Rest in Pieces. (Redford)

[Tobias Stalt]

Raindrops wept over cracked earth as the wind sang a cruel and frigid song. Tobias watched the stormclouds roll across the once peaceful sky, content to let the drops trickle over his face and run down his neck. His hair plastered against his face as he turned a dagger over in his hand. The iron blade split each one of the sky's tears that dared touch its edge, which pooled at the tip and sagged morosely to the dirt.

In the Citadel, time was relative. The illusions destroyed realism and compounded fractured ideas together in order to rationalize a functional, albeit distorted reality. That was how Tobias figured the magic, at least. None of it had a foundation in logic or the laws of physics. The end result was a lie no different from any other.

The rock he seated himself on barely protruded from the earth, and the plains stretched out across the horizon. Despite his offer of only a few details, the monks recreated an exceptional depiction of the Storm Lands of Keribas. North of the southern mountains, few merchants bothered take the old route because of the perpetual foul weather. In the days of the Ancient Kings, warriors ventured there to undergo the rite of passage into adulthood. Tobias had only ever read about it in storybooks, and in whispers about the dead kingdom of Adraemas.

"Don't forget that the lightning can still strike you, Stalt," the monk that wove the illusion whispered into his mind. "You play with fire by not seeking shelter."

"I'll deal with that if it happens," Tobias shrugged. He tensed his grip on the hilt of his weapon, then relaxed it. The feathers and beads that hung from the hilt wavered slightly. "Nevermind that," he shifted topics abruptly. "Where is my opponent? Did you tell him the right place?"

[redford]

John had asked for a surprise, and now regretted it. Raindrops tapped on his head and shoulders, already soaking his patchwork trousers and tunic. He considered raising his massive dehlar shield over his head to shield him from the rain (which he pointed out to himself was actually not real) but decided against it, he was already nearly soaked. Ahead of him stretched a road, though road would perhaps be a generous term at best. It was an uneven, unkempt flagstone path that ascended gently toward a mountain range in the distance. Amidst his mental complaining he wondered if the magic of Ai'Bron would extend the illusion forever, or if there were new lands beyond what his eyes saw, or even if the scene would break down, like too much water on a painting.

A streak of lightning across the sky revealed a man on the large rock on the side of the path, the flash illuminating a sword. Thunder pealed, rumbling across the landscape as the armored giant began to plod toward his target. The sooner the fight got on, the sooner it would be over. John's metal armor crept from his chest and legs down to his calves and arms, coating all of him save his head. His footsteps went from muffled tapping on the stone path to the clank of metal. His opponent, if he hadn't noticed the eight foot man trudging toward him, would surely notice the noise. He stopped thirty yards short of him, raising a hand to knock on his chest, producing a faint ring as thunder rumbled again in the distance.

"John," he said simply.

The words of one of his old mentors returned to his memory unbidden.

"Be the storm. You have it in you."

[Tobias Stalt]

The heavens roared overhead and Tobias watched the behemoth of a man lumber toward him, reflected in his weapon. The sound of metal clashed as the man offered a customary salute, and gave his name. Tobias spun the dagger idly in his palm for a moment, then stood as he slid the blade back into place on his belt. "Tobias," he offered his name in the way a warrior ought to.

His mind ripped away from thoughts of exploration and returned to the present. Adraemas would not be found in an illusion, nor would the crown of her king. The only other man to see this place was one who would never understand the significance of it. That alone was a crime.

He peeled the hair out of his eyes, which allowed them to flicker as lightning arced between clouds overhead. He offeded no smile or gesture of congeniality beyond his introduction. Both his arms dropped low to his sides, and he assessed John quietly. Water sloughed off his cloak in droves from where it had pooled in the folds.

His fingers curled slowly, one after the other. "Ready?" he asked. It was the most kind thing he could do before he killed a man, after all. It was his way to cede the first strike to his enemy.

It was a kindness.

[redford]

John crouched, setting his shield down. He hadn't been using it often since he bought it, and doubted he would be able to use it effectively for now. He extended his armor, and two spikes of hardened titanium grew from his fists, sharpening into blades a cubit long as the liquid armor came up his neck, and the sensation, colder than rain, coated his eyes, nose, mouth and ears, for the briefest of instants blinding and deafening him.

A split second later, his vision, breath, and hearing returned as if unimpeded. The rain pelted on him with renewed strength as the water washed off his now-slick armored skin in rivulets that ran down the edges of his blades. He looked up, and took one step back. Lighting flashed again as if sparked by the very air between them. They both studied, assessed, estimated about each other for a moment. His response was slow in coming, but it had a finality to it as he spoke the one word in a lull in the thundering storm.

"Yes,"

John would wait for him to come down off that rock though. A long-dead tutor's wisdom came to him once again.

"Altitude is advantage."