Cold Hands [Ioder]

[Hysteria]

My lord’s tales are often housed within cages of half truths. It can be hard to ascertain where reality stops and fiction starts. Although, as with all things that pertained to my lord, I often wondered how much he truly existed in the first place. This story was one that stands clear in my mind, not so much because of the grand designs that spurned these two combatants forwards, but because of their subtle juxtaposition in existence. My lord was darkness and the complexities of this world were often lost on him. It is just as fire cares not for the value of what it burns, my lord Talen walked through the world without truly being a part of it.

This story takes place, like so many others, in the halls of the mysterious citadel. The monks carried their nefarious duties perfectly and it was by their will that Talen found himself face to face with his antithesis. I had accompanied him to the citadel, as I often do, and had been placed in a viewing room. The odd blend of illusion and teleportation magic that was the rooms melded together and I found myself sitting above the battle in a sort of observation room. The room was spartan, a few chairs with hard wooden frames and a stone balcony that viewed the fight below. I settled into a chair to watch.


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The air hissed an icy threat. A cold and desolate voice; it climbed and wound its way around the frozen spires that pointed towards the sky. My lord Talen’s boots crunched against thin layer of snow that padded the rounded paths that weaved between the the icy spires. His frame seemed so small next to them, he looked like a tiny black mouse weaving through the frozen blue field. Each of these spires rose at least half a dozen metres into the air and ended with a jagged point that glistened in the sunlight. Apart from the shredded ice-like snow that had build up among the curving warrens, the ice was a pristine blue as if the water had been snap frozen without a touch of impurity within.

My lord paused to look up at one of the large structures and squinted against the bright light from above. The sky was just as clear as the ice and nothing stopped the sun from shining down. It was only the light however, the combined weight of ice kept the air cool and crisp. Talen’s face was pale, his hair shaggy and unkempt despite my efforts to the contrary. His cloths at least were clean, if a little frayed around the edges. A pair of thick black boots, black pants and a loose black shirt. Black was certainly Talen’s choice colour.

On my lord’s shoulder was the familiar sight of Snacks. The small white -thing- was in the shape of a cat at the moment. I use the word -thing- not because of a disdain exactly, but because I didn’t know what it was,. My lord called him Snacks, and that he was his ‘pet’. I doubted that. Snacks was probably some sort of projection of my lord's desires, the desire to know everything around him. The pair of them continued their slow walk through the warren to find their, as yet unknown, opponent.

[Ioder]

It had been too long since the newly crowned Judgment felt the thrill of clashing blade to blade with someone. It was as if he simply fell into a role of den mother of sorts for those who live in the house of cards. It is true that Ioder found himself getting out in the recent weeks to tend to some business in Beinost and again to find the defector Tobias. Yet he still felt the emptiness that had begun to plague him of late. A loss of purpose, a loss of pride, a loss of what a warrior depends on, he had begun to feel rusty in the field. So it was no surprise that Ioder, Judgment, found himself drifting closer and closer to the Citadel. With his men accompanying him to the grand battle ground Ioder felt a spark of excitement as he remembered his last engagement here. Fondly he clung to his chest where the faun whore impaled him during his last fight.

It didn’t take long before the politics of registration and navigating the halls were behind the seraphim. His entourage of Risen higher ups had left his side and made way to the viewing area up above the arena and he was left standing alone facing the lard stone doors. After a few hallowed breaths and a moment of silence Ioder placed a hand on one of the large doors. He released a portion of his transcendent light from the palm of his hand to open the door effortlessly. As the radiating light pushed the door Ioder could feel a bitter cold wash over him. From within he could see that the arena seemed iced over much like the first time he had ever fought here.

Taking a step in Ioder could see jagged spires of ice perturbing from the floor scattering the field. A bright blue sky above and powdered white across the ground made an almost blinding arena. Even his light seemed to pale in comparison to the glare of the floor. As the seraphim observed his surroundings he let his left hand fall to the pole of his scythe which he had hidden under his wings. Extending his wings up, he unhooked his weapon and held it to his side. There was about a radius of ten feet between the spires of ice making a very small area to engage in any hand to hand combat, but luckily for Ioder he was more than proficient in air combat.

Still taking all this time to absorb his surroundings he never laid eyes on his opponent, and this made him uneasy. This meant that his opponent wasn’t some novice swordsman or bulky guard wanting to start the fight up close and personal. He was fighting someone more intelligent than that, he was fighting a true warrior. Ioder came to the citadel today with only his trusted scythe and his newly enchanted arm gauntlet. Not a lick of armor protecting his vital areas, today was going to be a test of his magical defenses. Though he knew this was a gambit, the citadel was the best place to test his skills in order to perfect them later, the consequences for death in this place were null and void.

Knowing that he would need to spot his enemy first Ioder took to the sky. With one great flap of his mighty wings he was high in the air. His orange cloak was like a streak of color in the otherwise color stale sky, so he knew that this would give him away. And if that want enough he cried out, “Come and face me, the Angel of Death, and know the pain that I will deliver unto thee.” His words rang out in all directions as he hovered just above the reach of the ice spires.