Division 1: balanceinallthings vs. Patois

[Ther]

This match-up will last until 8 P.M. E.S.T. on 2/23/07. Remember, if you finish your battle early, I can score you early - and finishing early is a good, good thing always.

Best of luck!

[balanceinallthings]

It is autumn. Most likely late in the season, as any who would take the time to survey their surroundings on the narrow forest trail would see a vast canopy of blazing red above them, and a forest floor littered with dying brown and blood red.

How poetic... Especially if a battle is to be fought.

How fitting.

As you have (or perhaps, have not) seen many times before, a man makes his appearance on nature's stage, walking with a rolling gait down the path, his armor dull, and yet radiating with the with the glowing aura that only one free of all burden can emit. Hold your breath, if you will. The coming events may be dramatic, or very prematurely anti-climatic.

It all depends on how he or she who would meet him manipulates the shackles of servitude.

A friendly word, a change of life, or a flashing blade and another spot of crimson marking the ground in a late-autumn forest.

He does not hum or whistle. He does not sigh in bordom. His step is with purpose, although his destination is undeterminded. After all, one does not need to be any one where to breathe life into the spark of freedom. And one does not need a destination to shatter the iron first of injustice.

If these words ring boastful in your ears, fear not. It is not you who need believe. It is he, or she, who next crosses his path. She who would seek liberation, or he who would deny it.

So please, do wait. Conflicting beliefs and a solution upon the edge of a well travelled sword wait. It will be worth the delay.

Or perhaps not. That freedom of choice is always yours to hold.

[Patois]

"Land Ho!"

The words ring down from the crow's nest clearer than ever, even over the sound of waves being split by the sharply pointed bow of the fluyt. The crew of the Ivory Pyre collectively turn their attention to the north, their hands working the rigging but their eyes locking on the rich red of the coastline. But there are two men who aren't trying to work as the ship draws nearer to the coastline, and these two walk with a purpose over the white oak plans. Their stare is locked firmly as they walk to the foremost point of the ship, squinting to keep view on their destination as sea mist gently sprays up and peppers their faces.

"That's it, in'nit?" The dark skinned sailor stands staring with determination in the distance, raising a hand up over his eyes to cut the glare of the sun away from his gaze.

"Aye. That's it, alright: The famed Red Forest. One of the most awe-inspirin' sights you'll see, and one of the deadliest places to venture into." The captain of this vessel stands proudly beside him, his square jaw gritting his teeth as he looks out at the southern coast of Raiaera. "I certainly hope you know what you're doing."

Angio reaches his free hand up, grabbing one of the rigging ropes for support as he steps a foot on the edge of the bow. There's a small chirp of protest as the tropical monkey perched on his left shoulder hastily scampers around the back of his neck to take up post on the other side. Pulling his hand away from his face, the master reaches back to gently scratch the fur of his pet in an effort to calm and reassure him.

No, I don't.

"Absolutely, of course I do." Angio says, his eyes fixed on the trees rising in the distance, the Liviol and Nihon alike topped with leaves that make a bed of crimson flames against the skyline. "This is the chance I've been waiting for."

The truth is, as eager as the sailor is, he's also wary. His hand drifts instinctively to the pocket of his breeches, rubbing a finger along the folded edge of two pieces of parchment. He resists the urge to pull them out and read over them again. It would be furitive anyways; in the past few days he's already committed every word, every letter to memory.

The first letter had arrived about a week ago from a mysterious courier in Scara Brea. The man wouldn't say a word to Angio except that he was to deliver the parchment to him. Rich black ink contrasted the fading yellow it was written on, bearing a bold advertisement.



Master Angio Patois
You have been selected as a participant in a competition for the celebration of Althanaversary. As you read this, our celebration is already underway and will continue until the Day of Turning, CP 1801.

The champion of Althanas has hand chosen a group of participant who will vie for the chance to face him in combat at the commencement ceremony at the end of this competition. In order to earn the right to face the champion, you are charged with finding other selected participants and besting them in combat. Should your efforts be successful until the end of the tournament, you will have earned the distinct honor of facing the champion and having your name etched in the annals of Althanas history forever.

The announcement raised more questions than answers. What was this an anniversary of and who was the mysterious force behind it? Dark rumors swirled that the demons of Haidate were behind it, organizing a celebration of the 2000th anniversary of the Demon War. Others speculated that due to it ending on the Day of Turning, that malignant beings were stirring in Antioch again, celebrating the 75th anniversary of the defeat of the Coronian Navy and founding of their cities. Of course, these were merely rumors, and farfetched at that. People tend to go to the most dramatic answer possible when faced with the unexplained. The fact was that nobody really seemed to know the truth yet, but it would unfold as the competition went forward.

The truth is inconsequential anyways. Regardless of the answers behind it, this is a chance to garner fame... or infamy. The former is what Angio wanted, the latter what he will settle for. Angio had told himself that in reassurance over the past few days, driving him to step into the perilous voyage to the unknown.

"Drop the foremast." The stern voice of Captain Monieux rings out, standing proudly beside his dark skinned companion. "If this man is watching, let him see that this is no trade ship, but the Ivory Pyre, the Blade of the Western Seas coming to deliver his defeat."

Angio is snapped from his thoughts by the proclaimation and turns to his shipmate. "You know, I never thanked ya for this. I know I ain't part of the crew anymore, so this means a lot."

Shaking his head and clicking his tongue, the captain places a hand brotherly on the moor's shoulder.

"Ang, I told you... as far as I'm concerned, you'll always be a part of this crew; it's just a matter of when you decide you want to come back. You'll always have a home on the Pyre, and a family among my men. If helping you get out here is the least we can do, it will be an honor to aid our brother."

Beneath his bushy mustache, the captain's lips turn up into a warm smile. It's a sight that is bittersweet to Angio, just like the vision of the coastline. The smile shows confidence and a bond that's almost like family, but it's contrasted by a look of worry and concern in the eyes that rest above it. Likewise, the sight of the Red Forest is particularly stunning- especially in the harvest season where it's ever-red cap is matched with an earthen brown bed of leaves on the ground. In reality, it's a deception, masking the untold dangers that lurk within. Both sights are merely the good hiding the bad.

"You sure about where we're going?" Angio says, the uneasiness shaking him to the point he needs to break it with his own words.

"Aye, we sent a small boat of scouts out a little over an hour ago, and they spotted your opponent walking a small horse path about a quarter-league in from the coast. We've plotted this course so that by the time we dock and you to walk through the woods, you should be reaching the path at around the same place he'll be passing through."

The two men turn as a whooshing sound rises behind them, the heavy canvas of the white foremast falling to reveal a dark maroon mast behind it. Even Sha'khrai's little eyes can't help but gaze upward in the same path as his master's do, falling and locking on the white skull surrounded by white flames stitched against the blood-colored backdrop. The symbol of the Ivory Pyre, displayed boldly to herald it's arrival. The captain turns again to his men, the foreboding crimson forest creeping nearer as the boat eases towards a woefully small patch of beach at the foot of it.

"Prepare to dock, men."

Turning back to Angio, his worried eyes scan his former crewmates, looking carefully at him. "You're sure about this? Once we dock, that's as far as we go. You'll be on yer own from there."

The sailor just shakes his head in confidence. "I've never been more sure about anything."

It's a lie, but fortunately he's a good liar.

[balanceinallthings]

So rarely in nature does crimson meet azure, yet to the eyes of a gull, the crisp, sparkling blue sea crashed into the infernal blanket of red, in perfect harmony of yin and yang. So too, and poetically so, did the man of the ocean seek Him out in that forest of fire, a different reason than most, but a reason none the less.

For all, sooner or later, search, sought, find, found, or seek... him. It's in your hand, or still yet to be drawn from the deck, but when by is by, it will be in the cards.

And deepest appologies to he who would receive no introduction. Those who impede the crusade of freedom are given no name. Yet, if one were to now, catch a noble name upon the winds, they would speak unto you, Wentworth. Muse upon it. Mull it over. Make up your mind. Simple, yes? Of course, to be defeated by He, is to be defeated by an idea. A simple idea of harmony, without complication.

Wentworth, a name no more imposing that the thought of peace, yet just as encompassing, enveloping. Just as free. A name and peace are free, as freedom is the name of peace, and if you were to catch the noble thought upon the winds, you would know, that Wentworth exists to bring freedom and subjugate fear. So fear not.

Fear not death.

Fear not peace.

Fear not Wentworth.

Are you beginning to understand?

He would... will, have you know know, that fear is slavery. Free, is the state of being of which we enter the world. Fear begins to blanket this state as we live our lives. We lose the will to enter the dark. We run, hide, always looking backwards. Never forward. Always away from horror. Never towards beauty.

Fear is slavery imposed on the self. Slavery is not peace. Peace is brought by Freedom. Peace is brought by death. Death brings freedom.

Wentworth brings peace. Wentworth brings Freedom. Wentworth brings...

How about now?

Smile!

Do you comprehend?

Feel accomplished, you're learning!

Can you see the perfect circle?

Please, begin to understand, because the man of the sea, seconds away from meeting Him, will never understand. Will never be given the opportunity to understand. Please know that in the following moments, He will bring peace.

Eyes, to the path. Dark eyes. Purpose in step. A remedy for fear, sheathed in a scabbard.

[Patois]

Clunk

Angio looks down at the rust-stained bucket in front of him, the top edge still vibrating from being dropped at his feet. He goosenecks to peek over the top, looking in at a thick, white, gel-like substance. The smell alone makes him want to reconsider letting them put it on them. While there's probably some tactical advantage in combat to smelling like pork that's been out two days too long, that advantage is negated when you have to smell it too.

"What is that stuff?"

He looks curious as one of the junior crewman scoops a handful of the waxy paste from the bucket, slapping it against Angio's chest and beginning to rub it into his skin. The voice of Captain Monieux slides over his shoulder, past the dimunative simian perched on it, and offers his answers.

"Mostly animal fat, mixed with some soap. Since you wanna be a stubborn ass and refuse to take some of the armor we got on the ship-"

The sailor jumps in, with a bold tone to his already deep voice.

"I won't need it."

Because I can't ask more of you all. Ya've done too much more me as is.

A faint chortle is heard from behind as the captain shakes his head. The man in front of Angio is already busy grabbing another scoop of the mixture to put on him.

"Yeah, yeah, don't let that pride be screwin' with ye..."

It was, but in a different way than what the captain was thinking.

"But like I was sayin' since you won't take the armor, this is the least we can do. It'll make your skin a bit slick, which is why you need to keep it off your hands and let Delarr here put it on ye."

Even as the captain says this, Angio raises his arms outstretched to the side, allowing the deckhand to rub the white substance along his ribs. The sun is beating down on the dark skin of the sailor's broad shoulders, and the small monkey is looking on at the man preparing his master with curiousity.

"It's gonna do next to nothin' for you, but I'd rather send you out there with next to nothin than nothing at all. Pit fighters and gladiators put this stuff on them before a fight. In theory, it may help a glancing blow from a blade slide off ya a bit easier, though it's more suited for if you can get in on him in hand-to-hand range. You got a better chance of it makin' a punch slide off ya, makin' it harder for him to grapple ye if it comes to that."

The skin on the bridge of Angio's nose crumples as he makes a sour face, shaking his head.

"That it?"

The substance fades from view as it's rubbed into his skin, leaving a glossy film right on the surface.

"Well, that and for a fellow as dark as you, it'll make your skin look a bit shinier. Make your muscles stand out a bit more. The scouts say this guy looks about the same size as you, maybe just a touch smaller. The trick is gonna be to make him think the size difference is more than it really is. You're going to need everything you can to get into this guy's head."

It's was one of the most basic ideals that their old captain had taught them. For pirates, most of a battle is with an opponent's mind, not their blade. Fear, doubt, confusion... these are the weapons they use to overcome larger and more well-armed vessels at sea. It's the same basic tenate here: if he can throw his opponent off his game, then there's bound to be a mistake. The key is just forcing that moment of opportunity and then lunging on it.

"The scouts say anything else about him?"

"Yeah, he's got armor- which you're not going to have the luxury of due to your bull headedness- and his sword is some silverish metal. They couldn't tell if it was iron or steel from that distance, but in either case it's better and more reliable than that bronze one you're swingin' around."

No doubt his skill with the blade is better than mine too.

"So it looks like any way ya slice it, I'm fighting uphill, huh?"

The crewman finishes rubbing the balm on Angio's skin, stepping back and picking the bucket back up.

"Looks like it. You seem outmatched, so you're gonna have to go for substance over style. Take any shot you can on this guy. It doesn't have to be pretty; afterall, it's not like you're particularly graceful or eloquent. But you don't need to be; stick with what you know, something simple. Winning is the only part that matters."

Even as the Monieux is saying this, the moorish sailor's thoughts drift as his fingers run across the edge of the parchments in his pocket once again. The second one is in his mind, even more cryptic as the first. It came with nothing more than a set of nautical directions- the same ones which led them here- and a single word at the bottom: Wentworth. Angio didn't know who sent it. Was it his opponent? Perhaps the same strange forces that mysteriously tracked him down and placed him in this competition? Those were the likely answers, but the fact is that he couldn't know for sure.

"Hey, you payin' attention to all this?" the captain's voice lowers to a stern tone and Angio is snapped from his thoughts.

"Hm? Yeah, yeah, I got it all."

"Good, anything else before you go?"

The dark sailor carefully pulled the white cotton shirt over his arms, letting it slip over his large frame. Already the fabric was sticking in spots to the greasey salve on his back. Angio grunted as he steps forward, holding a hand out to Monieux.

"Yeah, you watch Sha'khrai for me, make sure he's okay?"

Even as it's name is spoken, the spider monkey raises it's head eagerly, looking to his master. With a nod of the head, Angio motions for him to go to the captain. The simian is reluctant, but a stern look and a second nod provokes him to crawl along Patois' outstretched arm and leap onto the shoulder of Captain Monieux. The captain nods in turn and peeks at the monkey sitting beside his head.

"Aye, I'll take care of the lil' guy. You just take care of yourself, y'hear me? I'm planning on you riding the Pyre back with us, so don't let me down."

Angio clasps a hand on his friend's shoulder, affirming. Turning the sun to his side, the sailor grabs the satchel at his feet and treks across the deck. With a light step for his size, he makes his way down the gankplank and onto the beach, heading right for the treeline. Very soon he will meet his opponent, but for now, all his doubts are pushed aside. With a defiant look in his eye, he marches on as the crew of the Ivory Pyre watch their brother head off to battle.

All he had to do was hear that all the cards are stacked against him, that he has all the disadvantages. That's when he's the most determined to prove it all wrong.

[balanceinallthings]

And so their meeting is nigh. As close as twins, and as the seafarer has made his preparations, He, has been waiting. Not for the sailor, but rather for trial and tribulation. Testing is in his blood, so suprise, ambush, and betrayal is always expected. A momentary setback. He who strikes the first blow is never remembered. It is he who strikes the last blow that writes history.

It shall all be explained, but first, a clarification, to you who would know of this event.

Neutrality.

Appologies to you, who have been struggling to keep this knowledge in order. Events told may not always come into focus at first. Information begets information. Perhaps honor and willingness (eagerness?) to inflict death have been crossing swords in your mind, one's existance nullifing the other. And so, we would elabourate on past statements.

Yes, we. Us.

Know, Wentworth kills with noble cause. Single minded in his purpose. Death is noble when one dies in the interest of leaving a purer world behind. When a warlord dies, and anarchy reigns in his kingdom, it is pure. Men and women deciding their own fates. Evil and goodness both have their places in the world, clear as life and death. But when a Slave Lord enlists a race of people against their will to toil in his shadow. When a man serving law denies a boy a meal, even if it is stolen bread. These are both forms of injustice, granted one is clearer in your mind than the other. Freedom is peace. We all want peace, do we not?

When a man in persuit of personal gain -be it glory, money, or honor- interrupts His most sacred quest, to bring peace to the world, this is the greatest injustice of all. That man is stopping the world in its tracks. That man is stopping the world from reaching its most beautiful moment: When every man choses for himself.

Remember, that concequence is an invention of man. Would that same boy chose incarceration? Or would he chose freedom, to eat and live?

Perhaps you are beginning to see his goal more clearly, and in time, you, the man of the ocean, ALL, will know. His quest is pure. His quest is freedom. His quest, sometimes, when those who do not see interfere, is death.

It is his will. It is OUR, will.

Remember nature cares not for prisons and chains. They are the imperfect invention of man.

His sword severs chains. His sword severs the flesh that would chain.

His sword will sever the flesh that interferes.

Now, look again, at the scene that has no where to advance, but conflict.

Watch with renewed clarity, as the seafarer approaches. His sword is not drawn, yet. He will not be the first to lift a weapon in challenge. But it will be the last. After all, you now know, it is he who strikes the last blow that writes history.

[Patois]

The dead leaves at his feet crunch and ruffle with each step Angio takes into the forest. Walking through, he leaves a faint trail behind him of discarded brown paper-like blades, the floor of the forest thick to walk through. As it is, each step finds him in the natural much to the toecap of his boots. He makes no effort to quiet his footsteps; it would be quite impossible anyway. But ambush is not his plan. He knows from years spent on the seas and a long stretch of time serving on a pirate crew that there are some instances when it is better to just meet your enemy head on. Sometimes it's more unexpected to them than a surprise attack.

He sees a section of trees thin out ahead and can see the beginnings of the horse path, a dusty swath carved out among the dead leaves.

This is it. Time to take that first step toward immortality.

The sailor rolls his shoulders back, the fabric of his shirt still clinging to his greased back. Taking a deep breath, his chest swells as he gently squeezes the muscles next to his armpits, making his torso more pronounced. If his opponent is waiting, Angio wants to be seen as greater than he is. Powerful. Foreboding. Intimidating. His sword isn't his greatest weapon, nor are his fists; deception, illusion, and fear are going to be the brunt of his arsenal.

Walking bolding through the treeline with his chest puffed out, Angio catches a faint glint in the corner of his eye. The armor of his foe isn't so bright as it had just happened to catch the light just right as the rays struggled down through the crimson canopy overhead. Angio's cheeks tighten as his teeth grind together, looking stern as he turns to face the man. Walking forward, Angio surveys him carefully in his peripherals, taking not of his armor, of his weapon, his build. Sizing up your target is as important as any blow you could strike.

"You must be the Wentworth I am supposed to be meeting."

Keep cool, keep confident. Get in 'is head.

Dust swirls around Angio's feet with each step down the horse path, a wind cutting through the air with greater strength that serves as an eerie warning to the seaman as the men near.

"I am Angio Patois, intrepid scourer of the North Seas, mate of the Ivory Pyre."

His sword still ain't drawn. That's a good sign. I'd never try this if it was, and it may be my best shot.

He takes note of which side the man's blade hangs from. The opposite hand is their actual sword hand, it being nearly impossible to draw a weapon with the arm of the same side. It can be done, but not without effort and time. And that's what Angio needs. He extends his hand on the same side as Wentworth's blade, offering a handshake to his foe's sword hand.

"It will be an honor to face you in combat."

He stops just short of his opponent, hand still outstretched. His opening gambit is twofold; his eyes close briefly before falling on the man again, the Eyes of the Sea rising.

Be foolish enough to look me in the eyes. See what I've seen. See what it looks like for men to die of thirst water all around 'em that they can't drink. To die of hunger while surrounded by fish they got no way of catching. To be tossed from the bow of a ship durin' a raging storm, being dragged under to th' deep by the invisible arms of the currents, clawin' helplessly at the waters. I'm used to these nightmares by now; let's see if you are.

The magic is sure to unnerve any mortal man who's eyes fall on the sailor's. Though they may not run, they may not cower, they may not even hesitate... they never go unaffected. And right now, Angio will take any advantage he can have.

The second fold is much more simple: the offer of the handshake is genuine. However, the sailor has no intention of letting go of his foe's grip if he is honorable- and gullible- enough to accept.

If I keep 'em close and our weapons from being drawn, my chances of both survivin' and winning go up dramatically.

[Max Dirks]

A few comments. First, balanceinallthings ("balance") I rather like this hybrid 3rd/2nd you've done here. While certainly creative, its flaw is how it affects character. Unfortunately, I was left disappointed with the interaction between Wentworth and Angio. Creativity and writing style go to balance, action and wildcard go to Patois. Post more often.

Patois advances to round two!