Life's A Beach (Closed)

[Sjakk]

Closed to The Muri.

Cold. Bitter cold. Unending nihilism set in white. That was Berevar’s eternity, and its children suffered for it.

“Strange,” Sjakk whispered. Despite her humility as she entered the arena, she was full of wonder. “It’s not as dreadful as I remember.”

The setting chosen by the Ai’bron, peddlers of cheap tricks and tall tales was the opposite of her homeland. A beach, wild and abandoned. Lapsing shores, steppes rising above ever changing dunes. Brown grass swaying in a heavy wind that howled, whipped, and wailed its discontent.

“You seem surprised,” asked The Rook that was not.

Sjakk chuckled. A coy laugh, back of her hand to mouth as though rudeness was anathema to her. Lady-like mannerisms masquerading a monster. To the onlookers, she was talking to herself. Madness personified. Delusions abound.

“I guess today is as good a day to die as this is as good a battleground to wage war upon.”

Ahead, double doors. Bound in iron that had witnessed a million pointless deaths. Behind, a cloak flapping in the wind, her own entrance. To her left, the endless crystalline sea unknown. No way ahead or west to the rising climbs of the wilderness and the uncertain prosperity that dwelt there. Sjakk tried to smile, but knowing that only her blade and her wits would protect her, it ended as a snarl.

“That’s unbecoming,” said the Rook.

Sjakk snarled harsher still. She drew her blade, a cold steel Salvarian edifice of cruelty, and held it in her right hand.

[The Muri]

This landscape was barren. I hated it.

Meloncoly, I stepped through brown grasses. The sound of dead plants and dirt sounded beneath my feet. The cold nipped at me. Thankfully, I had my warm, grey cloth jacket on.

I looked up ahead to see my opponent. She had black hair, the opposite of mine. Green eyes were cold as ice. I sighed, realizing that this could be one of those Citadel matches. I briefly looked on to a beautiful sea close by. It wasn't nearly close enough for us to cast out reflections, but on its own it was gorgeous. I looked back to my opponent, the soft but chilly winds causing my hair to flow.

"Hi. You are?"

[Sjakk]

“Names are meaningless here, my dear,” she condescended.

Still bitter at the heckling from the Rook, Sjakk feigned disinterest in her opponent. Apparent, the girl had been here some time, preparing for their encounter with earnest and civility. It was, in her limited experience of normality, untoward.

“If you wish, however, you may call me Clarissa.”

Offering her mortal name was a sleight the woman opposite would never understand. It made it simpler, however, to deal in terms the short-lived could understand. Berevar’s cd, bitter heart would seem welcoming compared to the monstrosity unleashed if ever Clarissa Montague revealed her Elder name to someone so undeserving.

“She’s spritely,” the Rook crowed. It fluttered from shoulder to shoulder, feathers and scrawny legs eschew with age. “Kill her.”

“Oh, I intend to kill her,” Sjakk cackled. Once more, back of hand met lip, masquerading her ill will feebly and without success. She held her sword at arm’s length, high temper thrusting point towards her opponent. “Not her,” she corrected. She cocked her head. Fringe flipped, eyes reddened, lip bloodied from her own concentration. “What’s your name?”

[The Muri]

I placed my hands curiously on my sword Calcator. It was a fat blade shaped like a "V". Despite the sword's size and weight, I was well at wielding it. I stared at the woman, and the creature on her shoulder, with caution. I spoke, answering her own question, "Kaida. Charmed, Clarissa." That last sentence was a lie. I could tell her kind out well. She was one of those opponents bent on killing me. I always came to the Citadel hoping for friendly matches, but that didn't mean I knew I would run into bad apples.

I considered pulling my sword out, but then I remembered that I had more options to turn to. Might as well get this match done and over with...

I pulled out my wooden crossbow pistol, Shok, and cocked it. I didn't aim yet. However, if she made one aggressive move...

[Sjakk]

“A crossbow?” Sjakk rolled her eyes. Disingenuous condescension with raised eyebrows. “Oh darling, please.”

With threat intended, she stepped forwards. Once. Twice. Heel digging, toes curled. The Rook took flight, leaving its mistress (or slave, nobody quite knew except he), all alone.

“How about we clash blades like proper ladies. I really don’t want to put a hole through leather this expensive.” She gestured to her bodice, which was, as it happened, exquisite and masterwork attire from Salvar.

Testament to her conviction to kill, Sjakk bolted to life. She raised her blade into the crossbow’s likely path. She clicked her wrists, flexed her muscles, and darted the blade’s tip towards Kaida’s trigger hand. Either she would sure up resistance and equal the odds, or suffer a poor women’s nameless grave in the Citadel’s fickle abandonment of manners and form.

[The Muri]

While I could tell my opponent was more experienced, and while my opponent was fast, I was faster. Being a (surprisingly) respectful person, I did not pull the trigger to my crosspistol. Just as Clarissa got up to me, I snatched my entire body aside. Like water, I slipped away from her. Once I was stepped aside, I put Shok away and pulled out Calculator, grasping it with both hands and holding it defensively, "You want a sword fight?" I asked her, allowing my confidence to speak for itself, "You're on!"

Something told me I would enjoy this fight after all.

With my combined speed and acrobatics, it took me little time at all to come up to her. With my degree of strength, being able to lift close to two-hundred pounds, I was able to control Calculator with minor difficulty.

Once I was face to face with Clarissa, I pulled another trick, I swerved away from her again. Now I was behind her. I wasted no time now, I aimed my large, steel weapon towards her upper backbone.

[Sjakk]

The blade’s tip slipped through cloth like butter, and skin like air. Sjakk’s eyes widened, though no scream emerged from her open mouth. Her instant reaction was to turn about quickly, and swipe back with her blade. A voice in her head, strangely bird-like, told her otherwise. Instead, she lunged forwards, wrenching herself free and releasing the scream at long last. Tendons twanged. Muscle toned. A single tear, more mocking than minding rolled down the necromancer’s cheek.

“Oh, well now.” She turned. The sea to her left was growing more ferocious, white waves cresting into mountains.

The raven on her shoulder briefly became visible to Clarissa’s opponent. If she was looking carefully enough, she would have caught his polite, gentlemanly bow, and then a single feather raised in her general direction. It disappeared, and the beach wind’s howl increased.

“Well played.” She rolled the injured shoulder, wincing with every rotation. The sudden absence of her mentally estranged companion left her unnerved. Her own mind, torn apart and put back together again too many times, began to crack again. “Let us go again, shall we?”

Eyebrow raised, vial of blood taken into her off-hand, Clarissa stepped back into her opponent’s range and clashed her sword towards her opponent’s blade. She intended to follow it up with a fencing tuck, a bend of the knee followed by a short thrust up through the dazed guard – into the woman’s gut. The scent of blood filled her nostrils, joining the salt, sin, and sacrilege that followed her everywhere she went like a cloud.