Let the Bastards Come and Play

[Call me J]

There wasn’t a single soul out on the street, but all the houses in the area were new, just like one of the newer settlements in Dethain. A few tumble weeds rolled through the vacant street, but other than that, Jame was all alone. The expanse intimidated Jame, especially now in the noontime hours when it should have been the busiest. A slight shiver rolled down Jame’s spine and he shuddered reflexively. He wondered how he had ended up in the Pagoda, a proverbial battle host for any stranger who walked through the door. He had no resume to speak of, and his accomplishments in battle had been limited to the slaying of a few orcs in Salvar.

There he stood in the middle of an empty street after having been invited to serve as a warrior of the Dajas Pagoda. His first challenge had remained anonymous, but the monks had warned him that they had arranged a challenge to test his abilities. He found the entire proposal ludicrous. “Test my abilities at what?” he thought tartly. “How quick I can bleed, how little time it takes me to die…” Unless his opponent turned out to be a kitten or puppy, Jame didn’t fancy his chances.

For a moment, the half dragon contemplated doing something to tip the scales in his favor. Jame didn’t remember anything in particular about this setting, and it was far too open for him to attempt a trap out there in the street. For a moment, Jame considered whether he should move into one of the abandoned houses and find something to throw his opponent when he first arrived.

Had this been a normal Citadel battle, that would have been Jame’s preferred course of action. However, now, since he had been made a master, was a master for whatever reason, he figured assumed he was obligated to follow the rules. If he fought a young adventurer, it wouldn’t be good for him to give off the impression that fairplay had no role in modern warfare. “Even though it doesn’t,” Jame thought cynically. “If war was fair… they’d give this position to someone who deserves it… hell to someone who actually wants it.”

The half dragon exhaled deeply. He took one last look around him. There were a few things around him that looked like they might come in handy. A drinking trough for horses, a pitchfork and a few farm implements scattered along the ground. Either a shotgun or a blunderbuss was hidden in the mattress of a hammock on a porch of a house behind him. Jame didn’t know if the weapon was loaded, and even if it was, Jame didn’t know if he’d have been able to use it. Just the thought that he had the equalizer in case he needed it brought Jame the slightest bit of security, even though he hoped not to have to use it.

“Let’s get this started,” Jame mumbled impatiently. He drew his steel sword The Namesake. It was already glowing to warn it’s owner about the danger he would be facing.
The half dragon cringed when he saw it. The sword was normally silent in battles where the monks were ready to heal the loser. Whoever this challenger was, he was bad news.

He shuddered. The door was about to open.

(The presence of the shotgun was agreed upon by Dan)

[Slayer of the Rot]

Lashes of wind assailed his body, struggling to pull him backwards and throw him to the sea, as he soared high across the coast of Scara Brae. Anyone who would care to look up at the sky would easily make out the presence of the olive cloaked figure in the bright, crisp autumn sunshine as it streaked through the clouds, pulling cotton veins along its rapid path. The speed with which it crossed over into the island nation's borders defined hurry, though it began to slow and descend as it neared the Dajas Pagoda, one hand clinging to the hem of its hood, desperate to keep it from fluttering back and revealing its face. As it drew in to the tower, the figure finally dropped, the passing air pushing aside the flaps of his cloak. The man's heels clicked softly against the cobblestones, and before the dust had time to settle from his descent, he was moving again, past the line of this day's hopeful and directly into the Pagoda.

Inside, the man temporarily known as Kross finally threw back the hood to reveal an expression of disgust. He had given his power to Xem'Zund in order to be reunited with his daughter, but the Saraelian had seen absolutely no progression in the necromancer's end of the deal. It was aggravating; on one end, he was personally enjoying the strife and destruction, but grieving at the thought of Meredith caught in the middle of it. What had finally peaked his frustration to steal away if only for a little bit of violence was that the necromancer had not allowed him to enter the fray in order to bring a quicker end to the battles and wet his sword with blood. While he frayed his nerves over his daughter's well-being, there was still that undeniable part of his self that could only be quenched by tearing life asunder with a blade.

Kross sighed as he stood before the door the monks had told him of a day before. Reaching up, he pulled the hood back on; briefly wondering how big of a waste of time this would prove. It was difficult to find any sort of adversaries in the enemy ranks that succeeded to quell his boredom; all too often one blow at full strength would shatter a man's defending weapon, armor, and life all too soon. The ease the killing came with now was almost maddening.

Kross stepped through the threshold and onto the porch of a freshly built house. The wood spoke to him of its youth as he shut the door behind him and walked off down onto the beaten dirt path. The land was old, and tired, but the men had come in the hopes of finding places that weren't as cramped as the cities and had built anyway despite the condition of the land. The Saraelian drew in a deep breath, smelling the scent of pine from some newly built piece of furniture, and looked around to judge his surroundings.

Dirt roads criss-crossed the brand new, hollow town. Grassy fields stretched past his vision and past the buildings fresh enough that the wood still bled sap here and there, the expanse changing in color here and there to amber on distant plots of farming acres. The clouds were few in the sky, and the noon-day sun shone in a way that it was almost uncomfortable to continue wearing his drab green cloak. And to his right, standing in the middle of the well-worn road was the boy.

He turned towards the young man, studying his appearance carefully; eyes lingered on the folded pair of draconic wings on his back. His eyes were the same heated color of the blood that most likely was pumping rapidly through his veins now, and his hair the color of steel, though Kross had to squint past the unruly glare of his sword to tell that detail. Raising a gauntleted hand from the inside of his cloak, the Saraelian summoned the dozen of his chakram, sunlight glimmering off their colored glass inlays. With a twitch of his wrist, they began spinning rapidly.

"My name, for now, is Kross. Tell me yours, if you're not sliced to ribbons." With a twitch of his wrist, the chakrams sliced through the air towards Jame, though their paths deviated just slightly as they would reach him, to create only superficial wounds.

He wasn't ready for his brief entertainment to die so soon.

[Call me J]

Jame had been too surprised by the chakrams to do much of anything other than get hit by them. He felt the first seer into his left shoulder, and then another sliced across his right wrist. In both cases, the wounds were superficial, but the pain was surprisingly sharp. The half dragon managed to move out of the way of the rest of them, the force of the first chakram had managed to cause his body to jerk backwards, and he was able to avoid most of the remaining onslaught. A last chakram bit into his shin, but aside from the pain, Jame was still able to move.

Stunned by how quickly the battle had turned against him, the half dragon took a deep exhale and examined Kross. He had never seen a demon quite like the one who stood before him, and even though he had stood in the presence of Damon Kaosi, he had never seen someone who looked so ominous.

Immediately, Jame’s thoughts migrated to the battle in Carnelost and the ominous feeling he had felt when Tel Aglarim had met with the beginning of Xem’zund’s forces. Jame couldn’t explain how the two feelings were so similar, but now that he looked upon this hooded stranger, he couldn’t help but feel the same forboding infinity. Kross looked particularly in the brightness and light wind, his tanned complexion seemed a perfect fit for the surroundings and his cape fluttered just enough to show his chiseled physique.

Jame studied that physique carefully, looking for a weakness. Kross was hardly built like a classic juggernaut, but the weapons he carried suggested he had the strength of one. Aware that his steel blade did not compare favorably to many of the better weapons of Althanas and that he lacked the strength advantage, Jame knew better than to lunge forward and attack. Even his natural advantages of his height were limited because of Kross’ giant sword.

“What would have Anila done to me,” Jame thought, trying to remember if there was a lesson from his Citadel battle that could have served him well here. Sorrowfully, he realized the answer. “She’d have used skill I really just don’t have…” he rued.

The half dragon realized that he still needed to answer Kross’ question. “Jame,” he said. “Son of…” He stopped himself before he went any farther. Mentioning his pedigree would have been more embarrassing when he failed than it would be intimidating to Kross.

“I’m the son of whoever you want me to be,” he concluded. It was a really stupid thing to say, but Jame didn’t have much time to think. Plus, his thoughts were swimming amongst the pain he was feeling from the chakrams and searching for some advantage or angle he could use against Kross.

For a moment, Jame contemplated running straight for the blunderbuss. However, he realized it would be premature. If the gun ended up being a decoy, or he couldn’t figure out how to fire it, then he would have been trapped on a porch with no way to dodge more chakrams or escape. Instead, Jame figured he was going to have to fight conventionally, for better or worse.

Realizing that every second he waited was a second he gave Kross the advantage, Jame began to charge towards his foe. He had no real plan, but he hoped the charge would give him an incentive to develop one. Right before he entered into the range of Kross’ giant blade, an idea hit Jame. He didn’t have time to think it through elaborately, but he pulled to a complete stop, moved into a defensive stance and let out a heavy breath, releasing a barrage of fire from his lungs towards Kross.

Jame knew the strategy might not work, but at the very least, it was the best of bad alternatives. He wondered again what the monks were trying to prove by giving him this fight.

[Slayer of the Rot]

"Some whore, I'd imagine." The Saraelian's outstretched hand flipped over, palm facing the sky, his fingers splayed in five different directions. The chakrams hissed as they cut through the air, following Kross's whims, and each separately slammed in the wall or corner of a building, lodging them in the wood so that they could be used without bothering to summon them again. Immediately, his hand dropped back into the folds of his cloak. The smell of the boy, Jame's blood came to him on the wind, and a soft laugh escaped his thin lips.

"Though, I wonder if the whore was the dragon or the human." Kross turned his face up towards the sky as his nostrils flared again, relishing the scent. Briefly, the sunlight invaded the dim shadows of his hood, to reveal the scar that sliced through his right eye and across his ear and nose, the wound that he had given him his simple name.

The boy seemed hesitant to move, uncertain of what to do, but nevertheless, the way his eyes darted hither and thither told Kross he was at least weighing his options. But the Saraelian had never exactly been the patient type; though he thirsted for an opponent to excite his blood, he wanted the adrenaline rush immediately in combat. Growling lowly, Kross lifted his upper lip, showing the sharp canine. Finally, before Jame finally decided on his game plan, the Saraelian reached over his shoulder, wrapping his hand around the Bhidyate's hilt, and moved - only to pause after a single step.

It wasn't the half dragon's brashness that surprised him, but more so the height difference; for once, Kross found himself looking up at his opponent. At a distance, he hadn't bothered to notice Jame's considerable height, and while it would spark consternation in most men, to see this lanky towering winged giant with eyes the color of blood or fire, and hair the color of a sharpened blade, Kross stood his ground, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. After all, the buster sword had been originally made with the purpose of slaying giants...

Drawing in a deep breath, Kross leaned forward as the muscles drew taut in his left arm, calves bulging as he readied his lunge.

And then, a whorl of fire burst from the boy.

Kross cursed his moment of denseness, for not putting together the components of blood he had smelled; human, and dragon. Releasing the sword's grip, the Saraelian threw his arm in front of him as the fire washed over his body. In his distress, his terramancy spiked erratically. The support beams of the porch of a nearby house groaned loudly before splintering in two, the windows shattering in a spray of glass that fell across the street to glimmer like useless gems. Struggling to gain control of his temper, Kross swung both hands towards his chest, slamming the palms together. A blast of air pressure gusted forth, driving away the flames as Jame began to run out of breath. Some exposed flesh was raw and pink, and the hem of the cloak was charred and smoldering, tiny flames persisting to burn, but for the moment, Kross ignored them as he lifted his boot.

The earth under his stamping foot shuddered and cracked as waves of energy tore through the dirt. The ground protested in upheaval to the Saraelian's power, but bent to his will anyway, buckling beneath the half dragon and himself. The hard packed stone and dirt of the road within a twelve foot radius of the cloaked Kross was destroyed in a sagging crater patterned with a spider web of cracks. Grinding his foot in the dust, he drew the massive delyn blade from the shoulder baldric it hung heavily upon, and began to advance upon Jame.

[Call me J]

The quick smile that had first appeared on Jame’s face, quickly faded as the Kross’ terramancy began to manifest itself. The half dragon thought he’d managed to land a meaningful blow until he saw a porch nearby stumble and collapse, and then the very ground all around him began to tremor and crack. His knees began to buckle, and unable to keep his balance, the half dragon fell to the ground. He watched, awestruck now as Kross expelled his firebreath with a burst of wind.

Almost too intimidated to strategize, Jame watched as Kross advanced upon him. The half dragon shuddered and stumbled to his feet. He was genuinely fearful now, and any thoughts of strategy he once had were now wiped from his mind. The pain from the chakrams suddenly seemed more acute, and had it not been for the fact the monks would revive him after the battle, Jame might have tried to negotiate a settlement out of the fight.

Lost for ideas, Jame tried to will himself to think. There was the gun on the porch, but now Jame knew that it would be suicide to go for it. The moment he stepped inside the rickety structure, Kross would make it collapse. Swordsmanship wouldn’t get him any farther. If he attacked, he might be able to defend against a single parry, but given the differences in lengths (and most likely strengths) of their blades, the half dragon didn’t fancy his chances in hand to hand combat either.

He didn’t have any time to think, and so Jame acted upon his most basic instinct. With Kross advancing on him, Jame ran. He didn’t know where he was going, but at the very least he figured he might be able to elude Kross long enough to catch the more skilled fighter in a moment of weakness again. He knew the risks in running, Kross had already made him bleed, and though the wounds were superficial, Jame had no time to bandage them. Jame's heart pumped vigorously and it made his wounds bleed that much more profusely. The half dragon knew that if he kept running for too long, the blood loss would kill him.

As he ran, Jame winced. Now, not only had Kross completely overpowered him, but time was also working against him. The half dragon cursed the monks for creating the battle one last time before he decided that running would be counterproductive. Sooner or later, he would have to turn and fight, and the longer he waited, the more gruesome his death would be. Jame exhaled deeply and then turned around. He spun off his wounded back foot, and blood spilled freely from the wound as he moved. In his eagerness to offer resistance, Jame took a wild swipe at Kross with his sword. He doubted it would come to much good, but figured this way he would at least die with some honor instead of passing out from bloodloss after a cowardly flight.

In truth, Jame hated himself for coming to this resolution. All his training with Anila had been worthless, his family pedigree as good as a dead letter. He just hoped his attack would do something to at least startle Kross. Jame knew he wasn’t going to win, but after that brief moment of fear, he wanted it known that he was going to stand and fight.

As his sword bit through the air, desperately hoping to catch flesh, Jame resolved that he would fight against Kross until time finally betrayed him.

[Slayer of the Rot]

Kross's stride faltered as Jame did the only logical thing in the face of the titan; he turned tail and ran. A flash of annoyance crossed over his normally passive face. The first warrior of the Dajas Pagoda he had fought had spent most of the very short battle creeping and sneaking through his jungle, in the hopes to catch the Saraelian unawares like a coward in the night. 'I do have to wonder where they find such spectacularly spineless recreants,' he thought vehemently as he renewed his stoic pace, ever bearing down on the retreating boy.

Sighing dejectedly, Kross swung the buster sword in two wide arcs from side to side, and twin crests of jagged stone burst from the ground and raced forward, missing Jame by mere inches. His temper had begun to mount, and the half dragon wasn't nearly as wounded he had been hoping him to be. The smell of blood was beginning to become stronger in the air, but it was not enough.

Lips drawing back over his teeth, and those wickedly sharp, long canines, Kross finally set into a full sprint, closing the distance between himself and the Pagoda Warrior within seconds. Slamming his heel down, a rough wall of stone erupted from the earth before Jame, blocking his path, and Kross swung the Bhidyate in a high, horizontal arc, intending to take the boy's head off cleanly.

He had not predicted that Jame would have grown a back bone, however.

The half dragon's own movement and strike managed to bring him just under the Saraelian's stroke and his wildly aimed blade sweeped underneath Kross's unarmored arm and sliced into the joint. Pain roared through his right side as hot blood gushed from the wound, his massive sword vanishing instantly, and stumbled back, holding his other hand against the surging injury. Soil from the ground rose into the air in a small, swirling column, and turned black as he purified it with his terramancy. It flowed into the wound beneath his arm, blocking the blood flow, and speeding along the regeneration process as it began to clog along the edges.

A fire ignited inside of him as fury rose its war-scarred head. He had once lost the same arm several years ago, and if the blow had been directed better, and a little higher, it would have surely severed the joint and he would have been looking at his arm on the ground in a pool of his own blood.

It was then that he realized he had lost sight of Jame. He glanced about for the boy's garish, glowing sword. Kross was ready to end this now; he'd had his brief moment of fun, and now it was becoming tiresome.

[Call me J]

Despite his situation, Jame smiled brightly when his blade sliced Kross’ arm. Immediately, he realized he had gotten just the edge he needed. Now, he’d have a chance to go and get the gun before Kross could get to him. He figured titan or not, Kross would need some time to nurse the wound, allowing him to go and get the gun. Jame didn’t hesitate for a moment, he had seen enough of Kross’ power to know that he wasn’t going to get another chance.

Kross’ terramancy had blocked off one way for him, but the path to the gun remained clear. Now, Jame ran straight up the porch, ready to grab the gun. He paid no attention to the trail of blood he left behind, and he didn’t even look back to see if Kross was following. Jame’s margin for error was slim. If he was too slow, Kross would either slice him to ribbons or collapse the porch on him. Still, Jame knew if he ignored the gun, then he wouldn’t survive much longer.

Even though he only had to sprint a short distance, Jame could feel himself growing short of breath. His heart beat quickly, but his brain began to feel more and more constrained. Jame felt a bit dizzy and his wounds throbbed with pain. Blood coated his entire forearm. Still, the overmatched half dragon persevered because he had no other option. Practically stumbling by the time he reached the hammock, Jame grabbed onto the hammock’s strings to catch his breath before he continued.

Heaving desperately, Jame looked over to Kross. What he saw was terrifying. Kross had practically healed himself just by turning the ground black. The half dragon wondered if Kross’ powers knew any limits, and why someone like Kross hadn’t been offered the position of Pagoda master instead of him. After the battle, Jame didn’t doubt they would reevaluate his position, win or lose.

As Jame reached for the gun, he couldn’t help but to wonder if it would be shouldn’t just be replaced. He had been completely and utterly overwhelmed here, and part of him just wanted to give up and admit his weaknesses. Still, something about Kross that reminded Jame of Xem’zund, and that drove the half dragon to strive that much more. He had survived in Raiaera mostly by running, but he knew a day would come soon where he could no longer rely just on his feet. The cold reality of that truth hurt him far worse than Kross’ chakrams.

Now that he had it, Jame examined the shotgun quickly. He couldn’t be sure of how to work the weapon, but he was going to have to guess and hope he guessed correctly. He would only get one, because he had no idea how to reload the weapon. Even with a relatively opulent childhood, Jame had only seen guns fired a few times, and while he knew their triggers weren’t all that different to those of crossbows, there were more than enough differences. With hands clammy from the loss of blood, the half dragon held the weapon as best as he could, fumbling with the hammer as he pulled it back. Jame only hoped he was doing the right thing.

“Aim it well,” he reminded himself. “You only get one shot.” The half dragon’s eyes narrowed on his target to the point that the whole world became black save for Kross’ head. Then, with only a moment’s hesitation and doubt, he fired. The gun went off loudly, and as it fired, the recoil pushed Jame back into the hammock. Unsure what the fate of his bullet was, he fell down on the mattress, and heaved a deep sigh.

Though he should have known he had to keep moving, Jame waited to get up. Jame was tired, but he did not hesitate for that reason. In truth, he couldn’t bear to think what his fate would be if the bullet missed.

[Slayer of the Rot]

The smell of ash and wind and blood came to him as his eyes darted down the shattered, broken street, and he turned towards it's since, his gaze finally falling upon the half dragon again. The wound under his arm had clotted and stopped bleeding, but it was still a bit of time before the muscle tissue and flesh restitched without the danger of tearing them open again. The Saraelian watched with great curiosity as Jame continued to run, mounting the steps of one of the houses, boots thumping out the unannounced measure of his desperation. Brow furrowing, Kross carefully advanced. He could smell the terror of the boy in the wind, and when an animal is cornered, there is absolutely no telling what it could do. That was shown only moments before, when luck had smiled upon Jame and he had dealt the titan a crippling, if brief, wound.

Though a dizzying amount of blood had stained his clothes, slicked the few pieces of armor he'd been wearing, and was now drying upon his cloak, stiffening it uncomfortably, he didn't seem to be quite as affected as the Pagoda Warrior, who had lost nearly as much blood from the chakram wounds. Though he rarely thought of it these days, there were times, when, alone at night, teetering on the edge of sleep, he thought back to the days of powerlessness. He had become quite the horrifying monster, and everyone else seemed to grasp the depth of that but him.

The mattress of a hammock was flung into the streets, and Kross stared at it in frustrated curiosity for a moment, before looking up - and straight into the black, hollow eye of the shotgun Jame had been reserving as his trump card. The Saraelian's mouth opened in wordless surprise, and he stumbled back, throwing his arm up instinctively, and rationally, summoning the Shield of Vanguard just as the shotgun roared in powder flash.

Some of the shot rang off the shield's body; their blows resounding deafeningly through the empty town, but Kross had been caught unaware, with a split second to react. The rest of the shot ripped apart the top of his shoulder, turning it into a mass of torn, pulverized red meat. Blinding fire roared through his head as more of the shot tore away the flesh of his cheek and ear in a spray of blood. Soundlessly, Kross spun around and fell face first to the ground.

The world drew quiet as the dark puddle of blood grew around the titan's prone body.

A few long seconds passed by, and then a minute. The wind did not dare blow, and the clouds hung waiting in the sky, as though the world created in Dajas Pagoda held it's breath to see the monster truly slain.

And then, Kross rose.

He was an undeniable horror now, with the right half of his body drenched in his own blood, his face all stretched and torn red muscle, the teeth shining pink with saliva and blood in the sun. The earth was shaking now and the grass closest to him shrunk to the ground in reverent fear, then browned, wilted, and died. The cloak that had his features vanished then, as though it had never been there at all, and in it's place appeared a heavy suit of blue dyed delyn full plate, a ragged black cape hanging from the shoulder plates. In the middle of the chest plate, the standard of the Forgotten One, Xem'Zund, had been carved. Beneath his left arm, the tissue of the wound still raw and pink, but otherwise closed, he held a horned helm.

"Even when this damn wound heals, it's going to take a week to get rid of the scar tissue, and regain the hearing in the ear you just blown off. You little shit! Luck has been with you, but you've pissed off me off now, and I'm through playing with you. Now you're going to die, Jame!" What remained of his lips curled down into a deep scowl, while the other side of his face, oozing blood, remained a nightmare's grin. The Saraelian stamped his foot against the ground, and from it was torn a lump of stone twice the size of his head, hovering a foot before him, twisting back on his hips, his fist shot forward like a hammer and shattered the stone, sending a hail of pointed rock shards where Jame was upon the house's porch.

[Call me J]

Thwack! The sound of the bullet hitting flesh couldn’t have sounded any sweeter. As if suddenly blessed with a second life, Jame pulled himself up from the hammock. He looked on the fallen Kross with a smile, his eyes opened wide and mouth caught in a wide smile. He was so overwhelmed with relief that he barely noticed the effect of the blood loss that was still ravishing his body. With a smile, he moved closer to Kross, only to watch in despair as events unfolded. Kross was standing up.

Jame’s eyes turned as wide as the wounds on his body. His mouth agape, the poor half dragon could barely struggle for words. He was but six feet from the rising power, too stunned to do anything and too awed to even think. Jame had never seen anyone with the kind of strength that Kross possessed, and when the slightest bit of faculty returned to him, Jame wondered if Kross was even a normal mortal.

One look on Kross’ chest told that answer.

“Xem’zund!” Jame realized. Angrily, he reached for his sword. Only now did he realize that it had fallen from his weakened, blood starved hand far before he had ever reached the patio. Now it lay off in the distance, reflecting the sunlight tantalizingly, as if it were mocking Jame just like the fates. The overwhelmed half dragon let out a bitter curse.

Without a single weapon with which to defend himself, Jame knew his options were few and far between. The half dragon felt deeply betrayed. He had come to Scara Brae to escape the warfare in Raiaera, at least for the time being. This was supposed to be safe, that was why Itarildë Vanimedlë, the headmistress of Aglarlin, had told him to come to the Pagoda.

“Now that bastard has ruined it!” Jame thought furiously. He was working himself up into a furious rage, to the point where smoke was billowing out of his nose. “He sent you!” Jame shouted “HE SENT you!!!” Sparks flew from the half dragon’s mouth as he spoke, and he ignored the fact that he had no weapons as he now charged forward, resolute that he would make both Kross and Xem’zund pay. He didn’t care that he was unarmed, Jame swore that he would find a way to strangle Kross if necessary. It didn’t matter that he barely had any blood left to bleed, Jame only wanted to get too Kross, it didn’t matter what happened after that. Kross’ assault barely registered, the shards of rock heading towards him didn’t even cause Jame to flinch. He moved off the porch, moving faster and faster with his now lilly-white face wrinkled in an unyielding rage.

Somehow, someway, Jame decided that he was going to get to Xem’zund. His body buckled as the first few rock shards hit him. Thwack! Thump! Pieces of rock delved deep into his flesh, while others jutted right into his skull. The half dragon still staggered forward, knowing that he would only be hit again. The rest of the shards followed, and by the time the entire onslaught was through, it seemed as if Jame’s entire flesh had been riddled with stone.

Jame could only manage one more step before he could no longer move. His body fell forward and hit the ground with an unsatisfying thud. For better or worse, the battle was over. Hopefully, the monks would be pleased.

(Don't submit this after your post. I'll want a conclusion)

[Slayer of the Rot]

The boy's body twitched and shuddered as the stones tore him apart, stabbing deep into his flesh in little spurts of blood. The undamaged side of Kross's face lit up and he sighed with content; that thirst had been quenched now, if only for a little while. Still, as he had donned his armor, in measure against any other remaining trump cards, the battle had taken a quick twist for the odd. Jame's resolve had hardened to something greater than steel, and even with death hovering close by, breathing its heartless icy breath, the boy had pushed forward in abject rage. 'And how many times had I done that, around his age? After they were all dead....how often did I push onward in the face of dim hopelessness? He's tenacious at least...but what was he going on about?'

Jame finally crumpled bloodless to the ground, and the Saraelian's smile began to inch towards a new frown. He loomed like a beast over the body, vaguely recognizing that the wind had blown again....though it seemed to lack its carefree gaiety. It felt thicker to breath, heavy as with sorrow. The plates of his armor clanked as he stooped and turned the Pagoda Warrior's body over, and waving his hand across the stones embedded in his cooling flesh, they turned to sand, which rose in a swirling cloud which he cast aside with a dismissive wave. 'Sent me...? Does he mean the Forgotten One? That would be stupid. I haven't heard a single bit from the Black about a Jame. He's not some old veteran bearing a grudge from the first revival, though. No....the wounds are fresh, they would have to be, events considered. Perhaps he's a worm that fled from Carnelost?'

"Stupid boy...if that is the case, why would Xem'Zund send someone as powerful as me to dispose of you? You're just a mote of dust in our eyes..." Kross's voice had taken on a quality that would have made Jame's skin crawl, if he had been alive to hear it. The light that shone in his eyes was the same as the one in the executioner's eye after he had finished the days work, the murderer's eye as he watched the gallows.

"Just a worm...nothing more." Kross chortled as he stood, taking his helm in both hands, staring down into its empty eyes.

"Though...in a land of the world I once lived upon, the word 'worm*', at a time known as the Middle Ages, was used as an all-encompassing term to describer any monstrous or destructive creature. Surely, if you became that sort of worm, you'd be able to rise up and scar us well....but for now, you're of the sort that crawls blindly on its stomach in the mud."

Turning his left hand to the air, dirt from the ground sprang up and flowed into his palm, becoming black and rich with nutrients as he drove out the dross impurities from it. When he was finished, he spread it across the torn, bloody mess of his shoulder, and across the deaf left half of his face, and placed his helm over the mess.

"Your tenacity interests me, boy. I'll return one day...but until then, remember how weak you were in the face of Kross." The Saraelian spun on the ball of his foot, his voice still seeming to echo tinnily from his helm in the air. His torn black cape fluttered in his wake as the dead brown grass crunched under his heavy footfalls.

And then, through the door he had entered, the titan was gone.

((*I refer to England in the Middle Ages. If anyone has ever heard a dragon called a "Worme" or "Wyrm", you know what I'm talking about.))

[Call me J]

Though Jame had fallen, his body had not yet given up. Though he knew it was a matter of time before he died, and there would be no way that he could summon the force to get back up, Jame heard every word that Kross had said to him. The half dragon lacked the energy to reply, or even think of how the words made him feel before everything went black.

When he woke up, Jame found himself in the infirmary. There was a glass of water by his bedside, and a few nurses were nearby, though they seemed more interested in a discussion they were having with each other than in him. It took a few minutes for Jame to regain his bearings. “Still alive…” was his first thought. It was oddly calming. He heaved a sigh and sat up.

Carefully, Jame took a sip of water. He tried to remember the things that Kross had said to him. The world had been so incredibly blurry then, and his mind had been clouded with pain. The only thing that Jame remembered with certainty was that Kross had said that he would return. Jame shuddered in fear. He hated that reaction. He didn’t want to be afraid of Kross, but as far as Jame knew, the man was indestructible.

Almost immediately, Jame thought of the mark of Xem’zund that Kross had carried. They would meet again, and it likely wouldn’t be in the Dajas Pagoda. Fate had carved out its path for Jame, and though the half dragon couldn’t explain it, in his heart he knew he would meet Xem’zund again. He shivered again.

For a moment, Jame cursed Itarildë Vanimedlë, the headmistress of Aglarlin. He wished she had given him the power that he’d needed to beat Kross. When they had met in Eluriand, she had used her magic to empower him, but most of the effect had been temporary. Now, Jame wished that she would have armed him the same way that Xem’zund had armed Kross.

“She left me too weak…” Jame realized. He took another sip of water and then lay back down in his bed. It felt comforting, nonjudgemental. Soon, one of the monks would arrive and tell him how the results of the battle had affected his standing within the Pagoda. Within a month, he would be leaving for Alerar, prepared to continue in the fight against Xem’zund. For the moment, however, Jame would remain in bed. He would close his eyes, let his aching body finish healing, and gather strength for when he needed it.

There was a storm coming to Althanas and Jame had just realized that he wasn’t safe anywhere. Not even when surrounded by healers.

[Karuka]

This battle was made of love and chocolate. And bloodshed and violence, but mostly love and chocolate. Jame's stuff is in bold, and Slayer's is in italics. Minimal-ish comments, ask if you want stuff clarified, you both have my s/n.

Continuity

Call me J

You threw in bits and pieces of where he'd been and what had happened to him here and there, but none of it really came together until your second to last post, where Jame was like "ZOMG, minion of Xem'zund! RAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRR!" You had a strong sense of the future, but a shaky one of the past, although it got better in subsequent posts.

7

Slayer of the Rot

You had a really strong sense of what happened to bring you here and why you needed to battle. While Jame didn't much have a choice to fight, since he is a Pagoda Warrior, you had a very good justification. I liked how you added a human element to Dan by mentioning his daughter and the frustration that he couldn't be safe, and I liked his promise to come back.

9

Pacing

Call me J

While I really enjoyed the fight and wish it had gone on longer, I didn't really expect Jame to be able to stand up to the titan that is Dan Lagh'ratham for long.

8

Slayer of the Rot

See above.

8

Setting

Call me J

There was a good description of the setting, and a better amount of interaction with it than I see in most battles. But...since when do hammocks have mattresses?

6

Slayer of the Rot

You seemed to be really in tune with the setting around you, which I guess helps if you're going to be changing it around.

8

Persona

J

Jame still has that "new character" vibe to him, but you did well in portraying his anger and fear and sense that he's got a destiny, and damn if it's not f'd up.

7

Slayer

You know Dan, and it really shows, from his concern for his daughter, the rage he's pretty much famous for, the little contemplative bit at the end that I didn't quite expect but fit all too well... I'm loathe to give a 10, since I don't know Dan better, but you did a really good job here.

9

Action

J

It made sense, and it was good, as far as a half arrogant, half terrified, fairly weak character can, and you played off that weakness and desperation stemming from such very well.

8

Slayer

Some of this was absolutely brilliant, and some of it felt kinda "I'm big and bad, so I can do whateeeever...eh."

7

Dialogue

This was brilliant. From Jame, there was the line "I'm the son of whatever you want me to be" that was fun, and from Dan, there was the repartee to that line and the "wyrm" monologue at the end. I loved the dialogue in this thread more than anything else.

10 and 10

Mechanics

J

You had some stuff come up during this thread, and it really hurt you here. You have dropped words, misspelled words ("seered" should have been "seared") sentences that changed in the middle...all sorts of stuff.

6

Slayer

I noticed 3, maybe 4 minor things from you.

9

Technique

J

This was all fairly straightforward, not much technique.

5

Slayer

You didn't have much, either, but there were times when you did almost become poetic, and it really heightened the writing for me.

7

Clarity

This was very clear throughout, the only times I had to go back and re-read were my own fault for not reading carefully to begin with.

9 and 9

Wild Card

J

Not bad for fast and dirty. By the way...Arty says you're an ass.

7

Slayer

This is my first time ever reading anything from you, and I really liked it. I hope to see more of it, so stick around.

7

Totals

Call me J: 73
Slayer of the Rot: 83

Slayer wins! Congratulations!

Rewards

Slayer receives 2600 EXP and 150 GP, as per Pagoda rules, and may take Call me J's Warrior position if he wants it.

Call me J receives 600 EXP.

EXP/GP added!