Playing with Ice

[Atzar]

Ok, excuse the slightly... corny title. Closed to Witchblade... I'm assuming that's the character you're using, right?

The huge wooden door creaked open slowly at Atzar’s touch, revealing the impressive interior.

It consisted of a large, dim atrium, lit at intervals by candelabras on the walls. A multitude of hallways branched off of the main hall. Atzar imagined that these led to the arenas that the Citadel was so famous for. Meanwhile, monks and fighters alike milled through the open atrium. Many fighters had drinks in front of them. Some paced restlessly. Others chatted with acquaintances or simply stared listlessly into space. They all, however, shared the common goal: they would battle on that day, and they would give everything they had to win.

Atzar was no different. He hardly ever ventured out of his home village of Tel’Han, and this was the first time he had made it as far as the Citadel. He was honest enough with himself to admit that the place was a little scary. Although the monks appeared to be gentle enough, a smile graced not a single face. The air was filled with the cold aura of purpose and bloodlust, and it made his hair stand on end. This was a feeling to which the mage was unaccustomed.

He had experience with this non-lethal style of battle, however. A person with access to magic could play Charms at Tel’Han, a game that was extremely similar to these Citadel battles. He was fairly skilled at these games in Tel’Han, but he knew that these battles would be much more vicious. In Charms, weapons weren’t allowed unless the fighter could create them with his magic. Only attacks of magical origin were allowed. Here, however, everything was fair game, and Atzar knew he would be hard-pressed to withstand such brute strength.

But the mage shoved the thoughts to the back of his mind. More thinking led to more worry, and that was one emotion he’d rather be without at that moment. He reached out and tapped a passing monk on his brown-robed shoulder, and the human turned to regard him.

“Excuse me. How do I set up a battle?” Atzar asked politely, unsure of the procedure.

The monk looked him up and down. The mage wasn’t really a fighter, and it showed. He wasn’t very muscular, and he carried no weapons with him. He was dressed not in armor, but in simple buff-colored clothing. His magic was the only aid he would have in a conflict.

“You’re a fighter? Ok. What kind of environment do you want?” the monk returned. Thankfully, he kept his opinions of Atzar’s appearance to himself.

The mage considered this. Ice and fire were his strongest areas of magic, so something involving both would be ideal. He related this wish to the monk, who smiled in response.

“I believe I can do that for you. Follow me, if you will.” With that, he led the way down one of the hallways. Atzar followed him, meaningless notions chasing each other through his head as he fought to retain his composure. The monk suddenly stopped at one of the many plain, wooden doors and motioned for him to step inside. Mumbling thanks and taking a breath, Atzar pushed the door open and stared for a moment before a small smile of recognition forced itself over his face.

It was as if the monk had read his mind. Atzar had fought many a time on this sort of terrain in his various Charms battles. It was a large mountain, comprised mainly of rock, ice and snow. There were no trees, but the abundance of icy nooks and crannies still offered many places to hide and deceive the adversary. A multitude of torches were stabbed into the ground seemingly at random, creating flickering shadows here and there in the dim light. The mage looked up to see the crescent moon that illuminated the sky above his head.

Atzar strode into the depths of the icy crags, his confidence somewhat restored by the familiar terrain around him. He was most at home in the harsh mountains. His home, after all, was deep in the Comb Mountains, and winters could be brutal up there. Additionally, he seemed to be at his best when he used ice magic.

Suddenly, a rumble shook the ground around him. It lasted for several seconds before it faded back into silence.

The mage recognized the sound: avalanche. Suddenly, he knew the cause for it. He was in the middle of an ice-riddled arena, yet he was not cold. All of this ice was melting around him in the temperate weather, so these avalanches could prove to be quite a nuisance if one happened to take place at the wrong time.

Now noticeably more cautious, Atzar proceeded further up the trail of snow, eyes continually searching the sheer faces around him for signs of weakness. He came to fight, to test his abilities; to be destroyed in a natural occurrence would be humiliating in the extreme.

[Witchblade]

((OOC: No excuses! You shall be executed, someone summon the guards!))

She loved that smell. The co-mingling scent that permeated throughout the entire Citadel, no matter where you stood and potent enough that even those without such a sensitive nose as her could even pick up. It was fear and anxiety and exhilaration mixed with sweat and blood. They could revive the dead and change the arena as many times as they wanted to, but the halfling knew even empty this place would still reek of battles long since fought, won and lost. No lives to forfeit and no ghosts to haunt the halls when the lights went out. The stone and the wood would remember what has happened here though. You can revive the dead, but you can’t wash away the blood, it seeps into everything, corrupting down to the very core of it. Any object touched by it would never be the same and any person who has spilt it will be forever changed.

The halls of The Citadel had changed little since her last match here, only days before. A match she had lost. If only she’d done things differently, if only she’d attacked in a different manner or been able to somehow stop the jaws of that feline it would have ended very differently. Or, it could have ended relatively the same only with a longer time frame stretching the fight out. She would never know and even as she replayed the events that had transpired she knew she could not change them. The passed was written in stone and no amount of thought could affect anything that had already happened.

All around her were men and women of varying races vying for the chance to beat one another into a puddle of broken bones, blood and sinew. They didn’t care who their opponent was as long as they won in the end. They didn’t see what The Citadel really gave them a chance to do, refine their skills. Winning was not the only thing worth battling over—and yes everyone wished in the end that they’d won—but The Citadel gives you a chance to lose, come back from the dead and learn about your own weaknesses. That was why she was here.

The halfling needed more strategy in battle and she also needed to use the many skills she had to her advantage. She had a myriad of abilities but in the heat of the moment, she tended to forget about them.

Witch slowly made her way down the hall, crimson eyes peering out from the darkness of her hood to inspect and assess those that she passed. Wannabe warriors who didn’t understand what it was like to fight outside The Citadel, who couldn’t fathom the notion that in a real battle, they wouldn’t come back from the dead. They had no spine, no backbone, they were only here for the bragging rights, they were not warriors that she wanted to fight against.

She passed by wooden doors leading to rooms filled and otherwise empty, where people were doing a macabre dance of life and death, only the dead walked in this place.

Finally, Witch came across a monk, a rather small man with a rugged face and a nose broken too many times.

“A room, please…” Definitely not a word she was used to saying, telepathically or not.

He looked up from the parchment of paper he was holding in his hand to give her a once over. Whatever he saw she didn’t know, she was covered in her cloak at the moment and only the lower half of her face should have been visible. Perhaps it was the fact that her mouth was sown shut that gave him pause, perhaps not. There was no doubt in her mind that the monks in this place had seen many different races and probably a number of different deformities.

“What are you looking for?”

She really had no idea. The forest setting had not helped her very much in the last battle; in fact her opponent had been rather nimble in the trees as well. Perhaps it was best she try something new.

“Surprise me.”

The monk smiled, “Right this way.”

He gestured with an outstretched arm, his robe fluttering in the moment as he turned and began leading the way. The faces of those in the hall around her faded out into a blur as she kept her eyes ahead. After a minute or two, the man stopped and, doing that thing again with his arm in a long fluttering motion to gesture towards the door.

“There is already someone inside.”

Witch nodded her head to the man and adjusted the straps of her rucksack. Opening the door and stepping into the magically created room, Witch was taken aback for a moment. A mountainous landscape covered in rock, snow and ice. There was a lack of colour as nothing living grew along the surface of the mountain, only the grey rock below. That was when she realized it was night. Having the eyes of a vampire gave her the advantage in a setting like this, she could see as if it were the day, which left her wondering if her opponent was of the same ilk as her.

Magically created or not, the surroundings were breathtaking and even the air had that clean smell to it, the kind she had been missing in Radasanth as of late.

From within the rucksack on her back, the sound of rustling fabric and various items smashing against each other could be heard. After a few moments, the small head of a white, baby dragon poked through the flap and looked about his surroundings. Yawning, he slowly climbed out of the rucksack to sit upon his master’s shoulder.

“Good morning…”

The dragon purred in response and Witch scratched him lightly under his chin before she began to move. She could sense the presence of her opponent and she could smell him as well, he was only human and he was somewhere up ahead of her.

[Atzar]

Rrrrrrrrrrrrrr… Another avalanche sounded off somewhere in the distance.

Atzar jumped, heart racing. The prospect of being caught in the fatal grasp of falling ice was grim enough; the natural uneasy quality of the nighttime amplified this feeling tenfold. His current surroundings didn’t aid him in any way, either.

A furtive glance to all sides proved it: a sheer face of luminescent ice to the left, a similar face to his right. Only a narrow strip of moonlit sky was visible between the towering precipices that caged him in.

Atzar’s already-hurried pace quickened considerably, his path angling upward between the two crags. Perhaps he would feel a bit safer from the melting snow and ice when he reached the top of this canyon.

Step after step after tiring step… it seemed as if the slope would never end. Atzar’s breath came in ragged gasps. To say the mage was in good physical condition would be a complete lie. He would much rather hole himself up in his home at Tel’Han with a thick book than exercise. Mind over matter: that was the ultimate life of the true mage, regardless of how either one manifested itself in the person.

Yet here he was, trekking up the trail of packed snow as if he was a hiker who frequented the Jagged Mountains. Another breath forced itself through his dry lips. He had no idea what joy hikers saw in such a life.

But it was almost over; he was almost there. A look to the top of the trench proved it: perhaps thirty feet. Only… thirty… feet…

With a last boost of energy and determination, he reached the top of the crevice. The icy ground leveled off forgivingly, and Atzar collapsed, sucking in great gulps of wondrous air. The exhausted mage forced himself into a sitting position and looked around. Yes, it looked safe enough up here. The area was fairly defensible. At first glance, there only appeared to be a small number of trails up to his location, and the ground around him wasn’t steep enough for another slide of earth and ice to be a great danger.

Yes. Surely… surely it couldn’t hurt to take a quick breather. His opponent, after all, probably wasn’t even in the room yet…

[Witchblade]

Witch stopped in her tracks as she heard the rumbling sound of ice and snowing crashing down against the side of the mountain.

Avalanches…

Taking note of her surroundings once again made Witch realize how warm it was. Though snow and ice covered the ground as she breathed out there was no trail of mist, it was too warm. The ice and snow were melting and the water was creating avalanches all around the side of the mountain. She hadn’t noticed until now because of how little her body reacted to temperature changes. Whoever had picked this landscape was a smart one, either one of them could get killed by an avalanche before the fight even started.

Following the scent and energy of her opponent, the halfling continued to climb up the side of the mountain. Rocks shifted under her feet and caused her to go off balance a few times and she was beginning to curse the human before she even faced him. Why he couldn’t pick a flat surface to battle on she had no idea, but climbing up the face of a cliff to get to her prey was never something she enjoyed. There was of course a much easier and much faster she could do this, but she was hoping she might be able to get the drop on the human if she were lucky. After all, she tended to blend into the darkness, except for the white blob of dragon perched on her shoulder.

Minutes passed and the scent of the human grew stronger and stronger until finally Witch spotted the man, twenty or so feet ahead of her. He was sitting on some rocks and breathing rather heavily as if he were recovering from the trek up here.

Nodding her head to Daegun, Witch watched her dragon slink off into the darkness, his tiny claws clicking against the rocks as he went. Unlike her pet, as she continued up the rock face she made little to no noise, every step a calculated one to sneak up on her opponent. Her cloak drawn tightly around her body and her hood up, no human eye could easily discern her from the surroundings.

Up ahead, Witch could hear Daegun as he purposefully made noise moving through the rocks. His white and silver scales sticking out in the dark as he emerged from the left side and began to approach the human.

Perfect distraction…

Only feet behind the human now, Witch reached behind her and pulled her Mythril dagger from its sheath. Taking another few steps forward, she lunged at the exposed back at the human. Her dagger posed to pierced skin, muscles and tendons, slip passed ribs and possible puncture a lung.

[Atzar]

A faint sound permeated the warm night air, drawing Atzar’s attention.

Tap, tap, tap, tap…

At first, the mage ignored it. It could, after all, simply be a small rock or chunk of ice that dislodged itself and tumbled away from the mountain. After a second’s thought, Atzar dismissed this possibility. The noise from a falling stone would get fainter as it fell, not louder. And this… the interval between taps was too regular, too measured.

Like walking.

Suddenly alert, Atzar got to his feet, eyes searching the nocturnal gloom around him. At first, his sweeping gaze only revealed ice and rock. Then, he saw it.

A dragon!

The mage warily eyed the silver creature as it made its way towards him. Dragons, even younglings such as this one, were never beings to trifle with. Atzar didn’t know what to make of this dragon. Could it have entered the fight of its own accord? Dragons were extremely intelligent, but this scenario was still unlikely. It was probably the companion of another person, his real enemy. But where was this real enemy?

Snow crunched behind him under armored boots, as if in answer to his unspoken query. Turning quickly, Atzar caught the glint of a metal blade as the moonlight reflected from its surface into his eyes. Just as the hooded wraith drove this dagger to seek his flesh, so too did his instinct drive him to react. The mage dove quickly, gracelessly, to the side, landing on his hands and knees in the forgiving snow. His enemy’s first assault had mercifully missed its mark.

The summit, safe from avalanches and with only a few entrances, had seemed like a haven only moments before. Now it was just the opposite. A greater danger had found him, and the defensible hilltop turned from a makeshift fortress to a makeshift prison. He had to get out of this place, or his makeshift prison would be his makeshift tomb.

Atzar picked himself up out of the snow, his hands stinging from the chill. His foe stood, weapon in hand, uncomfortably close to his exposed flesh. The frantic mage needed a way to get some distance. The snow at his feet was the first thing that caught his attention.

He dipped quickly, plunging his hands into the frigid snow and shoveling two handfuls at the face of the wraith-like enemy. Perhaps the underhanded tactic wouldn’t be expected. He only wanted a distraction, something to give him enough time to get some distance. Atzar wasn’t a physical fighter; he was no good in close combat.

The mage turned on his heel and fled. He ran down the same snowy trail that had brought him to the summit, away from the ghostly hooded figure, away from the infant dragon. Once he had enough space, he could worry about striking back.

For now, however, simply surviving was good enough.

[Witchblade]

((I apologize for taking so long, the power supply on my computer died.))

The smell of fear was pungent. Even though her blade had missed the target and passed through nothing but air, the halfling barely noticed, barely cared. It was just the first of many moves and he couldn’t avoid them forever. Her prey today was like a doe, watching helplessly as he was tackled by the wolf. He was frantic, wide eyed and his pupils were dilated. If there was ever a time she wished she could bare her fangs and growl rather hungrily as if she couldn’t wait to sink her teeth in him now would be it, now would be the time when she wished to instil just a little more fear in him and watch him panic.

As it was he could still make rational choices and she really didn’t want that, now did she?

She watched as he dipped low and threw snow at her face, trying to distract her. She reacted instinctively, her hand coming up to block the snow from her eyes. The cold, fluffy, white substance hitting her jaw, neck and arm. Her eyes sprang open afterwards and her body tensed, waiting for his actual attack, the move that he was going to make while she was supposedly distracted with his snowy assault but nothing came. She caught him out of the corner of her eye, fleeing from the top of the mountain.

Brushing the snow off of her, Witch turned and watched the human as he ran back down the side of the mountain and sighed. She just climbed all the way up here; she really did not want to go chasing him all the way back down.

Of course she didn’t have to walk, she didn’t even have to run. There were other ways she could chase after her prey but she saved that for later.

Looking from the fleeing human to the dragon sitting rather contently on a rock, waving his thick tail from side to side, Witch motioned with her head and watched as Daegun flapped his wings a few times. He didn’t use them very often and as such it took him a moment to actually lift his weight from the ground. Once he did, he headed down the side of the mountain.

The dragon had proved to be useful, but he was still her baby and she did not want him getting hurt. He could watch the rest of the battle but not participate in it. She remember well the one time he had come to her aid and nearly paid for it with his life, she did not want to take the risk of losing him again.

Turning her head towards her fleeing opponent, Witch removed a throwing knife from the belt around her hips and twirled it through her fingers. Then she launched the weapon through the air and used her telekinesis to guide it towards the human. She wasn’t aiming to kill him, oh no, not this time, she was aiming for his thigh or his calf, something that would slow his descent or even stop him completely. And if he happened to move at just the wrong time, the blade would probably hit him in the butt.

Comical yes, but not the damage she was looking for. He could still run with a wound like that, he just wouldn’t be able to sit.

It would have been so much easier if he’d been a man—no a warrior—and had decided to stand tall and fight her, not flee from her. This was The Citadel, what did he think, that they would send in a fluffy teddy bear to battle with him, one he could coddle?

Humans…

[Atzar]

The world, for once, was quiet. The distant, growling rumble of falling snow and ice had subsided, leaving the arena under the deceiving guise of tranquility.

This serenity was lost upon the fleeing mage. His ears were filled with the sound of his pounding feet and his gasping breaths, his mouth with the sour taste of panic. Escape was the only thought that ran through his mind.

After a few seconds, Atzar noticed something strange about the lack of noise. The only noise that his ears picked up came from his own body. There was no sound of pursuit, no metal-plated boots driving into the slick snow in a fearsome quest for his blood. The clicking noises of the small silver dragon had also disappeared.

Strange.

Atzar slowed his breakneck pace. It had been a wonder that he had moved at such speeds without slipping on the snow underneath his shoes. Now that his opponent had apparently lost interest in its prey, he could afford to take a little more care in his movements.

zzzzzzThud.

The buzzing sound came out of nowhere, followed immediately by an immense pain in the back of Atzar’s knee. His left leg collapsed as a small dagger brutally sundered his flesh and the tendons underneath, driving more knives of pain through his nerves. With a sharp cry of agony, Atzar fell to the cold ground and rolled to his side, both hands clutching his ruined knee. Blood flowed slowly around the protruding metal dagger, but the warm wetness was overwhelmed by the great anguish.

Another cry broke from the mage’s throat as he jerked spasmodically, rising to kneel on his other knee. His injured leg rested uselessly to the side, still beating him with unimaginable blasts of pain.

Screwed up eyes opened slightly to squint up the hill above him. The mage fully expected to see his pursuer bearing down on his helpless form, intent on securing its victory. The night, however, had other ideas. Atzar gazed in vain into the concealing darkness.

His knee ruined, Atzar was effectively robbed of the ability to move. One hand remained on his leg while the other sought the wall of the ravine to steady himself. Eyes still gazing fruitlessly into the dark night, the injured mage grimaced and prepared himself for the assault that would eventually come.

[Witchblade]

Witch was already heading down when she heard the cry of agony as her dagger buried itself in the human. They always made the sweetest noises when injured and this one was no different. His was especially grand as he appeared to have no resistance to pain at all, perhaps this was his first Citadel battle or perhaps he was wimp, whatever the case it was very satisfying. Even from up here she could begin smell the blood that was beginning to permeate the air. Intoxicating, lovely and sweet, she loved that smell.

She must have rendered one of his legs useless as she could no longer hear his feet stomping against the rock and crunching through the hardened layers of snow.

Her sight much better than that of a human's, he quickly came into her vision long before he would even know she was there. She examined him as she continued to move closer. Blood was pooling from the wound in the back of his kneecap and he seemed unable to stand, on top of that his face was contorted into a look of pure agony. He really was not used to feeling pain and Witch had a sudden feeling that she was really going to enjoy ripping him to pieces and listening to his cries for mercy.

Not even bothering to be silent, Witch wanted him to hear her as she approached, she wanted to smell the fear and panic coming from him as he realized that she was slowing stalking closer and closer to him.

This was utter bliss.

How good of him to make this so easy and enjoyable for her.

“That looks really painful…” The halfling spoke telepathically to him as she came within ten feet of his person, by now he had to be able to see her, if not he had extremely pathetic sight for a mortal. “Here, let me assist you…”

Smirking something rather devilish looking that showed off her fangs, Witch ignored the pull on the string holding her mouth sown shut. A minor ignorance, no pain, she was too used to them and right now she didn’t want them interrupting her fun.

Extending her hand towards him, Witch focused on the throwing dagger she had embedded into the back of his kneecap and with a quick thought her telekinesis yanked it from the back of his leg. Blood flowed faster from the wound now, spilling into the stark white snow, staining it. Cocking her head to the side, Witch brought the knife to her waiting fingers. She could lick the blood from the blade to truly frighten the human but the thought turned her stomach, half Vampire she may be but she didn’t drink blood. Instead, she wiped the blood on her cloak and placed the weapon back in the belt sheath on her hips.

Stepping closer to him, Witch began to wonder what to do next. He couldn’t run from her, well, he could try but he wasn’t going to get very far on that wound. Of course to stop him from running completely she could just bury another dagger into the back of his other leg.

“Come on, you must have some kind of bite, even a small one. Or would you rather me tear the flesh from your body slowly and miss those vital areas that would allow you to bleed out. I assure you, it’s quite painful.”

As much as she loved this she came here for a battle, if she wanted to slaughter the innocent masses she could have done so in some small village in Corone, not The Citadel. It would be nice if he at least tried to attack her once before she killed him that way she could stretch out some muscles.

[Atzar]

Another agonized yell erupted from Atzar’s mouth when his foe yanked the blade from his knee, and more crimson blood spurted from the open wound. The sudden amplified pain caused him to lurch face-first into the snow. The icy powder was a cold contrast to the fiery lances of pain that jolted his body whenever he moved. The wounded mage rocked back and forth, both hands clutching at the grisly hole in the back of his knee, feeling the warm blood that spilled freely.

Suddenly, the wraith’s mental words tore through the agony blanketing in his mind like a knife. The telepath was taunting him. She was urging him to resist, urging him to fight back. A spark of anger flared in his brain. He had no personal quarrel with her. Why did she find it necessary to insult the mage, when it was already clear who was the stronger fighter?

The spark grew, and he decided that he would grant her wish. If she wanted so badly to feel his sting, then his sting she would feel. He rose back into the kneeling position, regardless of the pain that flooded his body, and lifted his hands in front of him. He couldn’t show any more pain than he already had. She had branded him a weakling. He would do everything in his power to prove her wrong, despite his waning strength. Burning blue eyes fixed upon the hooded figure. Behind those eyes, the mind worked feverishly to develop some measure of concentration.

It was more difficult than he could have ever imagined. The vicious wound fought for his total focus at every turn, and the battle to push the agony under the surface was titanic. After what seemed like an endless clash, he gave up the idea of gaining total control. He would have to make do with what he had gained.

As the mage focused his diffused mind on his magic, the air between his hands suddenly began moving. Turning, twisting, revolving around itself, the air picked up speed until it was a roaring blade of wind. Atzar’s hair flew out behind him from the force of the wind. His clothes, somewhat wet from melted snow, began to ripple. Finally, with clenched teeth, the mage launched the blade at his attacker’s chest.

Such a blade was hardly lethal, especially with the scattered state of his concentration. It would dissipate harmlessly on contact with armor, but it could rip through clothing and slice flesh. The pain from such an attack would be much greater than the actual damage that it caused.

[Witchblade]

The halfling smirked as she watched the weak little human try to summon some kind of magic at her behest. At least he was trying, but it seemed his feeble mind could not properly focus beyond the pain that her little wound was causing him. Truly, it wasn’t that bad, he must have no resistance to pain what so ever, compared to some of the wounds she’d fought through, that was a tiny scratch.

Pathetic…

Still, whatever he was creating was beginning to grow in strength and power.

Arching her brows, Witch watched the swirling action beginning to take shape between the palms of the human. A blade of wind quickly formed there, the force throwing back his hair and plastering his already soaked clothes to his body. When he released the blade at her, Witch smirked and brought up both her arms. The leather armguards encasing her forearms were plated with Titanium and the blade of wind dissipated on the metal as if it had never existed.

Only one area of damage showed. The sharp bite of the wind having snuck through her defence against it and sliced opened her cheek. Dark, blue blood flowed from the gash, staining her deathly pale skin and covering the purple marks that lined her cheeks. The pain from the wound made her hands clench but her facial expression never changed, pain was something she was good at hiding and ignoring, after all, she’d had a lot of it in her life. Unfortunately, facial wounds always bled a lot and she could already feel the thick liquid trailing down her neck where it would probably spill onto her chest.

Sighing, Witch lowered her arms back to her side and slowly approached the human.

“That’s the best you can do?”

She reached towards a small six inches metallic rod on her belt and yanked it free. Twisting two rings along the side of it, she spun the rod around until it unfolded to its full length of five feet and four inches of nothing but Mythril.

Less than two feet away from the human now, Witch knelt down until she could look him right in the face. The wound he has caused on her cheek slowing closing. The only evidence it had ever been there being the blood that still coated her skin.

“Get up.”

Cocking her head to the side like an animal might, Witch tossed the staff at the human and stood back up.

This battle was certainly not over and she was going to make the most of it if she had to force him to fight her. He was going to die none the less and the monks of The Citadel would revive him, which was a shame. Althanas didn’t need weaklings in it like him.

Turning her back on him, the halfling walked for a few feet then turned back around. Her arms tensed at her sides to a point that was just barely noticeable and the sais on the outside of her boots shot up into her waiting fingers. The metal was cold, ice cold and slippery from the snow but the worn leather wrapping provided perfect friction in her grip.

[Atzar]

His mind slowly but surely adapted to the pain, and Atzar found that he could now work around it to an extent.

The mage’s mind flickered briefly back to his request of the monk before the battle began. He had wished for ice. At the time, he had believed this would give him some sort of advantage in the upcoming conflict. Ice, after all, was his favorite element.

Unfortunately, this request had granted him more of a curse than a blessing. The ice was all too compact for him to use with his magic, and the warm temperature only served to spark avalanches. As if the world were listening to his thoughts, another rumble reverberated through the earth as yet another avalanche occurred.

The hooded figure approached him, cluttering his mind with more meaningless insults. This time, the words didn’t even register in Atzar’s brain. His mind, rather than focus on what was, instead focused on what could have been. If only he had been better prepared for what lie ahead of him. The mage didn’t even really need to be stronger! All he needed was a something to use as a chisel…

The mythril staff landed in front of him.

Blue eyes gazed disbelievingly up at the disfigured face of his benevolent enemy, but she turned immediately and walked away. His stare then returned to the staff in front of him, his mind almost unwilling to accept the stroke of luck he had just been granted.

He picked it up with both hands, feeling its weight. It was a fine piece of work, very light free of all dents and nicks. Moonlight filtered between the ridges of the canyon up above, glinting off of its lustrous surface. In this staff, however, Atzar didn’t see a weapon. He saw a tool.

He saw hope.

Rising painfully to his feet, the wounded mage eased weight onto the trembling limb, fully expecting it to give out at any second. Amazingly, it held. Atzar stood his ground, staring his enemy in the face. His own face, meanwhile, tried as best it could to mask the pain that still ripped through his quivering leg.

He didn’t wait for his opponent to move. He needed to act, and he needed to act now. Whirling on his good knee, the mage jammed the butt of the staff into the icy cliff with all the force he could muster. The shock that blitzed back through his arms wasn’t pleasant, but it accomplished what he had hoped. Several small chunks dislodged from the wall to fall towards the snowy ground below.

They never reached it. Before ice touched its cold cousin, Atzar caught the jagged pieces with his magic and shot them in the direction of the black-clad female. He bothered not with aim; this attack was about speed. He hoped to catch his opponent off-guard.

Up above his head, however, the cliff groaned in protest. Already it was weakening from the temperature, and the shock from Atzar’s blow had a much greater effect than he could have imagined. Soon enough, it would give way. For the insignificant mage down below, there would be no escape.

[Witchblade]

Witch waited impatiently as she watched the human look disbelievingly at the staff she had offered him, examining the surface and testing its weight. What was running through his head she didn’t know, she could find out but that would spoil the surprise of whatever attack he launched at her. But whatever he had planned he had better do soon or she just might grow bored and rip him to pieces.

She tensed as he turned to make his attack but the muscles in her body slightly relaxed as she saw him plunge the end of her staff into the cliff. Chunks of ice came raining down from the cliff above, dislodged by the force of his blow. They never made it top the ground instead the human used his magic and throw them at her. The halfling had less then a split second to make up her mind and decide which defensive manoeuvre she should go with, even a few offensive ones rearing their head at her.

When it came down to it her body reacted on instinct, faster than her own mind could process the thought and then tell her body to move. Well-honed muscles and reactions from years of training and experience told her body exactly what to do and coupled with her abilities the attack was easy to dodge.

The aim of the ice was off, none of them would hit any major vital spot on her body had they actually gone through. Crippling, perhaps, or even debilitating, but nothing vital.

For a brief moment the halfling moved three times that of a normal humans speed, a blur of black clothe and glinting, sharpened silver. When it was all over, the ice had harmlessly missed its target and the target was now on top of her opponent and her opponent was flat his back. Her legs were on his either side of his hips, straddling him and keeping him pressed into the snow. Lips pulled back in a snarl, fangs bared, strings tugging and digging into flesh creating an annoying pain that went unnoticed. A deep and animalistic growl was slowly rising from the depths of her throat.

Her sais were planted deep into the snow on either side of his head and in her hand she held one of the very shards of ice he’d hurled at her.

Thoughts of what she could do to him in this position circled her head. For the moment, she grabbed his arm with one of her hands, and plunged the sharpened icicle towards the palm of his hand.

[Atzar]

((Previous bunny approved))

What happened?

Before his eyes could even follow her movements, Atzar found himself flat on his back with his adversary on top of him. It was there that he got a good look at his opponent for the first time.

Her skin was deathly pale, and her bright red eyes created a frightening contrast. Most unsettling, however, was her mouth. Strings gouged hole through her lips, holding them shut. The strings were stretched to their limits, however, as the frightening woman bared her white fangs at him regardless of the pain it must have given her. Purple markings decorated both her cheeks, but one side was marred by dark blood.

The evil-looking woman grabbed his open palm with one hand, a chunk of ice in the other. Wasting no time, she plunged the sharp, jagged edge into his skin.

Pain bolted through his hand as the makeshift weapon tore through his flesh, drawing blood and screams alike. What would she do? Torture him to death? Deeper the pointed piece of ice went, and louder became his agonized screams. Blood flowed thickly from the wound, covering his hand, staining the snow red where it dripped.

He couldn’t let her do this. It was too much. But what could he do? Another yell wracked his lungs, and his eyes were screwed up tight. The pain was too great. He could never focus enough through this pain to use his magic. The pain intensified, and the mage’s head flailed helplessly from side to side.

Cold metal touched his cheek. The ghastly woman had set her pronged weapons into the snow beside his head.

Reaching up with his free arm, he wrapped his cold fingers around the handle of one of the weapons. Without further delay, he ripped the blade from the snow and plunged it at the face of his opponent. He couldn’t take the pain. Already, his body grew cold and his mind grew numb. He had to get her off of him.

He had to get away.

[Witchblade]

Fear was a potent smell and pain, well, it was a delicious scream that rent eardrums and echoed in small the ravine.

As sensitive as her hearing was she still loved listening to his screams of agony. They tore through the area and the silence it was filled with and they were music to her ears. She hadn’t heard such tormented cries since the last time she slaughtered a village and that was some years ago, shame, she’d have to do it again some time. Either that, or continue to fight the weak ones in The Citadel for they proved to be the most fun. No challenge involved, just blood, pain and screams.

The shard of ice had easily sliced through his palm and straight out the other side, the now pointed and blood covered tip was deep in the snow beneath his hand. It would come free with a simple jerk, but she doubted the human would try it. The pain would be too much for his feeble mind to handle. He’d probably pass out before she concluded her fun with him, either that or slowly bleed to death. But then, she could avoid the main arteries on his body and make it last longer.

Seeing something flash out of the corner of her eye, Witch turned and looked just in time to see the human thrust her own weapon towards her face.

Instinct kicked in and Witch moved back slightly, but not fast enough. One of the prongs grazed her cheek, the same one he’d cut earlier and dark blue blood began to well and then flow down the side of her face.

She caught the weapon in her hand and easily twisted it out of his fingers. He didn’t even know how to hold the weapon properly; it was just a blind assault to get her to stop, to get her off of him.

And it hadn’t worked.

Grabbing him by the wrist, the halfling forced his other arm flat against the snow and ignore his feeble struggles to free himself. Every time he tried, her grip tightened, her fingers wrapping around the frail bones tighter and tighter fully knowing that she had the strength to break them and was waiting for that audible crack and the cries that would echo once more from the human’s mouth.

It gave her little shivers just thinking about how he screamed.

But she didn’t want him to make any other attempts at her. Already the wound he had caused to her face was healing, a shallow cut, no more than a scratch, but she didn’t want him to get the idea he could actually hurt her. Flipping her sai around in her fingers, Witch plunged the long prong towards the palm of his other hand.

Oh what fun she could have with him if he couldn’t move.

[Atzar]

((Bunny approved again…))

The small cut on the half-vampire’s face closed over and healed up in a matter of seconds. It left only a stain of drying blue blood on her cheek, partially hiding the purple markings from view.

Atzar didn’t see it.

A sudden wind whipped through the ravine, howling shrilly as it picked up snow from the walls and ground. The powder flew erratically into the sky, glinting eerily as the moon’s rays caught their surface. The wind’s whistle collided with the growl that continued to rip from the woman’s throat as she continued her torture.

Atzar didn’t hear it.

A faint but perceptible rumble quaked through the ground, signifying the fall of yet more snow from the mountainous crags and peaks all around.

Atzar didn’t feel it.

The only sight that greeted his eyes was blackness. Colors burst briefly across his vision as his eyes screwed ever more tightly shut in pain. The only sounds that rattled his eardrums were his own screams as metal ripped effortlessly into the exposed flesh of his hand, leaking more red blood onto the ground around him. The only sensations that ran through his body were ones of pure agony, stabbing mercilessly into his nerves again and again, riddling the mage’s mind with pain. There Atzar lay, knee all but ruined, both hands pinned to the ground, arm broken from the force of the wicked woman’s grip.

His mind could take no more. The pain dimmed, and the mage’s body was suddenly awash with a feeling that lacked any trace of warmth. It was over. Deep down, he knew it.

Suddenly, he felt no more pain; in fact, he felt nothing. No pain from his ruined limbs, no icy cold against the flesh of his back that was pressed into the snow. Not even the icy wave that had enveloped his body only an instant before. Atzar’s eyes opened, and the world around him seemed as bright as day. Life had decided to lend him one last lucid moment before it left him.

Everything around him seemed locked in time. His adversary straddled him, vicious snarl on her motionless face as she cruelly stabbed her sai into his hand. Frozen walls of earth and ice stretched far above him. It was then that the last idea flitted through his mind. He would not, could not win this fight; that much he knew. But perhaps there was a minute chance that the mage wouldn’t lose it, either.

It would take everything he had left. With his mind, he reached high above him. He felt the top of the icy ridge, and made his final move. He poured every last drop of his magic into the blow that he dealt to the top of the cliff. His plan was to bring the great mass down on top of them, burying the fighters in the embrace of tons of ice. His mind, however, would not last long enough for him to see the results. The shroud of darkness blessed his traumatized mind, freeing Atzar from all thought or sense as he lost consciousness.

[Witchblade]

Witch revelled in the feel of her sai sinking through his flesh, effortlessly sliding through the skin, muscle and tendon and then into the snow. She could not remember the last time she had had this much fun in a battle against anyone, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d tortured anyone like this. It was a feeling she was going to have again and again because she was far from finished with this human, in her mind at least.

The human below her stopped screaming suddenly. Raising a brow, Witch felt the sudden build up of magic from him as if he were attempting one last attack against her, one last chance to kill her and end his suffering. How amusing. The snarl on her lips was replaced by a smirk, she well remembered the last time he’d attempted to attack her with his magic, a scratch, nothing more. He was far beneath her level of strength and she had nothing to fear from his parlour tricks.

Reaching forward, the halfling plucked her other sai from the snow by the human’s head, her fingers flipping the weapon around as she began to contemplate what part of his anatomy she should thrust the weapon into.

The magic the human was conjuring, the force hit a sudden crescendo and then he went limp beneath her.

Something’s wrong…

A rumble caught her sensitive ears and Witch glanced up towards the walls of the ravine her eyes narrowing as she saw the entire hillside beginning to collapse, a mountain of snow threatening to crush her.

Cursing her luck and the stupidity of the human, the halfling quickly scrambling off him, the sound of flesh rending and bones breaking drown out by the sound of the snow as two black demonic wings sprouted from her back, dripping in her blue blood. The pain of sprouting them was something she would never get used to, but she didn’t have time to focus on it, quickly she took to the sky, her wings propelling her through the air as fast as they could, her own blood dripping from their appendages. She curved, swirled and downright did aerial moves she didn’t know she could all to avoid the snow, she was not going to be buried alive. Of course she couldn’t avoid all of it and was pummelled continuously by the not so fluffy white stuff.

She glanced down for a brief moment as the thunderous noise of the snow crashing on the valley below ripped through the air. Her prey was buried under a mountain of snow by his own hand but he had taken her with him as he surely had planned.

Humans…

They could be so stupid.

Touching down on the ground, Witch called for Daegun, ready to leave this place.

[Letho]

GENERAL NOTES: I’m going to be honest with the two of you (hopefully not overly so). If somebody told me to describe this battle in just one word, I would’ve probably picked the word “predictable”. This often happens when a battle ensues between a weak and a strong character. The weak one panics, the strong one decides to take it easy, it almost backfires, but in the end, it’s the conclusion a person could see from the beginning. It doesn’t have to be that way. Instead of simply making that battle an event where two characters meet on a battlefield and duke it out, try spicing it up a little bit. An example: If you have a weak character, why not tell the monks to let you on the battlefield an hour early, so you can prepare? And if you have a strong one, why not making him/her fail every once in a while? That way, instead of just going easy, you give a realistic chance to you opponent.

Anyways, onto the judging. Atzar’s numbers are red, Witch’s are blue.


CONTINUITY – 6:6

You both had the same reason for being in the Citadel, you both did the little gimmick with the monks, you both seemed to act in sync with your character’s personalities. What can I say? I really can’t tip the scale one way or the other here. The reasons why neither of you went higher here was: 1) because it was basically a usual random Citadel battle that had little to do with your characters, 2) because you both had small divergences that will be explained in more detail in Persona/Action.

SETTING – 7:6

The way this started, I thought I’m going to be giving at least nines here. You both did a good job at describing the setting in the first posts, and you both utilized it well... during the first posts. After that, there was almost no setting at all. Between the grand finale avalanche and the initial introduction of the environment, there was nothing but an occasional mention of the snow. What happened to the torches mentioned at the beginning? What happened to the melting snow being slippery, especially if you’re moving thrice as fast as a normal human? That fact of the matter is, you two almost completely forgot about the setting after the beginning. You should definitely be more watchful about that. There shouldn’t be paragraphs upon paragraphs of boring descriptions crammed in your posts, but the setting should be a part of the story, but just wallpaper. Minor advantage to Atzar because of his interaction with the setting.

PACING - 5:5

The aforementioned predictability killed it for me. Maybe I saw quite a few battles, so I can foresee some things because of experience, but I can’t say that there was something that surprised me here and made me say: “Now that was awesome.”. Always strive to surprise the reader, give the story a twist that he/she can’t see two posts in advance. What if Atzar found a cave while running away? Or Witch fell through the hole that was covered with ice and snow? Or they chased each other through the mountains only to find themselves on a glacial slippery lake of ice? With some monster beneath the surface? The options are endless. Don’t limit yourself on the I-stab-you part.

DIALOGUE - 6:7

People sometimes make mistakes of running their mouth excessively in battles. Granted, there are times when this is appropriate, but this battle wasn’t it and you didn’t resort to pointless dialogue just for the sake of having spoken words. Battles are about the conflict, and unless the combatants are both debaters, dialogue should be kept brief. You two did a good job at that. The only reason why Witch got the advantage was because Atzar was having too little dialogue at certain points. I understand his fear, but when somebody has you overwhelmed, you’ll comment on something, even in introspective. Witch had that, Atzar didn’t, hence the score.

ACTION - 7:7,5

Very nice, but not flawless. The actions of both Witchblade and Aztar were very true to their characters. This isn’t your problem. The problem is overdoing it. I understand that Atzar is a weakling, but when somebody has you cornered, even the most placid men bite. The sai attempt was good, but not good enough. Squirm, push, bite, use your legs, stab her in the gut instead of the face, it’s a larger target. As for Witchy, staying true to the sadistic nature of her character got her half a point more. I would like her to make a mistake from time to time. It’s not powergaming what you do, but you can do a better job at giving your partner a fair shot.

PERSONA - 8:8

Perhaps the best aspect of the battle. You both played your characters very well, portraying their emotions, their desires, their intentions... You gave me two completely different views on the same battle and I could almost see myself in the skin of your characters.

MECHANICS – 8:6,5

Atzar, this was the first time I read anything of yours, and I have to say that I was impressed. You have a clean style, very few mistakes, good sentence structure, using fragments in the proper manner. My only beef is the shortness of your paragraphs sometimes. I’m not talking about the one-line paragraphs. They were placed well to add to the tension. I’m talking about those that have only a sentence or two that could easily be the part of the one above/below. Witchy, you have the same problem. However, on top of that, I noticed something else that keeps occurring often in your writing and it’s hurting your sentence structure. I’ll give you an example.
She could sense the presence of her opponent and she could smell him as well, he was only human and he was somewhere up ahead of her.Instead of a comma, either a semicolon or a period should be used here. I prefer the semicolon because it connects independent clauses better then a period. This happens every once in a while in your writing and you should work on eliminating it.

TECHNIQUE – 6:7

You have relatively different styles. Atzar’s is more direct, more to the point, but lacking certain refinement and finesse. An obvious flaw was overusing foreshadowing when it came to the avalanche. By repeatedly reminding the reader with the rumbling, it became clear that the avalanche would be the climax of the thread. Be moderate in everything, that’s the golden rule. Witchy is a bit stronger in this segment. Her style has a certain flair, especially when it comes to descriptions. Try not to focus on needless details though.

CLARITY - 7:7

Can’t say much here. Both of you are very strong here. There are several sentences that were a bit difficult to digest, but there is such a small number of them that they fail to kill the flow. One advice for each of you: Atzar, you can get pretty crazy with pronouns on places, where you refer to your character as “he” repeatedly in several sentences. Try to break this by using another noun for him, mage, wizard, elementalist, whatever works. Witchy, try to pay more attention to the continuity. When Atzar ran away, Witch managed to block his snow attack, push the snow away from her body, pull out a dagger and still hit him even though he ran downhill. Details like this force the reader to backtrack and reread both your post and the one that belongs to your opponent and it kills the flow.

WILD CARD - 6:6

I honestly don’t know which way the score is going to go, but I knew it’s going to be close from the moment I started reading it. You two are excellent writers; you just need to pour in a bit more creativity in your battles and the scores will skyrocket.



FINAL SCORE – 66:66

Holy shit, it’s a draw!!! The first one I ever judged.

Congratulations to you both!


SPOILS:

Atzar Kellon receives 1500 EXP, 50 GP and a thermos bottle filled with warm tea
Witchblade receives 1500 EXP, 50 GP and some make up to tan her pale face

EXP/GP added! Witchblade levels up