce. Grinning like a fool with cheshire like qualities he sprung into action, one hand holding Lawbreaker at the ready, the other pulling out the Zodiac weapon Cancer's Pincer and letting the two blades rest to either side of him.

Finally, after what felt like ages of waiting, Jensen released the bubbling torment inside him out, a high pitched screech of pure mirth born from the deepest recess of his fragile psyche. It was all on the table now for both to see. Combat was truly starting and no more false pretenses were made about food and weary travelling. With the blessings given by his foe to beat the tar out of him, Jensen truly let go.

Lawbreaker came up at the sheild with aggressive strikes, Cancer's Pincer striking well and true out of the way over the right side of the elves head. When he reached his apex of that meaningless strike, he would thumb the rune to activate the switch weapon, turning it into a scythe and preparing to harvest Findelfin's head clean off.

"Now the fun begins, Finger-fuck," Jensen seethed between gasps of laughter.

[Sighter Tnailog]

((Minor bunnying based on PM conversation. If this is not what you had in mind, EI, let me know))

Like a beast bubbling up through his chest and into his head, Findelfin could sense the manic rage in his opponent. Now he fed off it, allowing himself to feel what he had not felt in a long time. He did not know who this man was. That the man had done nothing to explain himself before attacking him made Findelfin boil.

He did not know why he expected courtesy from an assassin. Or a madman. Or a fool. Why would any of the three who see the need to explain themselves? The world was mad. And the madness of the world made Findelfin hot, then ice, then hot again.

He bubbled behind the shield, fending off the flurry of blows from the man's blade. The steel shield clanged, pocked, and would not withstand the superior blade much longer. And Findelfin knew nothing, really, about using a shield. He knew how to use it as a basin of water, and a mirror. But behind it hidden, safe for a few more moments, Findelfin bubbled, simmered, until the anger became steam. It would have to vent.

He had tried to hide here, to shelter in a world gone mad. To avoid the wiles of Nalith, to evade the watchful eyes of Salvaran lordlings and King-Pretenders who would not see kindly to an old foreign general on their shores. He had tried to hide, his cottage a shelter, the stream a shield, the view of the sea the only memory of duty and the infinite stretch of his life. He knew he would have been forced from out behind this shield sooner or later. Somewhere, he had always known his hermit's existence, in search of knowledge long-forbidden, would attract the outside world. His legend shone to brightly. It attracted insects. He could hide for them no more.

The anger within his opponent was strong, but with a smile Findelfin opened his mouth and began to sing. He had not sung since leaving the Warded Wood, except for the nightly hymns to the prescribed Ainelenari of the day. Even those songs had been quiet, lest someone here. But he was done hiding. His song took on a melody reminiscent of two spells he had known since he could remember. The blended tones of the Requiem of the North and the Canticle of the Fire Ring, woven together urgently and expertly. He could feel the thaumaturgy glistening in the air, pulled it forth from him, readied to release it.

He was done hiding. As he saw out of the corner of his eye a blade flash towards an unclear target, as he tried to weather a flurry of blows, as he wove the magic out of the music, he decided to be done with hiding. He planted his feet and thrust forward with his shield, driving it forward and throwing the whole weight of it forward with his whole weight behind it and letting go of the straps at the same time. He had no intention of picking it up again. Dodge that, villain. The man tried to dodge but the shield caught him a glancing blow across the shoulder opposite the one sweeping in the strange pattern. Not a wound worth mentioning, but it still gave Findelfin a passing satisfaction and would hopefully strike some fear into the man's heart.

But the shield was not the weapon of Findelfin ap Fingolfin. The sword was, and the song. As the thrown steel disk fell useless to the side, Ainalindil flashed. Findelfin had been puzzled by the attack that went so obviously astray, puzzled enough to pay attention. As a scythe blade blossomed from the strange weapon he was ready, throwing his arms straight up and thrusting Ainalindil downwards directly behind his spine, catching the blade before it could take him through the nape of his neck. Even as he did so, he finished the last note of his song, and readied the blast.

"The name," Findelfin expelled the words into the man's face, almost musically, as if the song was still incomplete, "is Findelfin!"

With a mighty heave, the disgraced General of Raiaera brought his arms forward in a massive blow. With any luck, it would wrest the scythe from the man's hand and continue forward to cleave him in two. At the same moment, the blast Findelfin had sung into existence exploded outward, the blended tones of the Fire Sphere and the Requiem of the North expertly interwoven. Chunks of ice, each as small as the bullets in the barrel of a gun, individually spun out in a sheet of hail, fiery lattice-work flashing in the spaces between the pieces. The blast arced forward in a smooth barrage.

Findelfin ap Fingolfin was not hiding anymore.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

The ringing of metal on metal left Jensen near deaf, his echos of laughter masking all other sounds. At last Findelfin was moving in aggression with the intent to fight instead of pussy foot around the matter. At last Jensen was in the thrill of battle, feeling the rush of adrenaline in his body, the heaving torment on his lungs, the pounding of his blood in his ears. Riotous discords of chuckles, giggles, and inane boisterous mirth heralded Jensen's own spiraling sanity.

He felt the scythe strike metal, a shrill scrapping of the two alloys cutting deep against one another leaving jagged marks in the tempered materials. Jensen let the weapon loose and fell into a reverse step to by him room while the elf declared his intentions. The immortal lifted his weapon up and parried the downward arc of his foe's sword catching up to the hilt and shoving it sideways. The momentum of his defensive block left his side and back open and his eyes alight with fires of agony, his laughter replaced with yelps of torment as he fought to scream and giggle all at the same moment. His arm felt like fire and the leather of his coat was slowly fading to a darker hue as tiny mountains of blood poured forth from the ice wounds.

Jensen collapsed in a twirl, feet tripping underneath his own weight as he collapsed in a heap of his own flesh. Blood splattered the floor and pooled, leaking onto the frigid cold floor. Jensen struggled for breath, one of the chilling bullets piercing a lung, coming up with naught but crimson flecked lips and blood stained teeth. It took a moment for his body and mind to reach the same conclusion as he took one last gasp, collapsing into himself with a fading giggle before he died.

There was a soft breeze on the wind, tickling the red tipped hairs on Jensen's face, his body still as a sleeping lamb. He made no movements at all letting death assume its hostile takeover of his body. In the serenity of the moment, the wooden panals of the windows creaked softly back and forth, adding an eerily sense of unease to the air. The tension lifted, ever so slightly, as the faintest of crackles could be heard. Small snake like tendrils of green energy danced like faeries across his chest and back. They collided with one another, creating a web of eldritch energy that sizzled upon contact. Jensen's wounds upon his flesh began to close quickly, the ice melting out with the slicked blood. There was a cough from the immortal, before he kicked his whole body out in a spasm of life.

He had died, and with the Breath of the Undying, he returned. In the span of mere moments the immortal was already rising to his knees, a new chorus of dark, haunted laughter escaping his lips. He reached for his belt pulling out the poison tipped knives from the Red Forest, twirling one of them to his grip as he rose, his other hand reaching for the heavy mace Crozius to prepare for the elf's counter-attack.

"That's the spirit," he seethed through blood drenched lips, grin wider than a demons. "Show me all you have to offer, leaf licker."

[Sighter Tnailog]

He had not really expected it to work as it had. The Canticle of the Fire Sphere normally produced an entire sphere, and the Requiem of the North produced much bigger ice blasts. But he hadn't the time to do either, so this had to do. As soon as he had unleashed the blast, he felt remorse. He had seen the soldiery in Salvar on drills during one of his many incognito trips to Knife's Edge, and they had a weapon called a musket. They were clunky and unwieldy, but he realized now that they had given them the idea for what he had just done. It was easier to make smaller projectiles, and use the explosive force of another spell to direct them in a burst. It was easy.

And it was wrong. There was nothing different between what he had unleashed on the man and the gun that had been pointed at his chest. As Ainalindil ground to the side, deflected by the gunblade, Findelfin watched as the ice particles ripped into the man's flesh, tore his arm apart, other pellets ripping deep into Jensen's softer internal parts. Instinctively, Findelfin dropped his sword and rushed to the man's side. Enemy or know, he would die without his help.

He began to sing a soft, lilting melody, holding his hand up and feeling the energy gather there. Lissilin was something he had not been excellent at, but all of his arts had increased in power under the tutelage of the bards in the Warded Wood. He closed his eyes for a second to gather his compusure and generate the compassionate sympathy needed to knit torn tissues together. With a flourish he brought his hand down to place upon the man, conveying all that healing into his wounded body. It would be just enough to keep him alive, and as Findelfin's hand reached for the man's shoulder the elf opened his eyes.

And was shocked to see the man looking directly at him, already halfway to his feet, a dagger flashing for Findelfin's side. Findelfin threw himself backwards, but the dagger still managed to plunge deep, penetrating through the side of the leather lamellar where the scales did not fully overlap and tearing a hole in the armor with a slash. Eyes wide, Findelfin quickly modulated the song and ripped out the dagger as he scuttled backwards, then laid the magic upon himself. The wound closed over, though not quickly and not fully; it still oozed and there was a tingling and an faintness in Findelfin's head that wasn't there before. There had been something on that dagger.

Snatching at Ainalindil, Findelfin spat a curse under his breath. This man had been dead! Death could not be faked that well. Was this some necromancer's trick? Findelfin rose to his knees with his back against the wall and the windowsill right above his head. "What are you?" He spat the words with disgust in his voice. "Some lieutenant of Xem'Zûnd's? Or something lesser, some half-bred former devil's trap sent here to snuff out a potential threat to a fool's fiefdom in the hinterlands of my homeland?"

Findelfin was gathering his strength, and clearing his head. That dagger wound was still throbbing, and he suspected he would need to tend to it more fully soon lest it overtake him. But his willpower was at least winning out for the moment over the mental haze of whatever had drugged him. He rose to his feet and extended Ainalindil in front of him, taking a battle position. The man was grinning like an idiot, or a demon. But he had paused, for a second. Listening. Maybe a speech could hold him off, give Findelfin time to regroup. It was worth a shot.

"I am done fighting wars for the elves. I am done with it. We struggled and we lost, and I will never overcome the grief of watching the people I knew die, people I'd loved, both my people and others. The face of Natamrael Nito still haunts me, and her daughter Skie. The daughter of two of my fastest friends, dead as far as I know. Or worse, wandering through the streets of Eluriand as a shambling carcass, wandering until she finds some flesh to rend or falls apart of corpse-rot. Dead because of my failure. Why have you come, if servant of Xem'Zûnd you are? Have you not already triumphed? Will you not leave me broken and alone, to mourn the ones I lost?"

He was standing now, standing firmer. The chance to breathe had renewed him. It seemed that the spell he had cast was having a greater effect than it should have; maybe he had lucked out on the poison, perhaps it was something his magic was already primed to heal. Wobbly, but unbroken, Findelfin stood with his sword stretched out, his back to the wall, his piece spoken, his life displayed for a strange man to try to destroy at the end. Maybe if he died here, it would be okay.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

Jensen observed the Elf retreating and stumbling to the wall, broken words from a broken man uttered in testaments of a tired soul. Here he stood, once more with all his strength crying out his tragedy waiting for Jensen to finish him off. It was when he finished, weapon in hand, prepared to give his life for his sins that it struck the immortal.

His giggling faded and his blood slowed. The knight looked down to the floor where blood had spilt and followed the trail around the cottage. The signs were obvious now to Jensen. Inside was a simple bed with little in the way of trinkets or worldly possessions to furnish the home. His gaze lifted to Findelfin’s looking past the man’s green orbs that dazed back to the immortal. He focused on them, passing the imaginary veil that hid the true warrior within. The foundations of his soul were already crumbled and weak, filled with strife and personal regret.

Jensen dropped his weapons on the floor. They clattered as they collapsed against one another and the knight took a step backwards as if disgusted by what he saw. If anyone in the world knew a thing or two about mourning lost ones. Instead, Jensen just looked to the elf and took a deep breath.

“No, I’m no servant of Xem’Xund,” Jensen started. “And no, I’m no devil’s apparition. Just a cursed plaything of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse,” the knight looked to Findelfin, seeing the elf keep his guard up, but his breathing softened. He continued, speaking softer as the adrenaline in his blood calmed itself. “And why I am here is because the world needs men like you. Generals who know what loss is like and don’t commit themselves to wars and send people to die for their own glory.”

Jensen stood taller again, his hands in plain sight as he spoke with a bit more pride. “I am Jensen Ambrose, Captain of the Ixian Knights. I serve Kyla Orlouge and was tasked with bringing you to her to discuss the possibility of you joining our cause.” The immortal’s shoulders sagged. “Something I feel I just blew. No words can really take back what I have done, but…we have been under a lot of stress from outsiders attacking our people and betraying us.”

To show his intentions were genuine, Jensen did the only thing he could think of and disarmed himself of all his weapons and tossing them into a pile on the floor. He hoped his gesture would allow Findelfin the confidence to at least give Jensen a chance. But it was all up to the warrior now.

[Sighter Tnailog]

((I took a big risk with your character in something I did here, because...well, because it felt right to me and you weren't around to ask while I was needing to finish the post. If anything in this post upsets you, please let me know and I will edit it immediately.))

Empathy.

For the first time in his life, he resented the gift. Since he had studied with Endarlin, since he had learned to unlock the secret parts of Turlindalë that let him access the emotions of others, he had thought the gift uniformly useful. To know when a foe might be lying and to feel in his own skull when a lover's touch was genuine; these things were truly gifts of the stars. They heightened the pleasures of living, they helped him know when to speak and when to fall silent, they gave him an advantage in a fierce fight. The gift had probably saved his life this very day. Without it, he would have had a dagger in his heart.

But now he could feel his opponent. He could feel this man who had entered his home and his solace, the man who had pushed him to rage, the man had made him unmask and dredge up all he had tried to avoid. Without the gift, Findelfin would have been justified in taking up his sword and slicing through the man's neck, taking his life in an instant. He could always say he had been lied to once already, and had no reason to believe the man this time. He could go the rest of his life assured that he had slain a knave instead of murdered an innocent.

But his empathy meant he could feel his opponent. The rage and the hatred and the bitter, strange mirth that had filled the man while they fought had drained out of him like sand through the sifter's pan. He was empty, and full of regret. It was sad to behold and sadder to feel, and Findelfin was suddenly overwhelmed. With something like pity. This was no man who could disguise himself, who could hide his passions. And those who could not hide their passions could not control them, either. There were wounds in this strange man, this man who could arise from death, that Findelfin might never touch.

Ainalindil clattered to the floor, and Findelfin staggered to a chair, clutching his wounded side. It would heal. Something about that poison was not strong enough to resist even the simple and hurried spell Findelfin had laid upon it, for which he was glad. It was easy enough to heal your body, but the cost was always greater in your soul. Another lesson he'd learned from Endarlin. He gestured to the other chair, and the man took it, albeit hesitatingly.

Gently, carefully, Findelfin pulled out a rosary from his pocket, wrapping it around one hand. He then reached out with both hands to grasp the other man's face in them, with tenderness and care. He paused for a moment to make sure the man was comfortable with the gesture, and could sense the briefest glimmer of something in the man pushing back. Disgust, perhaps? Hatred? But the man was hesitant for only a moment, then relented, nodding and letting the elf place his hands upon his face. He touched the skin tenderly, and looked into the man's eyes for a moment, before closing his own and beginning to sing.

It was the most powerful magic he had ever woven, in a way. Powerful precisely because it did almost nothing. Powerful in the way that sometimes the things which do the absolute least mean the most. A fresco laid against a bare wall in a chapel might have the grace and artistry to move the hearts of men to great things, just as a single statue of surpassing beauty might make the mightiest gasp and stagger at the marvel laid before them. These arts were the greatest magic, and the song Findelfin wove was like to them. A listener trained in the music of Raiaera would have said the song was of Lissilin, that Findelfin was somehow using that art on the man.

They would be wrong. Findelfin had learned that the style of the song did not matter. It had never mattered. Intent and the hope and the concentration and the emotions of the singer were the only thing that had ever fueled Raiaeran song magic, that and the power of the soul doing the the singing. Dagorlin was a percussive, angry music because it was so often sung by angry, violent people. Lissilin was soft and soothing because those who used it most often sought to be soothing presences themselves. But he had once grasped the head of a friend in his hands, a shattered skull, and sang a song of healing with all the force and violence he could muster, as if to wrest back the dead from the very gates of Galatirion. He had once spoken a Dagorlin incantation so softly and gently that his enemy had barely felt the ice blade penetrate his chest. No, the sound of the music had never mattered. What mattered was the soul of the singer.

So this song was of no school and of all. No school because its music was simple, a song of relief, a song of hope, a song of simple beauty and unadorned melody. A song for the end of battle. But in it he laid the hopes of Turlin, to probe and to seek out. Into it he wove Lissilin, to heal the body, and what he knew of Aglarlin to soothe the mind. He wove Dagorlin, to do battle with the demons in the man, and Ostlin to defend him from their wiles; he wove in Ainalin, to convey the sanctity of the moment, the holiness of tender touch and forgiving grace. And at last he wove Endarlin, the music that had been forbidden for too long, extending his own soul into the man. He wanted to touch him, to find the part of him that was wounded, to pierce the mirth in his heart. It was not a flashy magic.

There in the man's heart Findelfin felt a wound deeply familiar and yet deeply foreign. With time he could conceivably heal it. Time and more skill than he had. Elves lived long lives, but they could perish. Findelfin had picked this location by the Bluff for that reason. If the wounds of all the ones he had lost ever became too much, he could walk down to the stream as though on his normal water-gathering errand. He could stare out across the expanse of rocky coast towards the sea, glimmering faintly a few miles away, occasionally wafting its salty breath across his face. And he could fling himself from that bluff into the stream below, and let it wash his broken form out to the sea. It was something he had pondered, and never done, something he probably never do. But knowing he could do it had been...a comfort. It had made the life he was bound to live, the life of a near-immortal elf, bearable. How this man could bear an immortality without escape was beyond him. It made him quake with the hurt of such profound injustice.

Even if Findelfin possessed the skill to heal this man's wound, it would be a violation, for it would change who he was. It would wrap up his existence in a new way, and that was not Findelfin's decision to make. That wound was no longer fresh; it was a scar, constantly broken and healed over so much it had become a knot. Findelfin dared not touch it lest it rip open. But he could do something. He placed on its surface a small glamor, the smallest, faintest light. All the magic he had poured into this exploration of the man settled there. It would leave the barest imprint, the barest sense that things might be different. Only Jensen could find it, and the man might never know he had been touched by it unless he sought out the meaning of the moment for himself.

Meaning. Findelfin pondered. For oneself. A powerful magic indeed.

Findelfin stopped his song then reached across the table. He knew not to say anything else, for the man would still be pondering what had just happened. And, to be honest, Findelfin didn't want to explain what he had done, because he didn't rightly know. He'd placed hope, perhaps, in a breast where hope had been long covered over by violence. In his silence he grabbed a tiny notebook, covered over many pages with his thin, legible hand. Tearing out a page at the back -- half a page, really, paper was expensive these days -- he shoved the parchment and a single Alerian fountain pen towards the man.

"Write down your piece. Where I may find the Knights, why I should find them. The Orlouge name is not unknown to me, and I will consider your request. No promises. Once you are done, gather your weapons. I need space to think. You are forgiven, for what it's worth, but I wouldn't test the limits of my patience."

Getting up, he left the man to write, and stepped out of the cottage. The sun was sinking, and the stars were coming up. Good. Findelfin thought. Now's as good a time as any to pray. Clutching his rosary in his hands, he extended his arms to the heavens. Tonight, of all nights, he needed the star-gods to listen.