The Citadel: His First Chapter (Open)

[Foresaken By War]

Aralian had heard many stories of great man coming to this place that they referred to the citadel. They trained against actual opponents that died or lived depending on the winner. To this Aralian was completely stunned. Just the fact that people in this part of the world actually thought war was that simple. They could just go find somebody and fight, then be healed, and leave that much more experience. He shook his head at the fact, and thought to himself, "The things that some people do. War is not fun, not something that you can just triumph over with the wave of magical ability and a good set of monks. Or Can You?" Part of Aralian wanted to burn the place down, but another part actually wanted to experience what it would be like to have that kind of faith, he kind of faith that leads you into a battle for fun, knowing that someone can heal you.

His curiosity would soon end his inner struggle and he inched his way to the door. Watching from behind the darkness of his hood as occasionally a warrior with more gusto would barge past him and through the large doors. The building was large, and very well sculpted. It seemed more like a place for governmental or churchlike activities, instead of fighting. A comical part inside of him that had been hiding for quite some time wanted to make a wise crack to that, but his depression wouldn't let him. It was almost as he suddenly slipped into a small trance thinking of his friend Rhox. It seemed that his comical side only came out while he was thinking of Rhox, his best friend who was lost in war. Too bad monks could not heal people in war, that would have been great for his friend. He quickly shook his head, coming out of the small trance as he almost walked straight into the large wooden door that covered the entrance to the building.

"This is it, its now or never," he pushed the door open and wondered in. A look of awe hit his face like a ton of bricks when he entered the room and saw the number of warriors sitting around. Swords, staffs, crossbows, and other weapons filled the room, he felt almost as though he was going to pee himself. At least in war you have a ton of fellow people hanging by your side. He scoffed to himself and shook off as much fear as possible. Preparing to hide behind his rough outer shell, the army taught him that. No matter how scared you are, you must put a powerful front to others. "Showing fear is what gets you killed, but showing no fear will get yourself and others killed." He caught himself mouthing words from the years of training.

Quietly he continued on until he spotted a monk, who was waving him over since he walked through the doors. He proceeded cautiously towards the monk. "Yes..." he said deeply to hide the fear. The monk pointed down the hallway, never making full eye contact, "That is your room." Without haste now he made his way down the small corridor, there was only one door that lead into the room. He felt his skin go pale and clammy as he stretched out to turn the handle. His had was shaking, it was like he was heading back to the battlefields for the first time. He entered the room slowly, peering around the corners. As it appeared there was nobody in there, although he had thought that before. His mind raced quickly as he stepped in and shut the door. "It is an ambush," he said quietly while moving forward behind a medium sized boulder that was in front of him. His mind was racing as he looked around.


As he crouched behind the rock, his mind couldn't take it anymore and went straight to flashback mode. It was the time that he first went into battle as a scared commander of a young platoon. There was a small dwarf infantry ahead of them, ten of them brandishing axes, and ten of them firing volley after volley of arrows. He quickly split his group up into two sets of eight. "You Guys, prepare the bows and take out as many of them as you can, volley in fours, four firing, while four are reloading their arrows." His voice was powerful and commanding. "The rest of you bastards follow me!" The moved slowly and carefully until they had a perfect flank behind both sides of the archers and then the command came, "MOVE!" Together they ran in and slaughtered the dwarf archers. The command move not only signaled the infantrymen to move, but the archers to stop firing at the oppositions archers. He saw Rhox run down from the crew at the end of the battle, smiling and smacking him on the side of the face. The team rejoiced for a good while before moving on again. Slowly he began to fade back into reality.

A smile slid onto his face for the first time in a while, and he peeled back his hood. It was time for him to get to work. He peered around the arena. It was like nothing he had ever seen, he could have sworn that he was outside in the center of a mountain. There were rock ledges built up as far as the eye could see. It made him wander where the roof was exactly positioned, but he didn't dwell on it long. He continued scanning from behind the boulder, there were a few other boulders about this size lying around, and a small forty yard square patch of grass, it was not perfect in any means, but close. There was a small dogwood tree, fully blossomed in the center. On the walls lots of small fiery torches, that clearly lit the arena. Slowly he circled around, realizing that nobody had been in the arena. He stood up relieved, yet deep in thought. Does this mean nobody has issued a challenge yet? Am I the first to arrive?

[Dirge]

The half-elf had taken a little fancy to the famed Citadel. He found the promised healing of the monks a comfort that rested in the back of his mind, allowing him to fight each bout without worry of permanent death. However, it also gave the man something else, a sense that the world was changing differently in Corone than elsewhere. Vigo saw the Citadel as a dampener of the sincere, a place that lessened the reality of death for the young and budding warriors. He saw it as a home of illusions, both material and meta-physical, shaking the foundations of what the world had been built upon and rebuilding a mentally weak warrior.

What would come of a person who had grown and trained in the Citadel when the time for real war was upon them? Would they run? Would they hide from the reality of death and the very real sense of dread? Or would they push into it with a false sense of security, the whispered lies of their generals promising the healing of the Ai’bron monks?

The questions were not as pressing for Vigo as others, but as he ventured through the ‘hallowed’ halls of the Citadel they were certainly at the forefront of his mind. The half-elf had watched other’s fight, seen the serenity and peace in their eyes, and yet felt remorse for them. However, he had only watched, never had he taken part. It was time for that to change, time for him to take a trip into the illusion and allow the broken reality of the Citadel to wash over him.

“A room,” he said with a sigh. The monk that was caught by the call turned to him, dressed in his droll robes. A smile crossed his pudgy face as his light brown eyes watched the seemingly middle-aged half-elf stroll across the common room. Most could see through the demure façade that Vigo carried himself in, see through the common clothes to the true strength of the man. The monk, as the half-elf assumed, was not looking at the blackened cane or the high collared auburn coat. He was looking at the deep green eyes of the sorcerer, right to his soul. “Preferably one already set up.”

Of course the man turned, without giving a word to Vigo, and started off down the hallway. For appearing so pudgy, the monk moved effortlessly. His stride was quick and hard to match, his robes glided over the marble floor like a ghost. When he stopped before a door suddenly, Vigo was pleased that he had not followed so closely. The monk turned, nodding to the half-elf, and then carried on.

~*~

From the doorway to the arena, the experience was one of pure exhilaration. Though terse, the brilliant white light that had consumed the young sorcerer was nearly mind-blowing, leaving him with a longing for the entry again. He sighed, rather loudly too, not caring if another was already within the grounds and waiting for him. It was different being inside of the arena as opposed to watching from the outside.

The half-elf shifted away from the base of the rocky mountain side. Light fell from above, but it was bright enough for the man not to make direct eye contact, but dull enough as to not encroach upon the arena. Instead of wondering, Vigo let his eyes fall to the high walls of heavy rock. There were four or five, inconsistent walls of what appeared to be a mountain. Too high were they to climb, leaving the sorcerer with the looming suspicion that they were trapped within its confines. Underfoot the soft, emerald grass was slick with morning dew. But what Vigo took most note of was the few heavy boulders that rested like stone guardians around the patch of grass… each having a flat side that faced away from a blooming tree.

“I wonder if the arrival of my opponent will be proceeded by any certain lights or sounds, or if I am too assume that he’s already in here?” Vigo wondered aloud as he moved towards the outside of the boulder. He was not inexperienced in fighting, but the Citadel was an assembly of odd coincidences that were pulled together to create the illusion that he was within. He took a step forward, allowing himself to peer around the boulder at the dogwood and the other few boulders. “And I wonder where those watching are located?”


((Very sorry for the wait, work attacked...))

[Foresaken By War]

A loud sigh rang through the arena causing Aralian to snap down behind the boulder. He cautiously peered around the side. Much like a rat would before he decided if it was safe enough to ransack your pantry. Aralian’s deep blue eyes pierced up at the man, shuffling their way down the persons entire body as he tried to figure out the situation. The man appeared to be an elf, but there was something about him that Aralian just could not figure out.

His face had the Elvin angular features, but there was a look to it that made him appear almost human. He was much taller than Aralian and looked like he pulled a little more weight around with him. Aralian paused for a moment to take into account the size, “I can’t forget that this is war no matter how lacking in war like characteristics this is.” He pulled his head back behind the boulder for a moment, “Is this even fair, this type of war fare doesn’t even seem right, although it would be fun to smear this man all over the floor. Especially after he sees me, he is going to think of me as a small pushover. They all do, because I’m shorter.” He looked back, continuing to scan over his opponent with great detail trying to pry from him a weakness, which was usually harder than trying to pull apart a muscle to get at the gooey insides that some people insisted on eating.

Only a few moments passed as he peered up at the man and ducked behind the rock again. He took quick glances of his opponent trying to avoid being seen. From his last glance he could see that the man’s hair was darker than the shadows that loom under the highest mountains on the Black Steppe. His eyes, a more piercing green than any that could be found in the lustrous forests of Concordia. His skin seemed to match that of a pelt of a white tail deer. Another quick peer from an opposite side gave view of his clothing, which from the amount and coloration made him to appear of the wealthier class. The gleam of something shiny around his neck helped insure to Aralian, this man was wealthy.

He stayed ducked behind the rock for a few more moments. “He looks like he has never been through any kind of fight, struggle, or disposition in his life,” Aralian said to himself. “What kind of man would I be to destroy this man here today, and what if the monks could not put him back together? What if this is all a charade to throw me off, but if it wasn’t. Then it would be good to teach this bastard a lesson. War is not fun! War is not something that you need in your life? I am going to teach this bastard a lesson that he won’t soon forget.” Part of him was feuding with his other side over this; there was no real reason to be here. They had no quarrel; they had nothing except knowing that they would be healed afterwards. Part of him told himself that he was here to teach this man that war was no fun, but the other part knew that he was here because he wanted war. War was amusing to him, but that same part knew he would never convince himself of that, and if he did there would be hell to pay for anyone in his path. As slightly demented as he was now, if he didn’t have a little self conscious he would be uncontrollable piece of wrath.

Aralian decided that he had hidden long enough and it was time to let this war wage. He stood up revealing his small stature from behind the rock, which came nearly up to his stomach and wasn’t at all massive of a boulder as comparatively to the rest. Butterflies began to fill his stomach, making him sweat little buds as the adrenaline pumped through. “Why are you here?” he said aloud, making voice boom out, a little trick that he had learned from his years of commanding the army. “Is war fun?” he began but did not hesitate long enough for an answer, “I sir know that war is no fun, fighting is not fun!” Aralian took a step over from the rock revealing most of his body, “I want to know your name, and the answers to the questions that I had already asked.” His hands were shaking as adrenaline pumped, and his deep blue eyes were blazing as he stared at the opposition. His feet stood ready incase the man was truly mad at the world and threw a harsh attack. A smile would not be able to touch Aralian’s face for a good day or two now, he had himself worked up and focused.

[Dirge]

Vigo continued to peer around the corner of the heavy stones that surrounded the dogwood. The guardians were stalwart in their duty, ever watchful and ever present. As he looked he slowly took in the surroundings. There was little hope for rats in the environment set, so one of his spells was already canceled out. There was also no hope of dodging from any ranged attacks or spells if the need arose.

A sigh passed the thin lips of the sorcerer. He would have to close fast with any enemy, take what little advantage he could summon, and finish them quickly. If he couldn’t finish them quickly, it would be a slow and humiliating defeat.

He rolled away from the opening, letting his head fall back gently and rest against the heavy boulder. “Great,” he thought as he strategize. “The touch is the only spell I have that will work, and that only if my opponent’s not wearing any armor. If he is I’m going to loose, horribly.”

The soft, steel blade concealed within the cane was quietly slid out from the cane, just barely. As soon as the soft sliver of the blade was placed back into its concealed sheath the words of another came to Vigo. His pointed ears twitched, the elven side of his heritage slowly kicking in. Again he peered around the corner of boulder, and this time found his opponent.

The man was small, but had a dangerous look about him. He was obviously elven, his visage could hint at nothing less. When he spoke the power that he wielded came through. Vigo winced just slightly.

Is war fun? Certainly not, but it is a necessary evil for the world. Is the Citadel truly war? That was the real question.

“My name is Vigo Ruinn,” the sorcerer said as he revealed himself fully from behind the boulder. He set his cane directly in front of him, a hand atop it, the other half his pants pocket. “Is war fun? What sort of question is that? Do you come to have fun here? Or do you come to make war? I come for neither, really.”

The sorcerer began to stroll slowly towards his opponent, each step soft and quiet. The delicate blades of grass tossed from side to side gently as he walked, carried by his leather boots and a gentle wind. “You, sir, are obviously here for the wrong reason though. If you are here for war you have come to the wrong place. This Citadel is not a place of war, but a place of entertainment for the masses that roam through the country of Corone. How can you consider this place war? None can die, and that should be enough to prove that this is not a true place for fighting…”

Vigo stopped, an uneasy twenty yards from his opponent. “But I pose questions onto you,” the half-elf spoke in a fluent and perfect elven tongue, the intonation giving him away as a native of Raiaera. “If this bastion of human hope is standing not for war, than why does it stand? For training? The training of men who know neither fear of death nor the truth of pain? Is this what the future holds for all the people of Althanas? Or is this what we have come from… is this some sort of ancient hall of warriors long since past? By fighting here, do we support and continue the barbaric tendancies of forefathers that are neither of ours, son of Y'edda? By fighting here, within the sanctity of the Citadel and under the protection of the Ai’Bron, do we revert to what the men of old once were?”

With that the half-elf shifted his feet and assumed a relaxed pose. He was, by no means, a veteran of war, but fighting was also not something altogether alien to him either. Vigo waited and watched. He assumed no response would come, for many thought provoking questions had been posed… and the Citadel was no place for scholars or thought.

The Citadel was a place of hardened warriors that gave a false picture of battle.

[Foresaken By War]

Aralian watched carefully as the man glided towards him and began to speak. The man's soul was starting to feather through, his personality if you will, confident yet cautious. It was a balanced approach that one should have right before diving head first into a full blown battle. The man had moved his way about a foot closer before Aralian began to feel quite uncomfortable and took a quick three or four shuffle steps to put that distance between them. He was now almost completely revealed, standing with his knees slightly bent in the small open patch of field. There now another two feet of distance between them, making him a little more comfortable.

Aralian listened to the man with the attention span of a child that had his favorite desert in front of him. "Vigo...such a strange name..." he thought to himself before he let himself comprehend the rest of the words that followed from the man’s mouth that sifted into Aralian's head with a delicate ease. The man’s voice did not sound anything like he had picture, it didn't sound young and overzealous, nor did it sound weathered and over informed. Instead it sounded like a young philosopher was speaking to him.

His left hand moved to the ground, touching the green grass tips with the edges of his fingers. Aralian pondered, "I not for war, and not for fun, then for what? What else is there?" Aralain had not known a life where you could do something that was not for fun, or not for war. There was no in-between for him. He had no such freedoms in his entire life. He continued listening as the man stated that the citadel was there for sheer entertainment. His reasoning stood logical, no one could die so it was nothing like war. This sparked another thought in his mind, ”Part of war is suffering, pain, and anguish that lets you grow and be smarter not to do something. The ideal training of such would be a place that you did not die and did not feel pain, so did the monks take away the pain."

The angry scowl on his face had started to twitch a little, it now appeared as a confused, and frustrated look. It stuck while the Elvish language began to fill his ears, the man in front of him was no doubt a mix breed, half human, and half elf. He was asking him questions, trying to see clearly what Aralain's purpose was in the citadel. He thought deeply for a second about the questions that were brought to his attention. “You can’t just assume that this stands for human hope, it could stand for human arrogance. Thinking that they are above the laws of the natural world, just like those damn dwarfs. Humans think that they can always make the world a better place jumping into things they should not. Then again, they are intriguing sometimes and have made some great accomplishments in the world. Maybe they and dwarfs’ aren’t so much alike.”

A small window of time elapsed as his thoughts continued, and then he spoke. Returning the words again in his native tongue, “I could not agree that there is no pain felt here, because I have never fought here. I also could not agree that this absolutely stands for human hope. Yes they are always fighting and such, but most of them intend on ending violence and wars. Many of them protested for the longest times trying to end the great elf and dwarf feud, which still wages and probably will for years. They constantly tell us always that they depend on war to end peoples suffering and make the world a better place, so maybe this does stand for a high level of hope. We may be keeping a part of our forefathers and their forefather’s barbaric history continuing. But this place may actually help relieve hatred. Coming in here and killing a ton a dwarfs would do my self hatred to them greatly, but I still would not have accomplished anything by the end of the day.” He took a brief pause re-counting all of his thoughts, and began to speak again. “I don’t know why I am here, but there is something about this place Vigo. You yourself have to feel the strange feeling it puts in your body. Maybe to figure this place out, you have to take part in its rituals. So let us figure this place out.”

He moved his hand around set loose his staff, the bottom of the staff fell effortlessly to the ground, where his left hand was awaiting. He snatched it and yanked it carefully up between his legs, swinging it around madly. Part of him was showing off the other part was merely creating a diversion for a little more time to ponder his situation.

[Dirge]

An odd feeling? Yes, Vigo felt it. He felt it from the very moment he stepped through the doors to the ancient monument of power. The powers of the sorcerer seemed stunted, muted to a degree, when he had entered through those doors. The monks must have touched the man, or placed a power dampening spell on the common room. As soon as he had passed through the doorway, into the arena, the feeling of defenselessness had dissolved and left the half-elf with his confidence once again.

“Enough talk then,” the sorcerer called. His hands spun the blackened cane, flashy but of little consequence. Vigo moved forward, slowly and at little more than a slide. His boots made grooves in the soft soil, pushing aside the pristine grass in place of making footholds. “Let us begin.”

A quick push and the sorcerer was moving towards his opponent. Focused and determined, the half-elf sprung his attack. He heard by his opponents own word that he had never fought within the Citadel’s bowels, but the fierce look in his eyes spoke of experience. Even as the staff spun around him, Vigo attacked.

The blackened steel capped end of the cane stretched forward. The sorcerer expected it to be countered by the staff, parried off to the side. He expected it to be sure, and in turn waited for it. Instead of wielding the cane in his right hand, his better of the two, he had attacked with his left. The hand was just below the handle to the secreted blade. His right hand was wrapped tightly around the handle, waiting for release.

Should he act as Vigo anticipated, the blade would be whipped from its wooden cane and swung across the opponent. Hopefully the surprise would be enough to open a gaping wound across the opponent’s chest, as well as create a rather formidable advantage for the soon to be overwhelmed sorcerer.

[Foresaken By War]

A sly look crept slowly across Aralian’s face. He watched wondering exactly how the man was going to attack, and questioned about the best possible defense to it. Would a dodge to the left or right be sufficient, or is that a common defense? They, whoever they may be, say that the best defense is a strong offense. Or would it be best just to go with the flow and see what happens?

*WHACK*

Aralian had waited to long, pondering his move. He took a shot straight above his left eyebrow. As the end of the cane smacked off his head, he swore that he heard small little fairies flying around him at high speeds. He stumbled backwards quite a few feet and his left hand shot up immediately to grasp the wound, the natural reaction to anything that gets hurt suddenly. Aralian’s hand groped around his forehead for a mere second before it felt the warm oozing of blood. The thick crimson liquid began to pool up and slowly drip down his face. There was no point in fooling with it, in a few seconds the blood would coagulate and there would be a dry streak on his face.

A smile crept across as he spoke, “Well I see they don’t take away all the pain.” He sounded as though he was trying to pass off the whole incident as a test of what the citadel has to offer.

Aralian knew now that his opponent meant business, even though they had no true personal goals in this fight. Aralian was thinking of one, bragging rights. The winner of this small duel could walk around Althanas saying, “I fought *blank* and won!” He had no clue if that was the meaning of the citadel, but that is what it meant for him. Enough bragging rights eventually leads to some sort of power.

A small little fire had started in Aralain when he got hit. A fire that had been there when the military told him he was no longer needed, but dowsed by the sadness of losing Rhox. Digging in his feet he now meant business, he did not know the true power of his enemy yet, but he wasn’t taking chances. He thrust himself forward, grasping his staff in such a manner that a pole vaulter would have with his pole. With a quick downward stab and flick he tossed dirt at the face of his opponent. He did not waist a single beat, because that was not his main attack. He kept his forward momentum and swung hard at his opponent’s right side, the same side that he was running towards.

This may not have been the safest move though, the top of his right shoulder and his entire right backside were left open for attack. Though the moment would be brief, he was weak on that side. Not to mention his head. He could only hope that his opponent didn’t notice.

[Dirge]

Shock burst across the half-elf’s face as the cane vibrated in his hands. It had connected. Vigo barely contained a cry of surprise as he let his left arm go lax. He watched his opponent fall away with a devious smirk rising on his face. The edges of his lips curled in a cruel smile, barred teeth and all. “What a way to begin, and to think, I didn’t think I’d hit him at all.”

The sorcerer pushed into the dirt with the balls of his feet. His opponent, who so rudely had forgotten to give his name, played with his new wound seemingly without a care. The blood was drooling slowly from the small wound above his eyebrow. The entire time the half-elf was waiting and watching. He knew a counter would be coming; fighting was not entirely foreign to him after all.

When the man finally moved, the look behind his eyes was all that Vigo was concentrated on. A deft flip of his staff and clots of thick loam was flying towards him. He turned away from the attempt to block his vision, letting the thick dirt and grass bounce off of his shoulder. It was only a split second before his opponent was swinging with his first attack.

Vigo knew not what to do.

Stuttering mentally was possibly his worst downfall in battles. His experience was limited, and fighting an opponent with a staff was something that he had never done before. So, when the powerful arching swing was sent towards Vigo’s strong arm, the sorcerer slipped. With his left hand, he held up the cane against his right arm.

The firm wood was right against his shoulder, giving no room between his vulnerable body and his makeshift armor. When the two weapons finally met, the loud clash echoed through Vigo’s ears. He felt the shake of the weapons, felt the rattle of his hidden sword inside the cane sheath.

Luckily for the staff wielding elf, the sorcerer was not near quick enough to pick up the weakness and broken defenses and counter with an attack of his own. Vigo instead lowered his shoulder, kicked away from his position, and let the dwindling momentum of the staff slide away. The pain of the attack barely pushed through the veil of adrenaline that had quickly taken hold of him.

“Damn,” he muttered in elven. He could feel the arm, and knew it would be either swollen or bruised. The man had moved too fast for him to think. Mentally he shrugged it off and took up another defensive stance. This time, he held his cane at his left side like a sheath. With his right hand he clutched the handle of the secreted blade, his white knuckled grip firm.

[Foresaken By War]

Success! The sudden clash of the two wooden weapons screamed out to anybody that cared to listen. To Aralian ears it was the sound of a half success and a half failure. It only made him more intrigued with the citadel and he swore that it sparked something in his body. Although it could have been the massive vibrations that were sent ripping through his hands, Aralian almost lost total control of his staff from them. The staff stopped quivering after a few moments and Aralian was positioned about the same distance as before from his opponent.

His small stature had shown immensely when he passed by Vigo. In an instant of the pain that he felt and the pain that he gave, he realized that war and fighting was a life that he had known almost to well. There were people out there that absolutely hated war and fighting, but not Aralain. A slight feeling passed him by as he looked up to the ceiling, listening closely in case Vigo tried something. He prayed, he prayed now because he still could feel the warm blood still crawling down his face.

“Rhox, I know you are up there looking down on me. Be with me, guide me through this land. Guide me through my new life. And Give me strength during this battle. I miss you and have many hopes for you my best friend.” His words were quick and quiet, his opponent may have heard and he may not have, either way he did not care.

His body moved from a stiff state to a relaxed state. He was not sure about this place yet, but what a better way to fight than to use your surroundings. His plan was to dodge in and out of the boulders using his height to conceal him self, occasionally popping up to toss a rock at the back of his opponents head. It was a little close to the time to enact the plan though.

“Its time to play my way…” there was a sly tone in his elvin accent.

Quickly he dashed to the left, jumping and diving behind a boulder that was roughly his size. He waited only a few seconds before he peered around at his opponent tossing a small pebble at his feet. Aralian was hoping to divert Vigo’s attention while he dove behind another boulder, this one he had to duck to stay hidden behind.

[Dirge]

The throb of his sword arm was beginning to go numb. Perfect, he thought as he waited and watched his staff wielding opponent. If the arm went numb not only would he not be able to properly wield the cane sword, but he would be down one arm for his only truly strong spell. He shook his head and waited nonetheless.

His opponent, however, did not jump at the opportunity to attack again. He instead looked to the sky, his eyes peering towards the heavens. Whatever divinity the poor elven bastard put his faith in, Vigo could care less. The half-elf gave little interest or thought to who or what was watching from the heavens. He had seen people pray to many things; each one seemed as trivial and silly as the next.

The man visibly slacked as he brought his head back downwards. Whatever he had done, be it spell or meditation, the sorcerer could see the difference in him. It made the man nervous. Again he did something that Vigo did not expect. Instead of taking his new found peace and attacking with a collected and undistracted mind, he ducked and dodged his way to the nearest boulder.

“What game are you playing now? Preparing something? I saw no other weapon besides that which you carry…” Vigo moved his cane a little further towards his hip and flicked the small lock at its head with his thumb. In a moments notice the thin, rapier like blade could be whipped from its concealed sheath and put into use. “What’s this?!”

As soon as the man ducked behind the first boulder he had peered around the corner. Vigo thought he looked very pathetic, weak and scared. The half-elf almost felt pity for the man, had he not been of elven decent. The sorcerer had a high sense of power and prestige placed in the elven heritage. If he had been battling a human he would have expected the man to run, if he had been battling even a drow (twisted despicable ‘cousins’) he would have expected the man to have been bowing already. But this man? He was assuredly fully elven. He was assuredly not a drow.

Vigo kicked the small rock that landed not three inches from his feet and rolled towards him. Was the man playing with him? Was he attempting to lure him towards the boulders for something? If the man dabbled in magic, as it seemed he was alluding to, than the budding sorcerer definitely had his work cut out for him.

“What is this?” he yelled at his opponent, his elven tongue flawless. “Are you planning on playing some foolish game? Petty child and you call yourself elven.”

Without waiting for a response, the half-elf drew his blade and charged towards the nearest boulder. If his opponent was planning on using the large rocks to hide and attack from, his strategy was sore. The sheer faced rocks were few in number, lined up in a rough circle. Vigo had counted less than twenty-five of the boulders, meaning limited space for his opponent to run. “I’ll have you soon enough,” the half-elf thought as he held his sword at the ready, keeping the cane portion in his off-hand just in case.

[Foresaken By War]

A great tactic that Aralian and his troops loved to use on the dwarfs is a tactic not often used in warfare. It was sly and attacked people where they often hurt the most, their curiosity. No matter what type of race or class you would fight they have a natural curiosity to things that differ from the normal. This could cloud their view of how an attack would be orchestrated.

Another one was their pride, and both of those tactics were about to come into the work here. Aralain could tell that his plan was working from the onslaught of questions that were being thrown his direction.

“This is excellent in a few moments he will charge and have a surprise waiting for him…” he thought slyly to himself with a slight bubbly feeling in the bottom of his gut.

He moved to the balls of his feet preparing himself. His grip tightened around the staff, making a slight rubbing noise on the hardwood. His opponent screeched something again in elvish, and from the way Aralain perceived it, the mix breed was getting frustrated. As Vigo spoke again, Aralain had to contain his laughter.

“You have far too many questions,” he scowled in elvin not masking the sound of his voice at all, with all good hope his opponent would think of him being inexperienced in the situation. “Your answer will come soon.”

He tried to linger his words slightly to make his opponent more curious, but it was already affective enough. As soon as his words trailed off he could hear the thudding of Vigo’s feet as they beat off the ground. The man was approaching fast, and Aralain was ready. He crept down and slid around to the opposite side of the thunderous feet. Vigo was at the boulder that was the first in line, one more boulder down and he would be on Aralain’s turf.

This could have been a downfall of Aralian’s especially in this time of war, but he was growing impatient. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a dead limb from the dogwood tree. With a slow moving grasp on the limb, he picked it up and placed it at the edge of the boulder. Trying to make it appear like the end of his staff was showing through. He crouched low and moved it a little to make some noise on the dirt and boulder, to appear if that was him that he was scared.

A tactic that would bring his opponent in fast thinking he knows exactly where he was, and then Aralian could take him down.

[Dirge]

Strategy was something nearly foreign to the half-elf. Tactics often went over his head. When the time came for fighting his only tactic was to lure them close, make them attack, and then summon up his mana in order to attack. Magic made sense to the halfling, swords and strength of arm did not. Why would he ever intentionally put himself in harms way just to prove that he was stronger. There was no need.

Vigo stopped at the first boulder, barely half his height, and watched as something curious began to form. From the edge of the second boulder, where his opponent was hiding, a small branch was protruding and moving. The scrapping noises were even more curious, but a better idea had quickly formed in the sorcerer's head than to simply charge in.

"Reckless," he muttered as he thought through his charge. The man on the other side of the boulder would be waiting, and the length of the rapier like blade was far from advantageous. If he rounded the boulder without thrusting perfectly the man would easily dodge. If he did not, the man would continue playing petty games and throw more rocks. Time was of the essence, however. "If I wait any longer he will assume something is wrong."

Vigo quickly stuffed the cane portion from his left hand into his waist bands. It was uncomfortable, but would have to do for what he had in mind. With his other hand he drove the blade into the soft, giving loam to the side of the large boulder. In a flash he leaped onto the top of the rock and lifted both hands. His mind was searching.

Silently he wondered if every detail of the landscape was exactly like the real world. He wondered if there would be any animals or insects to summon for a true swarm, or if the Ai'Bron were lazy and had forgotten that part. His ponderings quickly came to an end, however, when he felt the first fleeting response.

Deep beneath the surface the horde moved. It was silent at first, probably not even created until the monk who was watching realized what Vigo was doing. However, as soon as it began to pulsate under the whims of his mana, the horde grew. Ants, thousands of them, silently slipped through the surface of thick dirt.

All around the elf the ants began to appear. Though the half-elf could barely see the swarm, he could feel its presence and its hive mind mentality. The ants were the perfect assassins, silent, deadly in droves, and too small to notice immediately. "Climb. Bite. Remain."

It was near impossible to control swarms, especially the smaller ones with numbers reaching into the thousands. But the ants flickered their minds, most understanding, the rest milling about and finding the nearest target to attack. Vigo knew better than to move towards the area, for the ants were no longer under his control. Instead he regained his sword and crouched on the boulder.

((Don't know if it's too long, but I figure that would have taken little more than thirty seconds. If that is too much, and you consider it bunnying, I can edit the post. Either way the result is going to be the same though...lotsa ants.))

[Foresaken By War]

No! Great post man... I have no complaints. Great move too! Sorry about the rust that keeps coming off, but I'm working on getting back into the RP shape.


It wasn’t long after he started shaking the stick that he thought his ploy was working. Little did he know that instead of charging, the small noise that he heard was his opponent leaping up onto a boulder. He had no clue of the epic change that was about to take place. One by one an ant army began to form, with enough gall and perverse thoughts to desolate anything that came into their path. One by one Aralian began to notice them, but he tried his best to ignore them as he waited for his ambush.

All of his hard work to get to this particular position was soon about to be a total waste of time. Inch by inch about fifty or so ants began crawling up his legs. Aralian felt a few small stings on the smalls of his legs. His hand seemed to have a mind of its own as it scratched on the inflicted areas. This was worse thing to do, it angered the ants. In the same way that taking a grizzly bears cub angers that grizzly bear.

Each ant that had been touched sent out a distress call too faint for human or elf to hear. Soon a throng of ants was attacking and biting and destroying the elf. He had become almost covered on his lower body. Panic set in on Aralian and he leaped up, and ran brushing and swatting at himself. He dropped and began rolling around on the ground and swatting any enemy ant that he could find. He was out numbered though, and the only way he knew to defeat this number was to get rid of their hiding place. The only thing running through his mind was how to protect his body. At one point in time he even found himself squishing his back off the tree, much to his delight as he heard what sounded like the crunching of ice.

“Damn Ants,” he screeched in Elvin, “What could bring a plague such as this?”

An idea popped into his head as dispatched of another small herd of ants. “My clothes are keeping them on!”

Quickly he ripped off his pants tossing them on a branch of the dogwood tree. He did the same with his shirt until he was fighting in nothing but his, underpants (A cotton cloth that wrapped up between his legs and was held on with a leather strap) and moccasins. There was still a few bites but he did his best to dust them off and step on them. Hopefully the small heard would remain silent for a while.

He looked down, his body was covered with small legions and wounds. Blood was coming down from his legs at a constant rate. His neck was cut in many places, one dangerously close to being his artery. The white cotton underpants he had on were starting to stain a rich red. Aralian was dizzy and getting tired. He knew that he didn’t have long. Forcing himself to move, he went back to the rock where his staff was and grasped it. His grip weak and slippery as blood cascaded down his arms and in his hands. The only part of him relatively untouched was his face.

He struggled forward a few steps before he felt the nagging bites of more ants, they were following him. His eyes looked up at Vigo. There was a clear sign of the intense pain that Aralien was feeling. As his eyes met Vigo’s he could tell that some how he had done this to him. Something was perverse about this situation, either the gods were mad at him, or his opponent was much more powerful that anticipated.

A glare of his moral character shone through now as he gritted his teeth and spoke, “Weakness is giving into pain, weakness is giving in to a foe, weakness is failure.”

His body trembled and he threw together his final onslaught. He had no choice but to face Vigo straight on. With as much speed as he could muster he rand over to the boulder that was right in front of Vigo and leapt on to the boulder. He was running on pure adrenaline. He took his time gaining a protected stance infront of him. Squishing some blood off his staff as he grip tightened, he smiled. With his strength he aimed a powerful shot at his opponents with the left side of his staff, this was not the only thing he did though. His arms were positioned in such a way that even if the attack hit or was blocked, another shot from the right side of his staff would be sent at his opponents knee. Hopefully this last ditch effort did something for him.

[Dirge]

Vigo smiled a cruel, wicked smile as he watched the man squirm. The ants had done just as he thought they would have, bitten and latched onto the elf. Through their small abdomen their less than lethal dosage of venom would be imparted into the man. One ant could make a persons skin swell, nothing significant. A hundred ants could put enough venom in a persons bloodstream to slow thought and reactions, not to mention stopping the heart or the brain.

"Too bad they were not the crimson ants," he thought as he dropped from the boulder. He elegantly sheathed his sword and placed his hand atop the steel head. The half-elf looked the picture of noble grace. His sword arm was quickly returning to normal, and the pain from the initial attack had all but been forgotten. His long, thin fingers played against the steel head and wooden cane, tapping an almost joyous rhythm. "No matter, they will do just fine."

A light wind had picked up, unnoticed until then, and overhead the eerie light source seemed to have brightened. The sorcerer took what little time he had to once again view the scene around him. It was nothing like a battle scene often painted by veterans and the common warrior. There was no mass mayhem, no landscapes torn asunder, or pockmarked fields of death and destruction. On the contrary, the arena the monks had created was little different from when the two opponents had initially entered. "Ah, the whims of a magic user," Vigo mused, "To be able to enter and exit a land without causing a sheer amount of damage or turning a place beastly."

It made him laugh, out loud, to know his own power. When he looked back to his nearly nude opponent, who had only just then retrieved his staff, he could not help but laugh more. The two's eyes met, and it was Vigo who undoubtedly was the stronger of the two. "In pain are we? My, my you look terrible. So many cuts, so many places from where you are bleeding... you should have that looked at."

But the laughter was quickly cut short. The elf charged, staff in hand. Vigo could do little but prepare for the attack. True rage, an overwhelming fury had taken over the elven opponent. The half-elf could do so much to a person, but never had he seen one look as lost as this one was. Shaking his head, Vigo prepared his final spell.

In the mere second or two it took to cross the area, he had already summoned his most wicked spell. The sorcerer dropped his cane, leaving it to be used another time. Instead his hands were glowing, a faint and sickly yellowish color. The aura grew very slightly and despite his best efforts, Vigo could not wait to use the attack.

"It's been far too long," he thought as he let the man's staff descend uncontested. He charged forward, doing the unexpected and hopefully catching his opponent completely off-guard. The first end struck hard. It was easily hard enough to crack a rib, and probably did. Vigo ignored it. He extended his hand towards the man. The second side struck, buckling his knee.

It was too late.

Vigo's hands were moving. His strongest hand struck out for the man's neck, and at so close a range it was highly probable it would strike. He was trying to choke the man, let his necromantic touch soak into his skin. With his other hand he lashed out with a brutal, albeit off balance, slap and attempted grasp. It too was meant to latch onto the man, but this time the side of his face.

Sweat formed on his face and trickled down his angular jaw. Anticipation. It always felt so good to know his power would bring not only anguish to his opponent, but a true burst of pride. The necromantic touch was a sickly attack, a spell that would ruin the pride and physical abilities of any opponent. Anyone even brushed by the spell would break out in a horrid rash, anyone touched by it would have swollen blisters appear. If what Vigo had in mind worked, the blasted elf's throat would swell up and half his face would swell shut.

It would be the end.

[Foresaken By War]

In the midst of his charge Aralian could hear this perverse laughter coming from his opponent. It was a laugh that would make young children cry, a laugh that struck fear in middle aged dames, and a laugh that would infuriate anybody at the losing side of a scuffle. This anger would do nothing, except maybe make the strike of his attack miniscule harder, the chances were unlikely though. While his charge continued his opponent taunted him about his wounds, making him want to throttle him until they both died, he would get his just deserts though.

While in his charge he did not notice another thing. This opponent of him playing with the power that Aralian thought only the amazing gods could bestow. Apparently he was wrong. His hands started to glow an eerie glow. Pale yellows and dark black clouds began to form and swirl about. Even though this gaseous mixture was nothing more than moving air and refracting colors it sure looked deadly. If the elf hadn’t been so focused on beating the man to a pulp with his staff, he could have delayed the imminent a little longer.

“This foolish man would have lasted ten minutes in the great war,” he thought to himself, “An archer would have picked him off by now. But I need to face the facts, this is a different kind of battle. A kind that I am not use too. The ability to be healed, the ability to cast a spell of high magnitude on one person, this warfare is much different. If I learned anything today, it is that when people are fighting for pride in your own self, the battle become different. When people have no worry about death, it becomes a whole lot different.”

Time seemed to linger by as he ran, even though it was only a few measly little seconds. His mind was racing, his body was in immense pain, and part of him was conflicting with another part of him. A side of him was now growing, a more diabolic side than he had never seen before. His body had not shown any of that yet, but soon he would his body would change into a perverse and evil soul bent on power. It showed very little now, but deep inside he wanted this mans power. He knew that he called upon the ants to help him out, and he could see that he was calculating another one of these powerful spells.

The blunt instrument swung through in a graceful manner that could be matched only by the delicate movements of a conductor ordering around his orchestra. The sound of the smashing ribs and buckling knee was like music to the battered elf’s ears. There was a part of him that knew deep inside, he was finished, but there was a part of him that would not let him quit.

As the halfling’s hands reached out the elf dove backwards, thinking that he had evaded the man. But he was sorely mistaken.

“You mm…ahhhh,” his words became interrupted by a spine splintering pain.

He felt a sudden jolt in his arms and in his stomach. A small bubbled had started to grow rapidly on his skin where the man had touched. It seeped out a strange yellow aura that surrounded Vigo’s hands for a short time as it continued to grow. The pain stayed stationary for a second, and then something terrible happened. It seemed to erupt within his body spreading like an infection.

Aralian dropped to his knees and began quivering like an autumn leaf that was still clinging to the branch, only instead of clinging to a branch, he was grasping onto his life. The pain sprung clear up to his lungs. Deep inside of him each small vein sealed off at the point in which blood entered. Causing him to have multiple heart attacks and strokes, he kept having seizures as he gasped for air for a few long seconds after around a minute he lay dead on the ground. His lifeless body looked so peaceful after such a harsh death.

Right before he died, his mind was as active as it could be. It came up with two lingering questions. Would he remember today? Would he remember the pain? And would he ever get his clothing and his staff back. Time would only tell after the monks brought his lifeless body back into the harsh reality of the Citadel.

War can be described as many things, a struggle, a fight, or even a perilous situation that pinned two people together fighting fiercely because they did not fear death, if not the fear of death then what is there?

[Dirge]

The sorcerer grimaced as his opponent nearly pulled away. To be so close, to be able to nearly touch his opponent but not able to truly grasp him... it was his only fear. His eyes widened as he pushed himself, straining against the shocking pain that spread through his chest and leg. Vigo strained against his opponent's will, pushing himself further. Determination was etched across both of their faces, but it would be the sorcerer's that won out.

His palm touched the elves throat, and immediately his hand closed. His other hand slapped against the side of the man face. In that split second, what little time he needed for his spell to take affect, he felt the rush of strength and the lure of battle.

Teeth clenched tightly, he watched his opponent's fall. The man's eyes widened to a point that it seemed almost impossible. Finally. It wasn't the pain and suffering of a final defeat, for either himself or his elven opponent, but a pure ecstasy. He could do little but let the wicked smile light his cruel face.

Vigo let the nameless elf fall from his hands. His neck had swollen, a bubble of yellow-green puss had formed across it. The side of his face was only scared by a harsh rash, but held little other signs of the attack. His eyes were rolling in their sockets, and from the edges of his lips spittle and foam had begun to form.

As the man thrashed at the halflings feet, he turned. The battle was finished and yet the overwhelming joy of the victory had not passed. Vigo left the dying man to thrash till the body and nerves finished, then it would be the Ai'Bron's responsibility. He, on the other hand, had things to do, people to see, and power to wield against others.

Whatever the purpose was for the Citadel, whatever it had been created for and originally designed for was of no consequence any more. He had all but forgotten his original questions. Instead, a desire, near bloodthirsty, had taken hold of him. The half-elf was not easily addicted to anything, but the joy of victory and watching his helpless opponent writhe under the magic he alone could summon... that was even too much for him not to ignore.



((Sorry, I'm a slacker... being submitted now.))

[Letho]

General Notes: Nothing in particular really. Just a note that Forsaken By War’s score would be colored RED, and Dirge’s in BLUE. Onto the rubric...


CONTINUITY – 6:7

Despite the fact that the battle was one of those random types that “just happened”, I think both of you did a good job at justifying the presence of your characters in the Citadel. Both of your characters reflected on the very nature of the Citadel and pondered on the nature and the reasoning of the battles that take place. This is a welcome refreshment from the usual “We battle just because Citadel is there”. Nothing groundbreaking, but still nice. I give advantage to Dirge because Forsaken By War (FBW from now on) sometimes tried to be too philosophic about it. That big fat paragraph of monologue that you wrote in your third post, FBW, was a bit too much. I think this is because of your specific writing style, but I’ll say more about that aspect of your writing later.

SETTING - 5:5

I would really like to see some original arenas once in a while, I really would. The whole grassy-opening-in-the-forest-on-a-sunny-day-or-whatnot is getting old, even if you throw in a dozen of boulders into it. Wouldn’t it be more colorful if, instead of lifeless boulders, you had crumbling statues of some unknown heroes sitting perched on a precipice of a volcano? It’s just one example how to add spice into the setting. And this doesn’t go just for the one who made the arena. Even if you didn’t create the arena, you can always make it change. Snow could fall, a stampede might charge from the nearby forest, hell, anything that would break the monotony. There were some interactions with the setting, but nothing too fancy or original. Although I found it rather weird that there was a hive of deadly ants right below your opponent, Dirge. As far as I know, ants don’t have hives wherever you stab your shovel.

PACING - 4:6

FBW, you tend to return too far back at the beginning of your post, which kills the pacing. If you swung your staff already, don’t spend half a post describing just how you swung it and what did it do. Also, if you’re charging at somebody at full speed, you don’t have time to have a two paragraphs worth or revelation. I’m all for inputting more story into the battles, but there’s a good way to do it and then there’s the way that kills the pacing. Dirge, you mostly didn’t make these mistakes, although I feel you could do without those voiced thoughts that come off as too pretentious sometimes.

DIALOGUE - 5:6

Just because there was quite a lot of it doesn’t make it good dialogue. The whole debate at the beginning was a nice way of introduction into your character’s feelings on the Citadel, but both of you said too much in your posts, so the opponent didn’t have a chance to respond to it all. Also, character’s thoughts are also go under dialogue (though they are technically a monologue unless a character is a schizo). FBW, remember to make such lines in italic so there is no confusion whether or not your character is actually speaking those lines.

ACTION - 4:4

Probably the weakest aspect of the quest, despite the plausible tactics. Let me explain why by throwing out some examples. Vigo summons a swarm of ants out and commands them to attack his opponent. According to the description of his spell, he can’t control swarms unless they were made of rats. And I’m pretty certain that ants aren’t very eager when it comes to attacking a human-sized target for no reason whatsoever. Vigo gets hit by two fierce strikes of the staff. The first strike to the side alone would’ve thrown him sideways, thus making him incapable of grabbing his opponent by the throat. Aralian gets attacked by the ants. The way you described it, FBW, (“blood cascading”) you made it sound as if the ants were as large as roaches and had razors for teeth. Aralian is touched by Vigo’s spell. I quote from Dirge’s profile:
“As of right now, for Vigo at least, the spell is only powerful enough to cause a rash and small blisters. It is mainly used to cause pain, distract, and create unease to hinder fighting. At the same time, a punch to someone’s face can normally incapacitate them for some time.“ And yet, the touch did this:
Causing him to have multiple heart attacks and strokes, he kept having seizures as he gasped for air for a few long seconds after around a minute he lay dead on the ground. I’ve dealt with cases where people disregarded someone’s attack, but never with cases where people made them stronger then they really were. These mistakes hurt the realism of the story. Try to avoid them.

PERSONA - 6:7

This was generally good. You both displayed your characters rather well through the entire battle and the situations that unfolded. I found FBW’s flashback about the time he spent in war a bit over the top. It’s good to introduce some facts of your character, but try to do it more subtly. I liked Vigo’s personality on several points. The part where he comments on his feelings on deities is the one that struck me the most, so slight advantage to him.

MECHANICS - 5:8

FBW, you make a lot of similar mistakes and they are all about the words that sound alike or are written alike. You mix words like “wander” and “wonder”, “to” and “too”, “waste” and “waist”. These mistakes aren’t picked up by a spellchecker, but they are by proofreading, so try to do that more often. There are also some weird sentences such as: “They constantly tell us always that they depend...”. It should be either just “They constantly tell us...” or “They always tell us...”. Dirge is mostly free of these mistakes, hence the large difference in the score.

TECHNIQUE - 5:5

I had a talk with Shyam once about the difference between good technique and bad technique and the ability to recognize it. I think you have potential in this department, FBW, but you tend to overdo it. You once used three similes in three sentences in a row, and they weren’t even that refined. Remember that you don’t always need a very stylish way to describe something and try to use technique to give that final polish to your writing. With Dirge, I haven’t noticed that many advanced writing devices. It’s not necessarily a bad thing, but it’s not something that would get a man a high score. Not on my score card anyways.

CLARITY - 6:7

There were several points where I had to reread certain passages, certain descriptions that made me pause and really focus hard on visualizing, especially in the beginning, but generally this was a rather easy read.

WILD CARD - 6:6

An all-around decent battle with some battle finesse and some mistakes that jumped out at me.


TOTAL SCORE - 52:61


Dirge is victorious!!!
Congratulations to the both of you!

SPOILS:
Dirge gets 600 EXP, 50 GP and several dozen of angry ants that turned on him and snuck into his boots
Forsaken By War gets 150 EXP, 50 GP and a ‘Sting-B-Gone’ aloe balm for the ant bites


EXP/GP ADDED!