Healing New Wounds (Closed)

[Sword-for-Hire]

((Closed.))

The sky was a pale blue with soft brushes of white billowy puffs floating around. The air was cool and the birds were singing from the rustling trees that dotted the tracked in dirt road into Corone. It was a beautiful day and Oberon would’ve loved to absorb the nature around him. To just sit under an old oak or young willow and bask in its shade while watching the sky change before his eyes as he let the hours pass by in no particular rush.

He was however in much of a rush, and the time for leisure was not something he could afford. The early afternoon would soon be early dusk by the time he reached his destination: The Citadel. His first adventures had started in this region and he felt drawn to it now that he was out of clues. He had no leads on the Hell Reapers, demons that looked like red elves, and the Grey Braves, his former clan, was in ruin. Rather than turn to a pub for shady information, he felt it would be better to try his luck with this warriors and journeyman that often visited the Citadel, whether it was for glory or just to say, “Hey! I was there!”

Oberon stopped along side an aging oak and arranged himself so that his next two hour walk would not be so tiresome. His delyn great sword on his back did get heavy after a long trek, and now he wished he would’ve considered buying a horse back at the last town. “Oh well…” he muttered to the birds, “I guess I could use the exercise.”

***
He coughed a bit as he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. The sun was still very much out, since he had jogged part of the way from a sudden feeling in his gut. He was a man of instinct rather than facts. He left his gut to the decisions when nothing solid was in front of his face. This was the only reason he was breathing so hard in front of the massive structure a whole hour early. “What…is….it?” He drew in a deep breath and held it in as he stood up straight, forcing his muscles to stretch before they started to cramp up.

“Hey there, sir!”

Oberon looked in the direction casually as he saw a small boy of about ten or so running up to him. He was modestly dressed; no patches or holes in his pants or shirt, but he wasn’t in a wealthy family either. His shimmering blue eyes gave the warrior the impression that he had seen his fair share of hardships, but was a fighter. He had a bit of dirt on his left cheek, but it seemed fresh, as if he had just gotten done wrestling with a friend.

“Yea?” Oberon replied as he took his great sword off his back and sank its edge into the dirt.

“Whoa!!!” The boy exclaimed. “You’re strong!” Oberon nodded with a small smile. “Can you teach me to do that?!”

Oberon laughed lightly as he took a knee and rested a hand on the child’s shoulder, “How about you tell me your name first, kid.”
“R-right!” He stammered. “I’m Josh! And you’re Oberon!”

The moon reaper blinked. “How’d you know my name?”

“Well, ‘cause Beowulf told me!”

Oberon felt a chill run through his spine. How did this kid know his recently dead friend? And why hadn’t Beowulf contacted him? He’d done so once before from the spirit realm. Was he in trouble?

Oberon narrowed his eyes, “How-“

“And he said to meet him in there!” The boy pointed a small finger towards the large doors that led into the Citadel’s main room. Oberon could feel goose bumps on his skin as his mismatched eyes studied the doors as if he’d never seen them before. Tearing them away, he went to look at the boy…but he was gone. No tracks. No dust. Nothing. It was as if he’d never been there.

“What in the hell…” He muttered.

***

“Right this way,” the monk said as he stepped carefully through the corridor. His hollow footsteps bounced repeatedly off the walls, adding to the eeriness of the flickering flames that lit the dark hallway. Oberon had never seen this part of the Citadel before. But then again, this place never ceased to amaze him.

“And this would be it. Enjoy your fight.” With that, the monk left the moon reaper standing before a steel wrought door with a plain steel bar handle. He gulped as he placed his slightly shaky fingers around the cold metal.

The monk at the desk had told him a battle for Oberon had been reserved by an unknown person, but his opponent’s name was “Beowulf”. It doesn’t make any sense… he thought as he tightened his muscles to open the door.

It was a trap. It had to be; there was no other option. Beowulf was worm food and that’s all there was to it. The dead stayed dead and the living kept on fighting.

But who would try to do this?

He opened the door firmly and stepped through, ready for whatever the room was set too.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” He muttered as he reached for his great sword. He would either need to have it at the ready or chuck it off to give him more speed. The arena was the very place he and Beowulf had fought. The place he had found out about his True Form.

He was on top of a mountain with a large hundred by hundred yard arena style steel floor. The clouds were so thick, not a drop of moonshine could slither through. This time around, the ground was littered with obstacles like jutting steel blocks, building-like boxes with two stories on them, but with no walls, just stairs and floors and a ceiling that was supported by nothing, and various other metal anomalies that didn’t seem to make any sense being there.

Off in the distance thunder rolled along the clouds, shaking Oberon to his core. The mood was dark. So dark, Oberon’s heart was being consumed.

Why…did…you….kill….me….?

The moon reaper spun on his heel, brandishing his great sword high in the air, ready to drop it on the skull of his attacker. But no one was there. “Show yourself! Fight me!!...Fight me…,” he said to no one at all.

[Ranger]

“…and then what?”

“As soon as the zombies were defeated, and the biggest one that had emerged from the crypt had fallen, the illusion was dropped. I could not believe the strength in my opponent, who had oddly enough become my ally in the battle. What had started as a simple fight had turned into something different, something more solid. Though I had not been able to fight Oberon I had learned about him, and what I saw for him was an interesting future path.”

The elder drow ruffled the hair of the small boy before him. The golden mop of hair danced atop his head and his bright blue eyes were alight. Ranger allowed his own platinum eyes to fall on the boy, looking over him with a mute sense of fascination. A human child, so small and so fragile, yet he had been entrusted to the prophet. Such a task as watching the human would have been near impossible so long ago, such hatred and loathing for the puzzling race that Ranger had once harbored.

With time and much experience in the world of Althanas previous discrepancy and contempt had been all but forgotten by the drow. His life had been changed, transformed, and Ranger was a prophet of the Thayne. Many, including himself, called him The Sage after his rebirth into the path of prophecy. But such a matter meant little. Now he was a careful and loving person, no more depression rested in his heart, no more antipathy or disgust for society weighed down his soul.

“Then what Sage?” The boy seemed to never tire of stories. Anything for entertainment, and he did not appear to be alone anymore. Ranger caught at least five more pairs of eyes that had joined sometime during his story – reminiscing – about battles nearly forgot. But there was a continuation of the story. There was another meeting between himself and Oberon. “Did you ever see the man again?”

The boy knew what questions to ask, that was for sure. “Actually yes, and the meeting was on a field I had seen before while fighting another drow named Hikari… but that is a story for some other time. The next time we met was again in the Citadel but this time he had been the one to open the arena and set the stage…”
~*~

The air was cold, not in a physical sense but in a paranormal sense. Things were not right on the field, something dark and enigmatic was beneath the surface of the illusion. The sky was thick with clouds; the moon may have been out, may have not either way it was impossible to tell. In the backdrop thunder reported the possibility of a thunderstorm on top of everything. A quiet wind whispered its dark secrets and cryptic messages. It was drifting from the opposite way of the clouds, not quickly but enough to be the harbinger of the storms approach.

I tossed my silver locks over my shoulder, hoping they would stay out of the way while I fought. In my hands was clenched tightly my titanium monks spade, it smooth oak shaft worn perfectly for my hands. Even with the lack of light the blade’s luster seemed to smirk with the knowledge of an impending battle. The arena was just as downcast as the scenery. The base of the arena was comprised of steel, my eyes were sharp enough to call out any metal upon sight alone – many years of mining can do that though. But scattered across it was a litter of metallic obstructions from something as simple as a box to something as unique as a sphere that was nothing more then a hollow shell.

With the clouds looming overhead, thunder rolling in the background, and a heavy flat surface on the peak of a mountain I was instantly reminded of my fight with Hikari in the Theater of War. That thought lingered in the back of my mind as I stepped away from the place of entrance that the door had opened too. My first steps were slow, deliberate. I could see the black hair with its green streaks of my opponent, and instantly I knew who he was.

“Oberon.”

My whisper was so faint I barely even heard it. My feet carried me further, and a sense of apprehension and a question of why I had taken it upon myself to enter the battle suddenly rose. I ducked behind a large blackened steel box, dropping my pole-arm as to conceal it also behind the barrier. The human, or human last I knew, spun. I heard the heels of his boots scraping against the dark steel floor. Luckily I had already been hidden. It had been a long while since last we had met, but over time he had aged none and I did not doubt his power had increased with the lapse in time.

He sounded on edge, his tone was dragged out. I felt the same sense of darkness that he undoubtedly felt. But I had transcended the need to feel fear, to accept fear. My only lords were the Thayne and through them I was given my strength of mind and the peace of my soul. With my mind and body stilled and calmed I rose, my eyes finding the counterparts of my opponent.

“Oberon,” I repeated, slowly and loud enough for my words to rise above the growling thunder. A small flash of light, even further off then the thunder, was caught in the corner of my eye. Lightning of all things, as if the setting was not already ominous enough.

[Sword-for-Hire]

A cold sweat was running down Oberon’s back. He could almost taste his enemy in the air. Licking his lips in anticipation of a sudden attack, something rose from behind one of the boxes. For a split second of a moment, he could have sworn on his very life that he had seen the face of a drow he had met before, a fighter named Ranger. But when his eyes adjusted to the shadows that contorted the man’s face…he saw Beowulf.

No…

The face of the dark elf was lined with deep bloody wounds. His eyes were a pale gray, no pupils visible at all. His body was dressed in heavy dark mythril plate mail armor and he lurched forward towards Oberon as if something were disrupting his stride. In his left hand he held a large pole-arm which was covered in dry and fresh blood. Small drips fell to the floor like little bombs, exploding in his ears like the very thunder that bellowed above him.

“No! You’re not Beowulf!” Oberon roared.

“Ooooh but he issss…don’t deny that you put your life before hiissss Oooooberrrronnnn….”

The voice seemed to come from within his mind, raping the only sanctuary he had left for himself. He could feel the cold, slithery words bouncing around his head, as if they had been there all along, just laying dormant, waiting for the right time to awaken and drive him to the edge of insanity. I had too….I had to kill him…I couldn’t let him live like that…

“Whooo are you to deciiide someone’sssss faaaate?” The voice’s words were sharp and twisted. Oberon could feel the sick pleasure it was getting from all of this, “I recaaallll Beowulffff saying that youuu would saaaaave himmmm. Thaaat youuu’d neeevvvverrrrr lettt himmm diiiiie……” The voice broke into a gritty cackle that stung Oberon to the bone. Could Beowulf have really said that? Or was he lying?

“You…let….me….die…” The figure said weakly.

“No…no I didn’t…I’d never…” Oberon wheezed.

Suddenly, the figure fizzled back into Ranger, for only a second though. Oberon blinked, his sadness replaced by rage. What was going on? Why was he seeing two different people? And who was that voice?

“If you’re really Beowulf….then prove it!” He growled as he lunged forward, his great sword following him by his side. He swiped in an upward angle diagonal slash, aiming to slice the apparition in two. He’d defeat this phantom and find out who was behind all this treachery.

[Ranger]

Beowulf?

The name was unknown to me. Whoever he was the fear of the Thayne was flashing through the alarmed eyes of my opponent. An overflow of terror was spilling from my opponent. The terror came like waves, lapping against my conscious and threatening to slip into my personal serenity. Suddenly my choice to enter the battlefield seemed to be the worst idea I had ever made.

He is suffering It was my only thought. The pain that flashed behind his eyes was as vibrant as the lightning that was drawing towards our place of battle. Oberon’s suffering was something of a new, somewhat macabre, twist to the magic of The Citadel. For whatever cruel reason, whatever sick pleasure that the monks were taking from the scene they created, I could feel nothing but remorse.

“Oberon,” I tried again. My voice was quiet, the tone as cold as the winds that were picking up all around me. Overhead the thick clouds were rolling towards where we stood. Heavily they floated towards us, pregnant with rain and crying with pain. It too was looking for relief. A pure sheet of rain was moving with the clouds. It looked like a white wall of water, as solid as stone but closing with every second. Lightning flashed through and the nearer it came the less time between the roll of thunder and flashes of light.

“Oberon, you are seeing Ranger. This is not the one called Beowulf that you are speaking of. Try to see clearly…” The attempt was beyond futile though. Instead of what I had said he heard something else. Perhaps he had heard whatever the figure of his past I was exemplifying would say, whatever cruel accusations he could conceive. Perhaps the words did not even translate… whatever the case he responded.

His tone was as struck as his very visage. Every word seemed choked out. Incoherence overtook the once powerful warrior and subjugated him into something close to a whimpering child. His tone of strength was gone, his patience was waning in his eyes, and it would have been a matter of moments before whatever I was representing would undoubtedly taunt him. It was the Citadel after all. The monks of Ai’Bron were caretakers of a rather twisted sport, the watchers and overseers of one of the most perverted buildings in all of Althanas.

No matter what people may say, I still believe the Ai’Bron should have been punished for what they did to Oberon. I knew there was no option but to fight, whether they gave me my own face or the face of another. With my spade held loosely and my guard set I waited. My time was not ill-spent either.

The human called for me to prove who I was, prove that I was this ‘Beowulf’ person. I am not this person! It is only an illusion before you! The thoughts were accompanied by many more. Some where of redemption and benevolence for a tortured mind, others were of scorn and malice upon an already afflicted soul. Obviously the man before me had been through some tribulations since we had last met, but the Ai’Bron were only making it worse.

As soon as the greatsword of my opponent shifted towards me I spun the titanium head of my spade. Its broad head struck the center of the wide side, giving me enough room to dodge away. A counter attack would have been easy to toss towards the man. Instead I chose the higher path and ducked away from my misguided foe. Oberon needed to see me for my true self before I could feel anything but sorrow at taking advantage of him. I moved away from the man, trying to give him room, trying to allow him to think for himself.

Beneath my feet the steel obstacles were like a minuscule forest. Where the large ones were not blocking our paths small ones were obstructing our steps. I glided around those like a ghost, graceful as I could be and stepping as softly as any elf could ever claim. All the while my silver eyes never left my opponent, the monks spade continued to spin, and I prepared for another attack.

[Sword-for-Hire]

Oberon’s attack was easily blocked by the form of Beowulf. It bounded off away from him, taunting all the way. Above them the thunder grew, rampaging his ears without mercy. Lightning was erupting around the mountain so frequently it was when it ceased that Oberon took notice of its absence. The deadly arches of energy were beating the rock cliffs into submission, sending clouds of smoke all around the dirt hills. From afar, the moon reaper could see the rain. It was rolling slowly along the obese, dull gray clouds, inching its way towards the mountain top.

Oberon regained his stance and stared at the figure. It was definitely strange. The real Beowulf would’ve issued a counterattack from such a sloppy strike. Eyeing his prey closely, he was surprised to see two Beowulf’s standing side by side. Then there were three. And four. Before a quarter of a minute had passed, almost two dozen Beowulf’s had circled him, all eyes locked on him, grim as the face of Death himself. The Lightning silhouetted their figures over and over, confusing him as to who was his original target.

What…what is this?!

***
Do not interfere!!!

Fool! Do you really think we’d stand by idly and watch you destroy one of our own!? Not even the magic of the Ai’Bron monks can keep us from accomplishing our goal!

If you insist on this, then I shall take things further than you can ever expect!

***

Oberon blinked the sweat from his eyes and wheezed the air in slowly through his chapped lips. The Beowulfs were each spinning there weapons, as if readying for an attack. “No you won’t!” He roared as he leapt onto the side of a triangular steel block and shoved himself in the direction of one of the shadows. He brought his blade down quickly, slicing through the image as if it were nothing more than a shadow…since that’s exactly what it was; the form quivered like a calm pond would ripple from the soft kiss of a newly fallen leaf. And without any retaliation, it dissipated into nothingness. “Argggghhhh!!!” He struck again and again, decapitating, dismembering and skewering Beowulf after Beowulf, leaping from distorted steel blocks and avoiding the smaller trap-like blotches of pointed edges that lay between the bigger forms. He struck every image down until only one remained…not more than twenty feet from him.

As he finished his last swing, he brought his great sword high above his head, the heavy blade burning his muscles as he began to spin it over and over horizontally with both hands. “Die!!!!” He screamed as he released the rapidly spinning blade like one giant spear towards the final image of the grim dark elf.

[Ranger]

Whoever Beowulf was I was beginning to believe Oberon was seeing him instead of me. Though the idea was odd it made sense. Why else would the man be calling out at me and challenging Beowulf? Why else would the man be attacking me without giving any heed or recognition to me? Unless this was only an image of Oberon, and the true person behind the illusion was seeing someone named Beowulf. The idea suddenly scared me. Inside that sweet serenity a sudden freeze turned my breath to ice.

If I was seeing only an illusion that meant that who I was fighting could be anyone. What if it was an old friend? What if it was someone who I knew and had long been absent from? Before my eyes the drow Kazzekhele arose, as did the picture of my son and my wife. If I was fighting someone so close, someone who had been all but lost to me, then the name of the Ai’Bron monks would be cursed forever. They would rue the day they took advantage of their illusions to host such a perverted fight.

Overhead the lightning and thunder had began to sound louder and flash more often. The swell of the clouds had slowly drifted towards the arena, the very edge of it had just began to be flooded with the torrent. As lightning flashed flickering images of another were projected to either side of me. It was a man, a human. Suddenly that chill ran out of my breath and down my sides.

I watched as the flickering illusions brought to life duplicates of the image that was being played over myself. All around this man, this ‘Beowulf’, was projected and waiting. It was a ghastly figure, crossed with fresh and old wounds like. Blood was dried across his weapon, as well as fresh claret drops falling from his exposed skin. From chest to toe, not including his face and head, was armor of the most powerful form—apparently mythril or titanium plate mail. In each of their hand was a weapon akin to my own, a heavy spear, though Beowulf’s own held a thin layer of dried blood and rivulets of new blood trickled down its length.

Within a small amount of time, five strikes of lightning by my count, there were at least twenty or more flickering images of the haunting phantom. Each held the spear; each spun it on edge as I did with my own spade. As soon as I realized that they were doing so I stopped my own, yet the illusion continued. Sweat was beading at the brow of Oberon; pressure was obviously building behind his once vivacious eyes.

From ghoul to ghoul the man leapt, cutting down each farcical illusion at a time. It was as if fate forced him to attack the fake ones first, forced him to wear himself down before the final target would manifest itself. I was that final target. Oberon’s fierce eyes found my own, though in truth I knew it was the pale eyes and decaying face of Beowulf that he was seeing. With a great throw his sword, as big as the ork great-sword Ithermoss kept a as a trophy, was tossed like a spinning stick towards me.

The blade arched end over end. With every stroke of lightning an awe-inspiring glare was cast from the edge of the sword. The distance was plenty of time for me to draw a large shield of pure light from the air, casting the barrier before me as I dodged to the side. It was enough to slow the weapon but not near enough to stop due to both a weaker tier equivalent and a thinner composition.

Even as I struck the ground, small black spikes of steel digging into my arms and legs, I could see the blade strike the shield. It skipped across the rounded surface, a glancing blow that sent the blade arching up high before landing point down into rock. The wicked clouds began to pour down their burden upon us both, instantly soaking my thin white shirt and black pants. I slowly rose from the ground, watching the unstable Oberon who had become weaponless.

Across my arms and legs small openings from the steel had formed, trickles of fresh, thin blood running down my body. The wet surface of my clothing only assisted in spreading it out further, making it seem that much bigger. A lightning bolt split the myself from my opponent, striking the tallest steel obstruction and arching to another before disappearing. In the distance my mind could hear the lapping waves as they violently lapped against the surface of the mountain side, but that was from a different time, a different opponent. “Oberon,” I tried again, my voice drowning out the sound of the waves that was solely from my mind. “Fight it Oberon, fight against the lie of the illusion! You have to beat the illusion and free your mind of the deceptions that the Ai’Bron are forcing you to see.”

In case he did not my spade was held at the ready.

[Sword-for-Hire]

“What…” Oberon started to say as thunder drowned out the rest of his words. He’d heard something. Some distant yell. As if someone was watching the fight and cheering Oberon on. His mismatched eyes locked onto Beowulf, who shimmered again, revealing signs of something underneath. Another flash of Ranger.

What in the….

He reached for his temples, holding them tightly as if his brain was about to suddenly pop out. This was insanity! How could he be seeing an image of Beowulf and then flashes of a completely different person? The moon reaper let his trembling hands fall to his sides limply. His spirit was giving up. It was tired. Beaten into nothingness; he was an empty shell standing up through sheer force of habit. Images of his life back home with Beowulf before this nightmare began blazed past his eyes. They were children, learning the ways of fighting. Then they were teens, using wooden swords and various close combat techniques and beginning to implement strategy into their attacks. Then they were young men. The day they had taken the informal positions as top guards of the village. It wasn’t anything noteworthy of the world…but it had meant everything to the two. Now they had their chance to protect the ones they cared for and they still failed at that.

Would Oberon fail again…this time to protect himself?

***

High above the fight on the mountain top, in a seemingly split world mixed between that of Althanas and some other dimension, a fierce battle between two powerful forces raged above the ignorant combatants. The Sprite of the moon reapers held his ground as the unknown dark and red glowing mass without a shape began another attack.

It had thought it would destroy Oberon from within since all attempts on the outside had failed. No one could help him from destroying himself. Or so he thought. The Sprite had been watching the young moon reaper on Althanas and intervened as soon as he saw what was happening. But this malicious entity was strong. Far stronger than anything he had ever faced off against. He could not beat it, but only hope to aid Oberon in his fight against itself.

“Feel the fury of Hell! Die scum! “ The being hissed. It launched an intensely bright orb of red energy at the Sprite who could only slow it down with a quickly formed blue shield of crystallized energy. The orb shattered through the barrier and struck the elf-like moon reaper in the chest, sending him hurtling somewhere into the shadows of the chaotic realm.

“Now let’s see what you can do without them holding your hand…”

***

Oberon flexed his muscles as he felt something strange begin to happen. The rain was now washing over the arena, drenching both fighters from head to toe. The water was cold and biting, yet Oberon could not feel a thing. His body was numb with fear as he saw the projected image of Beowulf begin to rot right in front of his eyes. Flesh grayed out and fell off his face and lower legs. His clothes and armor became mangled and dirty, as if he’d gotten into a fight with a dragon. One eye was missing and the other was showing signs of wanting to leap of its socket, as if eager to be on its own.

“No! No! This is not Beowulf! I don’t know who this is but I will kill you if I have to prove it!” He roared as he brought his fists to his sides and brought them down hard on either side of him as he used his Arctic Knuckles. Long eight inch spikes of ice protruded out of each knuckle like a gravestone sticking out grimly in a cemetery. The ice was as hard as steel but not nearly as heavy. He tore through the arena, using small pieces of distorted metal to propel him even faster along the slippery slick steel ground. Azure like mist flowed from both his forearms as he closed in on the apparition, sending small waves of sapphire in his wake. He came up under the target with a deadly uppercut followed by a straight shot for the body. He’d gone fast. So fast that if he missed his target…he’d fall off the cliff and never find out who was behind any of this…

[Ranger]

It came in sheets. The water was near horizontal, pounding, and showed little sign of letting up. Under its torrent my opponent and I still remained. It had become hard to see the arena through the wall of white rain, but I knew what steel entrapments awaited my misstep. Before me Oberon had lost more than his sanity, he had lost control. His hands were clutching his temples. His eyes were shut tight, not from the wind and rain but from himself.

Fight it.

The words were no longer audible. They were thoughts, deep within. I could not help it anymore. It was getting to me too. The illusion finally broke through the barrier of hope that I held firm too. The tainted trick of the monks finally shattered my mental resolve. Before me was the flickering image. But there was not one person I hated most, not one person I loved and had let down. Instead they all came.

Like the lightning overhead the images flashed. It was far less impressive a change then the arching lightning, but caught and held me nonetheless. First my wife. Her beautiful brown hair and silver eyes were quiet and cold. Her face was bruised and battered with assault from her own kind after my desertion. “You did this to me,” she called, “I was broken before death because of you!”

Then my son. His face was smooth and noble. His hair was long and of the same auburn coloration as his mother. But his eyes were missing. There were deep pits, bloody and burnt sockets were the silver eyes should have been. No words caught my ears from his open mouth. No verbal accusations rose, but his scared face spoke with more power then words.

But finally, most powerful, was the dark elf Hikari. I had long held the man in such honor, such high prestige, till our belief’s brought us to blade’s point. The man was like I, a dark elf, outcast, wielder of light. He should have been a brother among humanity, a fellow drow among the ocean of society. But an argument, a dishonorable desertion of duty had brought him against me in the Theater of War.

Was the arena any different? With the sheets of rain I could see little difference. I turned my head to seek something to bring me back to reality, instead I found only rain. When my head found its way back I caught sight of the drow. “Hikari,” I mumbled, my teeth grating. The water had suddenly turned ice cold. The sharp winds had turned to bite deep, all the way to the bone. “You abomination.”

He moved. I moved. Light flickered from his hands in the shape of claws. I tossed my spear away and summoned my own divine strength. In my hands were formed twin blades. They were the exact length and size of my elven blades, same type as well, but they were far less weight. Hikari charged. I charged too. I would not find myself at the mercy of the man once again. My blades lit my path, giving light unto my every step.

As the claws slashed awkwardly my blades arched too. The first caught the upward attack. The blade locked with the dagger-like projections. The second lunged forward, aimed near perfectly at the shoulder of the hallucination. Before it could connect the claws pushed deep into the side of my chest, tearing at the skin. It was colder then the rain, bit more harshly then the winds. Suddenly the vision of Hikari was replaced with Oberon again. My barred teeth were covered, as if in shame, in that split second and only a single thought came to mind.

Dear Thayne, what have I done?

[Letho]

This thread has been closed due to inactivity and moved to the Archives. If you wish to reactivate this thread, please PM me or one of the administrators.