The Art of War (OPEN, 1 character only, Level 0 - 1 characters only please.)

[Xeraph]

There are many ways in which a man may prove himself. Some may seek adventure, others will hunt riches. Some will succeed, and some will fail. A man can only truly make his name on the field of battle, where his peers and his enemies can see his true skill displayed in honourable combat.

Xeraph Tollan stood before the mighty oak doors of the Citadel in Corone, taking a moment to gaze at their exquisite workmanship… the detail was extraordinary. Reaching out, his callused hand brushed against the door panel, and with his blue eyes closed, the detail seemed to leap out at him all the more. He had heard much of what happened behind these doors… all comers, be they experienced veterans, mere children or simply fools with a disregard for their own being, were welcome to come and take part in battles between equals… or not, if some foolish newcomer challenged someone far beyond their ability to handle.

He took a single, deep breath, and then pushed the door open. It swung silently on well-oiled hinges, and he stepped quickly inside. He had no idea of what to expect, having never been to Corone, much less The Citadel. That didn’t mean he hadn’t heard of it… who hadn’t in his line of work. It was considered to be the ultimate test of skill for any mercenary. Underneath his travelling cloak, one hand closed around the hilt of his longsword… he was sure of himself, but still, it paid to be cautious. The possibility of death here was very real, and Xeraph had no intention of dying here, not with so much left to do with his life.

As he began to move forward, he noticed something. There were almost two distinct groups of people… those who congregated, congratulating themselves on having bested some punk who thought they could handle the stress of combat.

Of course, thought Xeraph, bypassing one such group on his way forward,defeating a child who stole a sword to prove himself worthy of being called a man is nothing, compared to beating someone who truly offers you a competition.

The other group were those like him. They were loners, who stood in dark corners and said little to those around them. Xeraph had enough experience with this group, and they were the ones who would require watching. It seemed everyone here came with different skills. Archers, mages, swordsman… of all races, colours and creeds. Truly, a place where like-minded warriors could meet.

As he passed by a high vaulted archway, he was hailed by a monk, one of those who helped to create the battles, “May I assist you, sir?”

Xeraph took a good look at this monk… it was obviously he had seen combat in his time. But, as a monk, he was not a possible opponent, “Yes, I’m looking for a field on which to do battle.”

“What sort of field are you looking for?”

“Something that requires not only brawn, but brains, in order to win.”

The monk thought for a moment, and a thin smile passed over his features, “I believe we may have such a field. Please, follow me.”

The monk turned on his heel, and Xeraph, glancing round to see if anyone had been listening, taking an interest in his queries. Then, without a word, he followed after the monk, who was moving rapidly through the halls and almost vanished on more than one occasion. Eventually, the monk stopped at a door, and twisted a key in the lock, “An opponent will join you momentarily… please, be patient. You have as long as you wish.”

Xeraph nodded his thanks, and stepped into the field…

It was quite astonishing. The field was a ruined settlement, a large square in the centre, but buildings dotted around. Lots of places to hide, and plently from which to fight. The grass was a light green, but brown in patches, a result of the pounding sun. A light breeze flitted through the settlement, ruffling Xeraph's unkempt blond hair. It was a place where you could fight in the open, or you could use the cover to your advantage, and attempt to assassinate your opponent that way. For his part, Xeraph was not concerned. The point of battle was to defeat to your opponents, and the ends would always justify the means as far as he was concerned.

He leaned back against a crumbling stone wall, undoing the clasp on his travelling cloak so that it hung loosely on his shoulders. His hands delved into his pockets, withdrawing his pipe and a book of matches from his tunic. He brought the pipe to his mouth, sniffing the end to ascertain which tobacco he had left in there before he lit it, taking a deep breath in, and exhaling through his nostrils, “Ah, apple.”

A distinct meow sounded from around his ankles, and he looked down, “Tabitha, I though I told you to stay at the dock, I wouldn’t be long.”

The cat rubbed herself against his leg, purring gently, and he couldn’t help but grin, “Alright, but stay out of sight. I don’t want my opponent picking on you.”

[Christoph]

The art of war is of vital importance to the State. It is a matter of life and death, a road either to safety or to ruin. Hence it is a subject of inquiry which can on no account be neglected.

~ Sun Tzu


Once again, Chris awoke to the steady staccato of dripping water. He shivered violently and struggled to sit up. Glancing around with bloodshot eyes, he saw that he was still alone in his dingy, dark cell. His white chef coat was torn and ragged; it was tearing at the seams, stained with old, rust colored blood, and still completely soaked with water. The chill this condition caused was wearing him down. The injuries he’s suffered had been healed by the citadel monks after the battle on the boats in the flooded arena ended. Unfortunately, their efforts would be of little consequence if illness took him while he was still being held by the Radisanth city guards as though he were a murderer. Indeed, his wounds were healed, but his body was still exhausted. He sighed wearily at the clicking and creaking of the cell door, followed by the clopping of polished boots.

"I certainly hope you're finding the accommodations suitable," said the cruel, mocking voice of a guard, a guard lieutenant, to be exact. His name was Williams, if Chris remembered correctly. Williams was a tall man with broad shoulders, blonde hair, and a perpetual pompous sneer on his face. He circled his prisoner with the eyes of a hungry shark; he had his prey, but wanted to toy with it first. "It's the best we could do on short notice. Although... if you do us some favors, I'm sure that we could see to an upgrade." Chris rolled his eyes.

“Honestly, is a hotel cliché the best you can do?” he asked, forcing a laugh. “I mean... if you really wanted to be intimidating, you could try--” The imprisoned chef forced himself not to cry out as a fist crashed into his face, knocking him over.

“Listen here, rat!” warned the guard angrily. “I have every right to kill you right now!”

“Please, no you don’t,” Chris replied, picking himself back up. “You wouldn’t have the authority to carry out a legal execution, let alone to murder a prisoner out of anger. You still need to answer to someone higher than you... granted, there are plenty of --” A swift kick cut him off again, knocking the air from his lungs and leaving a throbbing pain in his side. He groaned.

“Just what do you want from me?” the chef asked, making a futile attempt to keep the despair and desperation from his voice. “I did what was required of me. I fought in that stupid citadel event. Let me go, already!” The guard laughed. It was a pompous, self-righteous laugh that caused Chris to grit his teeth.

“It’s not that easy... We still have you for disturbing the peace and harboring fugitives. Now, if you tell me where they went, perhaps I can pull some strings and see that you are released.”

“Harboring a fugitive?” Chris slapped his forehead. “I don’t know any fugitives. None of those girls were criminals. Besides, I don’t have the slightest idea as to where they’ve gone. I mean… should I wait to spit in your face until later, or should I just get it done with now? You’re just an idiot with power issues.” The guard growled, but Chris smiled maliciously. Did he strike a nerve? A swift back hand sent the chef onto his side again. Yes, he’d definitely struck a nerve.

“Still not talking, then?” asked the guard, as though he hadn’t heard a word of what Chris had said. “Well, it seems that you will be making another guest appearance in the Citadel.”

“I won’t,” Chris replied, resolute. “I already held up my end. I played as a grunt for the city’s big display of violent debauchery for the sake of pleasing discontent masses once. I’m not doing it again.” The guard stopped circling and folded his hands behind his back. Chris gave a single-syllable laugh and looked past the guard.

“What makes you think that you have a choice?”

“You can’t force me to fight there again. You can physically throw me into the arena, but now that I know that I will be healed, even from death, by the monks, I can simply refuse to fight.” The prisoner sneered with triumph.

“Perhaps I will simply tell the monks not to heal you when it’s done,” William threatened. Chris chuckled.

“That’s not a bad bluff,” complimented the chef. “But I’m sure you can do better than that. Perhaps if you’d kicked me again, it would have prevented my brain from seeing right through you.”

“That can be arranged…” the guard growled.

“You can’t control the monks; you can’t stop them from healing me.” A sinister chortle escaped the guard’s lips. It seemed a bit forced to Chris, though.

“You’re forgetting, boy, that I’ve lived in Corone my entire life,” countered the guard. “You, however, are a filthy foreigner.” The prisoner shook his head.

“I still say that you’re bluffing… besides, you’ll still need to drag me all the way there again.” He leered upward, finally bringing his bloodshot eyes, brimming with madness, into contact with the blue eyes of the guard. “And I’m getting pretty desperate. I may just start biting if you grab me.” The lieutenant snapped his fingers, summoning two more city guards into the cell. Chris struggled to his feet.

“All right, then,” challenged the chef as they began to circle around him. “Who wants to lose a finger first?” A sharp pain surged through his temple before he could react.

And then there was blackness.

* * * * *

Chris awoke with a sharp pain in his head. His vision was still blurry, but he could feel something different, something welcome: something… warm. Sunlight. It was as though he could feel its life and energy flowing into him. It was marvelous. He spent several moments simply lying in the loving embrace of the sun and the soft grass. Finally, he struggled to his feet and blinked the blurriness away.

Well, this is a bit different.

Squinting in the light, he found himself in a deserted, dilapidated settlement. It seemed to stretch on for quite a distance. Crumbling grey stone buildings with collapsed thatched roofs surrounded him. From what he could tell, he was standing in what was once a marketplace. The rotted remains of wooden stands and stalls lined the straight, deserted street. He stretched out for the first time in days. Perhaps he should try to figure out where he was and what was going on. And maybe find some food.

[Xeraph]

After some moments, Xeraph's patience was wearing thin, and he removed himself from the low wall, stowing his pipe back into his pocket,"Come on girl, let's go see if there is anyone else around."

Meow!

The cat seemed almost to scowl at her master, as she had been comfortable on the low wall, bathed in sunlight. Still, she followed close at his heels as they began to move, albeit slowly, through the dilapidated area.

As they rounded a corner that seemed to lead into a main square, Xeraph spotted a man at the far end. He wasn't extraordinary in any way, someone that he might pass in the street and not give a second throught to. However, he was here, and that should mean he was the opponent. His state of dress, on the other hand, was something else entirely. He seemed to be wearing the remains of a white coat... and the only people Xeraph had ever seen wear white coats had been chefs in high class restaurants during his childhood. No more did he frequent such places.

"Tabitha, go find somewhere to perch. If this is what I think it is, this should be over quickly."

So quickly it'll be insulting, to me, him, and this citadel in general.

"So, the monks deemed you an appropiate opponent," he intoned strongly, one hand resting on the hilt of his longsword.

[Christoph]

“The art of war teaches us to rely not on the likelihood of the enemy's not coming, but on our own readiness to receive him.”

~Sun Tzu


Chris had still been wandering about aimlessly, simply trying to make sense of what was going on and where he was. The settlement seemed sprawl out like a partially completed jigsaw puzzle. The areas that actually made sense, such as the decayed market street, served as a telling epitaph to an otherwise unrecognizable town. Perhaps it wouldn’t have appeared so jumbled and illogical had Chris seen it at its prime.

The voice that finally came could only be described as businesslike. Chris turned his head purposefully and slowly, almost to the point of disinterest, toward the source; it was another man standing before him. This stranger was definitely a bit older than the chef was. His hair was long and he had the untidy appearance of a traveler. Normally, Chris would have considered such an exterior to be shabby and unkempt. In this instance, however, he was fully aware he was far from presentable at that time.

“I suppose that would be a logical assertion,” the younger man finally replied, his tone curiously unenthused. He tilted his head and yawned dismissively as he spoke. On the negative side, Christopher’s head was still throbbing and his body and mind were both drained. On the bright side, at least his vision wasn’t spinning anymore. He chuckled; it was a shame that he was unarmed; he might have actually stood a chance. “So you actually asked for an opponent, then? That’s quite a luxury.”

The weary chef slouched, glancing around, but didn’t make any other movements, whether in retreat or aggression. On his left were the remains of a single floor house with a collapsed roof and a pile of rubble where one of the side walls used to be. To his right were ruins that were likely from a taller structure. The roof on that building was also gone. It was identifiable as having been a taller building because of the formidable pile of brick and stone that occupied its hollow interior.

Chris had been caught in a curious position that rested between the states of being mentally prepared for the arrival of a foe, not having any real interest or desire to fight except to escape from the Citadel, and of being completely unequipped, in the context of novel things such as weapons, to engage the opponent anyway.

“Not to strike up casual conversation, but you haven’t seen my sword lying about have you? I don’t know of those guards tossed it in with me or not.”

[Xeraph]

Xeraph was well aware of the importance of first impressions. They formed most of your opinions on a person very quickly, and so a bad one tended to stick. Of course, they could be manipulated, and he was in no doubt that his unkempt appearance was serving its purpose. Still, this man’s seemingly uncaring attitude was even more of a disappointment than he had thought… the man didn’t even have a weapon with him.

“You entered without a weapon? You have a death wish, to be sure.”

He turned away from the stranger, “This is insulting. They place me in a field with what appears to be a cook who is down on his luck, carrying no weapons with him, and who appears to be so disinterested in his own life that he wouldn’t care if his opponent slipped a dagger between his ribs or smashed his brains out with a halberd. What the hell are you doing here if not to fight?”

His eyes by now were blazing, even though they could not be seen, and the anger was apparent in his voice, “I came to this place because I was promised combat of a worthy standard. Even if I lost, and revived by the monks, I could take solace in the fact that I had been beaten by a superior opponent. But with you… with you, there is no honour, no point to the fight.”

He began to walk away, head bowed slightly. As he walked, he called back, “If you ever find your sword, if you even own one, then I’m sure I’ll be around. After all, you can’t leave this place until I kill you… and I won’t kill a defenceless man. You need to pay me well for that particular service.”

[Christoph]

“If you know the enemy and know yourself you need not fear the results of a hundred battles.”

~Sun Tzu



Chris sighed and grumbled at the same time. One half of him felt his pride sting a tiny bit. The other half, however, really didn’t care about the older man’s remarks against his worthiness in the slightest. One thing that both halves could agree on was that he wouldn’t be getting out of the arena without not only fighting, but convincing his ‘opponent’ to battle as well. Just standing around and waiting for temporary death wasn’t going to cut it. It appeared that Lieutenant Williams was smarter than originally anticipated.

Oh, wonderful. He’s going to be stubborn about this. Why do I only run into men with codes of honor when I don’t want to?

It looked as though the apparent sell-sword wasn’t going to cooperate with Chris’s plan of not cooperating with the guards imprisoning him. Life seemed to be full of such irritating little ironies. The only way to convince the other man to fight would be to appeal to his honor – his desire for a worthy opponent. Most unarmed men would find it all but impossible to appear as such. Of course, most unarmed men were not Chris. He needed to find a way to play upon his adversary’s honor and pride; and possibly hatch a plan to use it to his advantage in order to punish the man for being so annoyingly obstinate.

“I see that you’re going to be difficult about this,” called the chef after his foe. There was a certain forced assertiveness his voice. He was tired and had little desire to fight, but he couldn’t appear as such. “You may wish to redefine what you consider ‘unarmed.’” Chris extended his hand, palm up, out in front of him.

Foosh!

A wave of dry heat swept across the chef’s face, causing a stinging sensation in his eyes, reminding him of when he'd held his face too close to a wood stove.. In his palm now rested a ball of flame the size of his fist. It was white at its core, and faded to orange and red, and finally a dark shade of purple along the edges. The supernatural fire spun hypnotically, an exotic dancer in his hand.

[Xeraph]

Xeraph heard the distinctive sound of the fire igniting, and he looked over his shoulder, a thin smile spreading across his face,"So, the chef has powers beyond the kitchen? Interesting..."

He turned on his heel, and gazed at the fireball,"That's quite exquisite... so, a pyromancer? Tell me, why does someone who obviously wields such power feel like he should hide it? And then go off on some tangent about how he's lost his sword?"

He drew his blade, a longsword that was well balanced, but had maybe seen better days before now,"You have your weapons, I have mine... perhaps we can now make something of this, before we get bored?"

[Christoph]

The quality of decision is like the well-timed swoop of a falcon which enables it to strike and destroy its victim. Therefore the good fighter will be terrible in his onset, and prompt in his decision.

~Sun Tzu


“Well, I actually did lose my sword,” Chris replied comically. “I like them for their style value.”

Chris formed an almost sinister grin, having quickly regained his foe’s interest. The distinct crunching of the worse for wear cobbled street under purposeful feet was soon the only sound left to mingle with the dancing flame as the chef took a protracted step to his left. No wind blew, no crowds cheered, no music played; they were alone to fight for their own sake and no one else’s. He barely even noticed the biting pain in his head and his extreme weariness.

One step was all that he allowed himself after gaining his opponent’s attention. The familiar shing of a sword being freed from its hilt was the only signal that the fight required. Certainly, he didn’t want his foe to become bored. Wasting little time, Chris hooked his right arm, flinging the fire ball at the mercenary as one would throw a rock. It streaked rapidly at its target, leaving sparks in its wake and a whiff of smoke in the chef’s palm.

Simultaneously, the fighting chef took a confident backward stride. The same birth sound of fire preceded the formation of yet another flame, this one in Chris’s left hand; barely a second after the first was thrown. In his tired state, he had to focus a little harder to produce it. The fire gave off the clean, appealing odor of burning wood, but it also contained the slightest tang of sulfur. His mystical fire had never smelled quite like that before, but he didn’t have time to ponder the oddity of it.

[Xeraph]

As the first ball of flame came towards him, the mercenary moved to one side. He frowned as the fire sailed by his cheek, feeling it ever so slightly singe his stubble as it did so, “You know, that’s not a bad trick. But I would have thought that you would be above cheap parlour tricks.”

The insult was well calculated to make his opponent fight harder. Xeraph saw no harm in loosing this battle… he knew he would be revived if he was killed, and saw no dishonour in loosing to a superior opponent. But he wanted a good fight if he was to die. The backwards stride might have looked confident, but he saw the reality as different – this man could only fight effectively at range, the area in which he, Xeraph, was at the greater disadvantage.

Still, there is one good thing. Fire burns, but not always fatally. Steel has a quality to it that ensures it is a killing blow.

He knew, from experience, that leather was a good insulator against the heat of a fire, having found himself set alight on more than one occasion – albeit due to his own folly rather than the actions of another person. As the second fireball gave it’s distinctive noise of creation, he was deep in thought about how to combat this opponent. A man of lesser mind would simply charge, and trust to blind luck that a fireball did not hit him. But the accuracy of the first was cause enough for Xeraph to disregard that particular strategy. He glanced around, looking for something to help him out… and he found it.

In the dirt nearby, a sheet of corrugated metal, about two feet wide by three feet high, lay discarded. He looked around to see where it had come from, and noticed that the hut nearby had the remains of a roof made of such a material. He shrugged, and dived for it, trying to turn it into some sort of impromptu shield against the fireballs. He managed to grip it in such a way that he wouldn’t have to expose too much of himself to the fire, but could advance towards his opponent, where his sword and punches could deal their blows.

With the ‘shield’ in place, he straightened up and began to walk slowly towards the enemy, occasionally glancing out from behind the metal sheet to see where he was going – for all his brilliance, he had neglected to check if he could see easily. Such things are quickly overlooked in the heat of battle.

[Christoph]

You can be sure of succeeding in your attacks if you only attack places which are undefended.

~ Sun Tzu


Had only Chris been given his sword, he wouldn’t have much cared for the warrior’s advance. Unarmed and tired as he was, though, allowing his foe to get into grips with him didn’t seem like an intelligent idea. On the other hand, the mere sight of his foe, marching forward with a large piece of scrap metal in front of him like a shield, as though he were a soldier in a phalanx, was enough to make the fire-wielding chef chuckle. And he did laugh as he continued to take steps backward.

“You know, you really look quite ridiculous,” said Chris, rolling his eyes. “Even if you could catch me while trying to move like that, how are you supposed to fight? I mean... maybe if I had some of my kitchen spoons with me, I could lose the fireballs and we’d have an even fight.” He gave a mocking laugh and tossed the ball of fire from his left hand to his right.

Obviously, he couldn’t produce enough fire to heat up the metal in any effective degree. Continuing to back up indefinitely didn’t seem very efficient, either. The law of averages would state that it was only a matter of time before he bumped into something; and that certainly wouldn’t end well. The solution to this hilarious complication was patently obvious. The mercenary’s “shield” lacked an arm strap, being that it wasn’t a real shield. This meant that his hand would be at least partially exposed.

It was a hard shot, but far from impossible. The chef chucked the fireball with a quick flicking motion. It surged through the air, leaving a trail of sulfuric smoke in its wake as it flew toward the mercenary’s hand.

[Xeraph]

“I may look ridiculous, but I will win this battle,” called Xeraph in response to his opponent’s taunts. In all honesty, he wasn’t worried about how he looked, but merely how practical his defence was. He knew in his heart that this was a bad idea; that the metal sheet would heat up due to the repeated flame attacks but it was the only one he had.

He advanced steadily, fingers curled around the edge, holding it up… no point risking himself more than he had to. However, he hadn’t reckoned on the fireball that singed the ends of his fingers. He gave a cry, more of alarm than of actual pain, and dropped the shield, leaving him momentarily defenceless. He took this opportunity to check his distance… ten paces, close enough to get into his opponent, hopefully stop this pyromania. However, before he attacked, he dived behind a low wall and crawled through a door way into the ruined house.

It was darkened inside, light barely entering through the slit windows. He drew his blade, and hesitantly began to advance into the gloom, hoping to find a way of out-flanking his opponent. However, what with the timber supports having collapsed, it was slow going...

[Christoph]

Move not unless you see an advantage; use not your troops unless there is something to be gained; fight not unless the position is critical.

~Sun Tzu.



“Dear gods, honestly,” Chris groaned as his opponent with singed fingers dove into a building. He had almost flung his second fireball, but his self-control prevented this fruitless waste of energy. It left the chef wondering how, exactly, his foe planned to reach him. The more “tactical maneuvering” that he used merely aided Chris in keeping the gap between them. Of course, he hardly cared either way; he was simply growing weary of the mercenary’s seeming determination to draw out the fight. What was he hiding from, anyway? Balls of fire that might burn his hair off with a lucky hit?

The weary chef sighed. Running in after his adversary would probably bring a quick end to the bout; albeit not necessarily one that would leave Chris victorious. He could always sprint off as the mercenary fumbled around in the ruins. That, however, posed the opposite problem in that the battle would surely never end. In the end, it was pure, shameless laziness that dictated Christopher’s actions. Naturally. He took a few more steps away from the building that was currently occupied by the mercenary, stopping as he felt the cold stones of the adjacent structure against his back.

“I can wait here all day if I need to,” said Chris to himself. From his position, he had a good view of two walls of his foe’s building. Of course, calling it a building was ridiculously flattering. In reality, it was but a shadow, a rotting corpse of what it had once been. The roof had almost completely collapsed, the walls were crumbling, leaving the decaying skeleton of support pillars as a frail testimate to its former glory. Chris could hear the sounds of the mercenary lurking inside, scuttling through the ruins like a rat.

Standing there with the ball of glowing flame still in his palm, the chef no longer cared about staying out of the enemy’s grips. If it came to close combat, he was confident in his abilities to put of a fight, unarmed or otherwise. After all, he was a skilled brawler with skills honed in the unforgiving world of violent pubs. Sure, a sword was different from a knife or a barstool, but he would have to manage. All this maneuvering was giving him a headache.

[Xeraph]

In the gloomy, dilapidated house that he had used to escape the fireballs, Xeraph straightened after negotiating a particularly tight gap between two pillars and the far wall. It had not been the most comfortable move, but he had managed it. With his sword in one hand, he crept towards the door that led outside to a side-street.

After the darkness of the building, the light outside was almost blinding, He shielded his eyes for a moment with his free hand, and looked around for his opponent. In truth, he was disappointed in his foe, who had not sought to chase him down and finish this bout. Dangerous certainly… but lazy into the bargain he thought, making as if to step onto the main street once more but stopped himself. It had just dawned on him that he could not see where the other man had gone, let alone where he might be. No sense in rushing headlong straight away.

Pressing his back to the wall, he slithered along until he was almost level with the corner. He crouched down in order to minimise his profile and then, with great care, took a look around the wall, his eye casting around for some sign of this pyromancer, as Xeraph thought of him. He spotted him almost instantly, leaning with his back against a wall some thirty yards down the street, a fireball smoking in his palm. Frowning, Xeraph withdrew his head once more, and taking a stick in his free hand, scratched a rough street plan into the dirt.

“Hmm,” he said in no-one to particular, “Only one real option left to me, it would seem.”

Defending himself hadn’t worked, hiding and hoping that the enemy would follow hadn’t worked, and not that he had honestly expected it would, but innovation was the name of the game. It would seem, therefore, that the only option left was also the most foolhardy – a simple charge. To Xeraph, a man of more refined combat, it seemed brash and coarse… insane almost. A slight grin covered his features as he remembered a comment he had once heard in a bar;

“You’re mad!”

“If I wasn’t, this would probably never work.”

He smiled to himself once more, and then took a deep breath. Both hands clutched the sword, and he spun round the corner, running headlong towards his opponent. Now, he had to rely on quick wits and even quicker feet to avoid that fire and reach his target.

[Christoph]

For it is precisely when a force has fallen into harm's way that is capable of striking a blow for victory.

~Sun Tzu


Chris yawned as he slouched in the street. For a few moments, he had been able to hear the faint scuffling of his opponent lurking through the ruins like a rodent. This noise faded quickly, though; the mercenary knew how to move quietly, at least. Still, the weary, impatient chef was growing bored. He would never be able to leave this place at the the rate in which they were going. Granted, he only had himself to blame as the source of that particular complaint, since he could have easily pursued the fleeing warrior into the shadows. That is, if he’d wanted to lose the fight right then. Chasing an enemy into a defensible position was just plain stupid, for lack of a better way of describing it.

Another minute passed. Christopher sighed and began tapping his foot like a man waiting to see a busy physician. He wished that that was what he was doing. He could feel his fever creeping up again now that he was immobile. Or perhaps it was the strain of maintaining his fireball. Normally, such a feet was not strenuous at all. Unfortunately, he’d spent two weeks in a cold cell with little food. In such a weakened state, it didn’t take much to drain him. Yet, letting his guard down could be disastrous. Indeed, he’d fought armed men with his bare hands in many a pub. Of course, his foes in such instances were usually drunk. Against a sober swordsman, the chef needed any advantage that his magic could allow him.

Finally, the patter and grinding of shoes against crumbling cobble caught the chef’s attention. He jerked his head to the left. The mercenary was charging at him headlong, sword clutched in his hands. Christopher’s first instinct was to hurl his fireball at the oncoming threat. He forced himself into restraint, though. He could feel his energy draining; it was unlikely that he would be able to summon any more fire. This meant that he would only have one shot before the bout turned into a desperate grapple... or until it ended with chef body parts lying on the street. Let’s avoid that one, shall we?

Chris steadied himself against his approaching opponent. His head swam in a feverish river, but he forced himself to ignore it. He felt around the broken cobbled street with his left foot until he found a loose piece. It was about the size of a beer mug. Perfect. Many times in his home town tavern, kicked such glass mugs from the floor into an attacker’s face. There was no reason that it couldn’t work here, with the chunk of stone and mortar. And that was exactly what he did. Waiting until the mercenary was a mere ten feet away, Chris kicked the chunk of street with a perfect balance of force and finesse, sending it flying directly at the swordsman’s head. Simultaneously, he hurled his fireball at his target’s torso while crouching slightly, preparing to meet his foe.

[Xeraph]

Xeraph saw none of this plan, so focused was he on striking his target. However, as he charged, everything seemed to slow down. He was aware of the beating of his own heart, thudding away in his chest. His breathing seemed to slow; great gulps of air entering his lungs. The crunch of the cobbles and gravel underneath his boots drifted on the wind to his ears, each footfall making a distinct ‘thud’ as it hit the ground. The sword seemed to hum in the air as he brought it to bear, both hands gripping the hilt. His knuckles, even though he could not see them, had turned white with the pressure he exerted.

Yet, there was something odd, his eyes noticed that much. It wasn’t until he was ten feet away that he realised the danger, too late. The chunk of masonry, almost the size of a human fist, flew at his head with surprising accuracy. He instinctively tried to duck beneath it, his attention drawn away from his opponent for a split second, enough for the fireball to be launched. Wincing, he felt the chunk collide with the side of his head, the dull throbbing telling him that he had been too slow. And yet, compared to what he felt next , it was nothing.

The fireball struck him square in the chest, over the right pectoral muscle. At once, everything seemed to just stop for Xeraph Tollan. His eyes opened wide with shock, anger… even fear. He had never faced off against a mage before, much less been struck with fire at point blank range. The force of the fireball was enough to knock him off his feet, and he collapsed to the floor. Somehow, through the pain, he managed to retain the presence of mind to roll, putting out the flames. But the damage was done at least. A smoking hole had appeared in his leather armour, along with the clothing beneath it. The skin, though it didn’t yet appear to be broken, was clearly heavily burnt, blisters already starting to form.

He rolled a few feet, enough to put the flames out, and then stopped himself. Placing the point of his sword firmly onto the ground, he hauled himself up, taking care not to place strain on the muscle more than he could. The grimace on his face said all that needed to be said about his physical condition, and yet he stood there, albeit wavering slightly on the spot. With his left hand, the weaker of the two, he grasped the hilt of the sword and lifted it. Once more, he advanced, but he no longer ran, but seemed to almost stagger towards his enemy. His vision swam, making it difficult to see where he was going, but he continued to come forward, sword raised for an attack.

[Christoph]

“Amid the turmoil and tumult of battle, there may be seeming disorder and yet no real disorder at all; amid confusion and chaos, your array may be without head or tail, yet it will be proof against defeat.

~Sun Tzu


Christopher caught psychologically off-guard by a mixture of being impressed and being alarmed. It was a notable feet to take a chunk of brick to the face and a fireball to the chest and continue forward. That also meant, however, that the battle wasn’t over because the mercenary with the ironic sense of honor was still charging. On the bright, his attack had given him the advantage. That is, he possessed as much the finest advantage that an exhausted, unarmed man could acquire in such a situation.

Five paces.

His limited magical energies had been expended; any further use of them could be disastrous. The hard part of the bout was about to begin. Naturally, it was at that exact moment that Chris began to question why he was even going to bother putting up a fight; as he’d already told himself an anyone else who would listen, he had no desire to be there. He had little to lose by just giving up and letting the mercenary run him through.

Actually, on second thought, he would be giving up the satisfaction of making the swordsman pay for his annoying and time-wasting sense of honor. Plus, Chris never quite liked the man’s tone. Yes, he would continue fighting out of spite. It was hardly a stunning, dynamic motivational factor, but it would work as well as anything. Then, of course, there was the most important reason of all for fighting on: it actually looked like he could win. Despite the look of shock that had intentionally been left on his face, Chris’s mind was clear. It was his ability to keep his head while other men would panic that had kept the chef alive in many perilous situations.

Two Paces.

His foe was unbalanced and lurched forward in a drunken manner. Despite that, a sharp sword was still a sharp sword. Chris waited for the perfect moment, knowing that timing was the difference between victory and defeat, glory and shame, and life and death. The sword raised to strike, prepared to cleave flesh and bone. The chef and veteran brawler crouched and darted forward into the mercenary, grabbing at both of the man’s wrists from below before pushing upward and driving his knee at the swordsman’s stomach.

[Xeraph]

Xeraph struggled to see through the haze of pain that had settled on his vision, his breath coming hard. Even as the stars seemed to clear, tiny black spots began to imprint themselves onto his vision, the beginnings of asphyxiation. He knew it well, having come close to drowning at least once in his life. It worried him, but he wasn’t as conscious of it as he should have been.

Part of his brain, the tiny part that governed his survival instinct, spoke to him, asking him why he should continue to fight this fight. As far as his body was concerned, it was essentially over. He was hurt, almost unable to stand without leaning on the wall, and could barely see his opponent. As such, he had no idea what the hell was going, in blunt terms.

As the muscled mass of the chef struck him in the stomach, the bone of the knee-cap sinking into his gut, he almost doubled up. Yet, his years spent in the wild, and just fighting in general had done more than improve his muscle tone. His natural instinct had been woken from the slumber enforced on it by his previous lifestyle, and even as he doubled up, he took advantage of one thing – he knew he was stronger than this chef, and even though both of his wrists were being held, he brought the hilt of his sword down onto the back of his opponent’s head. He may not be able to kill with the blade, but very few can take a blow like that and continue standing.

Silently, he prayed that he hit the target. If not, this fight was over.

[Christoph]

Thus one who is skillful at keeping the enemy on the move maintains deceitful appearances, according to which the enemy will act.

~Sun Tzu


Chris was quite surprised that his counter-charge hit its mark so successfully. He felt the hot breath of his adversary wash over his face like a slash of rancid water as his knee forced the air from the warrior’s lungs. His foe faltered for a moment from the force of the blow, but immediately attempted a counter-attack with the predictably forceful, clumsy desperation of a cornered animal.

The combination of his opponent’s moderately superior strength and Chris’s feverish feebleness would have been enough to do the chef in had their positions not given him a significant advantage in both momentum and leverage. Despite this, the mercenary had decided to go with the one maneuver that would force him to fight against both of these factors. Perhaps it was his foe’s disoriented state that caused him to resort to such an inefficient move.

Chris was below his opponent’s sword, driving up with the momentum of his charge. If he’d wanted to, he could have struggled against the mercenary’s downward strike, keeping the bottom of the sword’s hilt from impacting his head with any considerable force. Weaker or not, the chef was in a position to bring more of his strength to bear than his foe could. Of course, that would have taken effort; it would have taken far more effort than the exhausted chef had any desire to put forth. Unlike his foe, Chris liked to take the metaphorical path of least resistance when it came to fighting.

For this reason, when it came down to the mercenary struggling against Chris’s momentum to bring the hilt of his sword down on the chef’s skull, he let the counter force do the work for him. Stepping to the side, he kept a grip on his foe’s wrists as he took another step forward. He spun to his right as he passed, pulling the swordsman’s arms down and yanking them in the direction the man was facing, mustering every ounce of force available.

When he finally let go, he staggered a few steps, his feverish head swimming in a pool of delirium. Throwing around magical fireballs while standing still was one thing; fully exerting oneself while grappling with an armed foe was something else entirely. He clenched his teeth as his head pounded as though he’d been hit with the flying chunk of masonry instead of his opponent. He gasped for air and doubled over, feeling suddenly winded. This was only made worse as the chef began coughing furiously. Normally, such a brief scuffle wouldn’t have affected him so, but he wasn’t healthy. Chris knew that he had left himself defenseless, and even though logic told him that his adversary was probably worse for wear than he was, the chef found himself expecting the cold, sharp kiss of his enemy’s sword on his neck at any moment.

Not that it mattered, of course. He'd never wanted to fight this duel in the first place.

[Xeraph]

Through the delirium that afflicted him, Xeraph was vaguely aware that all was not going to plan. His strike had been clumsy, immensely so, and now it left him at the disadvantage. He knew himself to be the stronger of the two, but the chef had proved to be more resourceful than he had initially been given credit for.

As his wrists were yanked down, he felt his footing falter as he was spun around, his opponent still grasping his wrists. He fell to his knees, which scraped roughly in the dirt and broken flagstones. He grimaced as pain shot through him – even if he somehow managed to win this fight, he was in no doubt that his body was seriously damaged, perhaps beyond repair. There was nothing for it – his hands were held tightly, and he could not move them to bring his steel to bear. He was left with only the single option, the basest option available to him at this desperate hour. Even as he was dragged forward, he somehow managed to find his footing on the rough ground beneath him.

He shook his head as he rose, trying to clear his vision so as to make this strike count. If he could not, then this fight was done… it was his last chance. He deliberately stumbled forward as his opponent pulled him, and as he did so, his foot swung forward, the aim true for his opponent’s groin area.

Please… please…

[Christoph]

Chris calmed his painful fit of dry coughs. His chest was burning and had a texture that felt remarkably similar to the rough cobbled road that was now coated with the blood he’d hacked up. The chef straightened his posture without incident. No blade had struck his neck, no metallic point had pierced his back, and no blunt hilt had crushed his skull. Was it possible that his opponent was down? He allowed himself to give a sigh of relief.

It was only when he heard the telltale scuffling behind him did he realize the mistake that he’d made. As if to accent this grim realization, an explosion of excruciating agony electrocuted his entire body as his opponent’s foot struck soundly between Chris’s legs. His throat made an effort to cry out, but only a horse crackle came. His entire body stiffened and refused to move. The fire-like burning in his lungs seemed like a mild itch in comparison to what was possibly the most extreme agony that had ever gripped him.

Finally, Chris crumbled to the ground, landing face down with a humiliating whimper. He had been so close to victory, against all the terrible odds that seemed plague is existence, and one swift kick had left him helpless and in unbearable pain. The only mercy he was to receive was the cold bite of his opponent’s sword, stabbing through his back and into his heart, drowning away the pain in a sea of blackness.

* * * * *

Chris awoke with an array of colors dancing across his eyes and immediately realized that he was in the healing room once again. He felt the same cold marble against his back. This time, however, his head was still pounding like war drum inside his skull. The chef remembered a monk once mentioning that bringing a fighter back from death could leave aftereffects like that. A quick check between his legs assured him that everything seemed to have been repaired properly. He gave a sigh of relief.

The chamber was just as it had been the last time he was there, after the epic battle in the flooded arena. It was a vast, open area with a volume that Chris couldn’t even guess at. The entire chamber was built from sparkling, polished granite and pure white marble. Massive stained-glass windows dominated the wall to his left. Colorful and breathtakingly vivid depictions of mighty warriors, noble crests, and epic battles filled them. The amazing designs caught the sunlight, sending a flood of color across the stone pillars and intricately carved statues that dotted the chamber. It was no less awe-inspiring than it had been the last time he’d seen it.

Christopher barely had the time to sit up when he felt two pairs of strong hands grab his arms. He recognized the men that they belonged to as being a pair of the city guards serving under Williams.

“I hope you had fun,” said one with a mocking smile on his face. The pair began to drag the chef off again. Chris was too exhausted to struggle. He felt nothing but frustration and hopelessness. After all his defiance, he’d fought anyway, and he didn’t even gain the satisfaction of being so victorious. He had been so close, but it had been snatched away from him like a rich man’s purse in a crowded market.

It was all so unfair. But, alas…

Such is the art of war.

~Sun Tzu, the Art of War.

[Xeraph]

Xeraph’s sword had swung forward in a clumsy thrust as his foot had collided with his opponent’s genitals. A blinding burst of pain had shot through his skull, white light that had nothing to do with achieving bliss blinding him to the end result of his strike. The fingers that had clung so tightly to the hilt loosened their grip, his footing betrayed him and the cobblestones rushed up to meet him.

The crunch was solid, the herald of a broken nose, and the blood began to flow slowly onto the ground around his face. Dimly, deep inside his mind, Xeraph heard his opponent collapse to the floor nearby, the steel of his sword clattering as it did so…

* * * * *

Something had woken him, he knew that. The marble was cold against his back, even through the multiple layers of fabric separating him from it. His head hurt like hell, as it felt when he had too much ale in a single night, too quickly. Reasoning and cold logic led him to assume that it was because he’d been struck on the head multiple time. Keeping his eyes closed, he lay there a moment, listening to the noises around him, trying to locate the one that had woken him.

The sounds of scuffling, the distinctive sound of someone being dragged from the room, forced him to open his eyes. He regretted it almost instantly, so bright and vivid was the light to him, and he had to squint until his pupils had adjusted. Raising his head slightly, he momentarily ignored the obscene splendour of the healing chambers, his eyes focused on the opponent. He’s a prisoner?

The guards seemed to confirm this assumption, and suddenly Xeraph understood why his opponent had seemed so reluctant to fight him, because he wasn’t there by choice. He’d been forced there… for their entertainment! The very thought of it sickened him to the very core, and he resolved himself to find out who this man was, and to see what he could do for him. For now though, he lay back, closing his eyes once more. This place reminded him of the home he’d grown up in; cavernous, impersonal, and over-the-top.

A monk approached the prostrate man, carrying a tortoiseshell cat in his arms, “Pardon me, but does this cat belong to you?”

Xeraph opened his eyes again, wincing from the pain in his head, and then smiled thinly, “Yes, she does.”

The monk nodded, leaving Tabitha on the floor next to Xeraph. She didn’t stay there long, jumping easily onto the marble and then settling on his chest. He absent-mindedly stroked her fur as she purred quietly, musing about the battle, and more importantly, what he was going to do next.

[INDK]

Result- Christoph wins. There were a lot of math errors in this, for which I apologize

XERAPH

TOTAL SCORE-64/100

STORY

Continuity- The problem I have here is not as much that you weren’t providing information, but that you weren’t providing information that I cared about early on. You did a pretty good job in explaining to me why you’d come to the Citadel, my only problem was it seemed a bit generic. In general, a good battle starts out with a reason for the reader to care. However, your backstory improved as the thread went on. 7

Setting- I liked the way that you used your descriptions of physical setting as ways of also getting at the character’s persona. There were a lot of these subtle moments that gave me sufficient backstory to know who your character was, without having to resort to long descriptions that would have cut in to the thread. 6

Pacing- Very good. Battles are a bit harder to pace than some other threads, simply because you’re partially held hostage to the other character’s desire. However, both of you did a great job in this battle. There was the feeling out period, followed by some initial bloodletting and then work towards an action packed climax. Well done both of you. 9

CHARACTER-

Dialogue- Dialogue is more than going for the witty catch phrase all the time. It seemed that you saw your dialogue as something self contained, that instead of working to make it fit within a larger whole of the story you were telling, you wanted to go for as many cool one liners as you could. I’m not saying snappy dialogue is bad, it isn’t. The thing is, you want to use it more judiciously. Also, while you were going for one liners, you weren’t telling me as much about the story or your character as you could. 5

Action- Be careful with regards to what you know as a writer as opposed to what your character should know. Early on, you told Christoph he couldn’t leave until you killed him. How did you know he couldn’t just run and leave? Otherwise, I don’t really have many issues here. 5

Persona- I’m not sure how I felt about this. You gave me lots of bits and pieces as to who Xeraph was, but they didn’t really fit well together. Perhaps it was your intention to make him a bit enigmatic, and if so, you’re on the right track. Otherwise, try to see that the details that you give me about your character fit in with what you are doing. 6

WRITING STYLE-

Mechanics- No real complaints here. I generally award high marks in this category if I can’t find any glaring issues. 8

Technique- You could have definitely been a bit more adventurous here with your use of the English language. 2

Clarity- This was good for the most part. The thread read over quite well. 7

WILD CARD- The conclusion was very clever. The extra points here are to reward you for that, because I feel I didn’t capture your creativity well anywhere else. 9/10


CHRISTOPH

TOTAL SCORE-72

STORY-

Continuity- Great start, the ending let me a bit disappointed. You did a great job in the introduction teasing a very interesting plot as to why Christoph was in the Citadel, and I would have liked to have seen a little more progress in that story at the end. To your credit, you tied up the loose ends, so I shouldn’t be too harsh, but I really feel that you could have ended this better based on where you began. 7

Setting- Very creative. I really liked the way you brought your character into this. I would have liked a bit more description of things around you if you could have found a way to work them in well. As it is, it is better you didn’t force any physical setting in for its own sake, but at the same time, doing it well could have helped you. 8

Pacing- See Xeraph’s comment. 9

CHARACTER-

Dialogue- Excellent use of dialogue, both to express Chris’ exasperation with the setting, and as strategy to get what Chris wanted. 8

Action- I liked the way Chris made his somewhat lame fireballs seem like a big deal here in order to get Xeraph involved. 8

Persona- To an extent, I think you need to work on his battle motivation. You do very well on your character’s outward persona, but you do not catalogue his emotions the same way. 6

WRITING STYLE-

Mechanics- See Xeraph. 8

Technique- Be careful about the way you use hyperbole. This gets at clarity as well, but when you were describing Chris’ condition, it was hard to tell sometimes where you were exaggerating for effect and where you were trying to be accurate. Also, with regards to the use of Sun Tzu, I didn’t feel as if a lot of your quotes synched up with your strategy. That was problematic. 4

Clarity- Issues in technique not withstanding, I didn’t have any problems here. 6

WILD CARD- I really enjoy what you’re doing with this series of battles. 8/10

Rewards=

Christoph receives 1280 EXP and 50 GP
Xeraph receives 360 EXP and 50 GP

Sorry for the mistakes in the math guys.

[Letho]

EXP and corrected GP added! Cristoph, welcome to the next level.