The Runt and the Ruin (Open!)

[Mathias]

This takes place during the storyline of Vandal Valiance.

"The ability to transcend the pathetic, cumbersome shell of mortal physicality. You waste it. For what reason? Do you enjoy being just another cog in the soul-factory of existance? Doesn't the urge to simply float away from it all - doesn't that tug at you? Can't you even begin to comprehend the absolute power that is just beyond your fingertips? You will seize it. If not for you and your pathetically short-sighted ambitions, then you will seize it for me and all the grandeur that I plan to encompass."

The "Master," had already made preparations for his planeswalking servant's arrival. The Monks had recognized him, though he'd never set foot in here before. Ushering him to what would be his battleground, they never spoke a word, nor did he. Mathias was intent on completing his task with as little communication, trouble, or time passed, as possible. The sooner he'd be back in Scara Brae, the sooner he'd be closer to the Scourge and any chance they might provide of finding him and rescuing him. As he was taken to the door to his designated chamber, he entered a stale, plain room. Instantly, however, it changed into a vivid, shapeless, dimensionless world that paralleled one of the nameless, ethereal planes that he'd traversed, countless times.

It seemed there was no ground, no horizon, no sky... just a complete and alienating whiteness. What made the bleak setting so wonderous, however, was the clouds, wisps, and winds of color - all different hues and shades. They floated and twirled and danced, as if they'd had a mind of their own - a consciousness that they controlled... Aside from the disorientation that this place without geometric law provided, everything else was rather consistent. Gravity, friction, the general law of inertia. Although he'd no other physical object to focus on, he'd felt that perception and visibility worked the same way as in the Firmament.

This place, however, was going to prove to be a far different arena than the Zirnden's cage. However, the battle and all the essence of it, would be exactly the same. He knew the absolute magnificence of bloodlust. It was such a primal emotion, so base and animalistic, but it was a cut above and beyond any other feeling in the world. Even though he was a virgin, he was sure that the overdose of adrenaline, the sound and force of a fist, connecting with flesh, and the smell of sweat, bodies, and blood... all of that had to be better than the far-too-fleeting escapade of sex.

Yet, in all of its splendor, it... scared him. It wasn't that he was a passive individual in any form, but it was simply... he despised the loss of control. He couldn't, afterwards, feel victorious if he'd won. He couldn't feel saved if he'd been defeated. What he felt... was almost uselessness. As much as his distaste for the drugs that people consumed... fighting had become one of his own. And the loss of control, the loss of presence of mind... it was a simply disgusting feeling that would overtake him afterwards.

Why would anyone with any sort of care for themselves want to willingly indulge in something that resulted in the absence of conscious thought? Even Mathias, who was one of them, could not fathom it.

Yet, above all that, he was here, in the Citadel of Corone, awaiting his opponent. The Master, in his infinite "wisdom," had happened upon the decision that indulging this primal instinct of his would bring out a desire for conquest and the same insatiable hunger for power that he had. But Math was determined to not concede to the sorcerer's machinations. His first and foremost goal was to escape the clutches of the one who retained him... freedom was above all other things. But, even as a prisoner and a slave, he'd had already figured out that it would be wise to act in compliance with the Master's wishes, atleast until the perfect oppertunity came.

And fighting whatever opponent came to him in whatever capacity - winning, losing, demolishing every inch of their face, getting every inch of his own faced demolished... it didn't matter, so long as it made good on pleasing the Master.

[Breaker]

Five steps north, turn. Five steps south, turn.

I paced the length of the small room, frustration building in my mind. The stonework grey walls pressed in on my conscious, like a vice crushing my temples. The room bore no decoration save for a wicker rocking chair and the aggravatingly amicable monk perched upon it. Everything about him spoke of calm contentment, from his smooth shaved scalp to the perfect manicure of his steepled fingers.

For three days we had been training together, mostly focussing on meditation. Although I felt my skill had improved significantly in that area, my body longed for exercise. The simple plyometrics I performed on a daily basis did not suffice; I craved the gut-wrenching, adrenaline charged thrill of battle. Finally I could bear the waiting no longer. My pacing stopped and I stood directly before the rocking chair. The monk showed no sign of noticing me, his eyes staring straight through me as he meditated.

"Laertes." I had only recently learned my insctructor's name. The instant I spoke, his eyes refocused, lighting upon my face as though just noticing my presence.

"Can I help you?" The redundancy of his tone frustrated me further. Laertes had long ago demonstrated his ability to read my thoughts. He knew what I wanted, but made me ask anyways.

"I need a battle, Laertes. Training me in the Citadel without letting me fight is like chaining a wolf next to a field of sheep. Give me something I can sink my teeth into!"

The monk smiled, an expression I saw often. I groaned inwardly, realizing he had been waiting for me to make this request.

"Very well, Joshua. I will send you to one of our arenas... but first, you must tell me something."

I resisted the urge to curse at him, feeling that unless I answered his question correctly, the opportunity for a good battle might pass. Instead of responding I emptied my mind, meditating as I waited for him to go on. The meditation enhanced my senses to the point where I could see each individual eyelash move as he blinked before continuing.

"Tell me Joshua... what is it you cherish so much about the battle?"

I paused, deep in thought. A million answers came to mind but I waded through them, searching to the very core of my being to seek the best one. With my mind clear it came easily enough, and I mimicked Laertes' smile as I spoke.

"It is the one mindedness of the fight. The single goal of destroying my opponent, the thrill of pitting my skill and blood against another human being. And of course, the rush that comes with victory." I finished almost breathless, for I was not used to baring my soul so truthfully. The monk seemed satisfied by the answer. He rose seamlessly from the chair, a world of wisdom emanating from his eyes.

"You will have the battle you crave, and afterwards, our training will continue." He reached up, the baggy sleeve of his robe billowing, and laid one finger on my forehead. My vision blurred and the grey stones seemed to be summoning me. I barely heard the monk's parting comment.

"I hope you will learn something from this."

~~~

Awake.

I opened my eyes, blinking rapidly to clear my vision. Dancing mist surrounded me, a kaleidoscope of colors shifting through the surreal plain.

Danger!

I held my breath and rolled, fearing that the darting mists could be poisonous gas. Crouched on all fours I froze and inhaled. The air seemed fine, clean and fresh; the mists more illusion than reality. I crawled rapidly on nothing, scuttling sideways like a crab. I turned a half circle and spotted him. Another man, twenty yards away, obscured by the translucent colors.

A barrage of thoughts assaulted my mind.

Find him! Kill! Destroy!

These were not thoughts born from my own brain, but commands driven home by an unseen third party. I could do nothing to stop them, their compulsion too powerful. I stalked forward in a tense crouch. My bare feet made no sound on the non-existent floor.

"There's no ground... what am I walking on? Where am I? How did I--"
NO! There is no time! Get him, destroy the enemy!

Again the compulsion erupted in my mind, like a nuclear explosion it obliterated all other thoughts. I was the hunter, the fighter, the killer. I covered ten yards, not caring if the man noticed me or not. Whether I took him by surprise or he put up a fight, he was about to die.

[Mathias]

Mathias surveyed the area, turning around as his perception was lost in the coalescing mists. Colors that mortals could not normally see assaulted his vision, dancing and twirling like faeries, drunk and gay with song and dance. It was only an inch from soothing his soul and assuaging all the worries of the world, until the sound of rushing feet ripped through the emptiness.

Turning, Math found himself staring at a charging figure, obscured less and less as he proceeded through the chromatic haze. It took a moment before his instincts kicked in, but when they did, the cobwebs of civility were wiped from his mind and the anticipation of the coming fight began to drum through his body. His legs quivered, not out of fear, but out of anxiety - he was never really afraid, but nonetheless, he shook fiercly during a battle. He never quite knew why, nor did it really matter.

He had noticed, however, one distinct difference from his bouts at the Zirnden... there was no real essence of formality here. No announcements, no crowd, shouting and cursing and egging the fight to begin or end or dampen with more blood, more gore, more violence. There wasn't any atmosphere other than the solemn, still silence broken by the breathing and moving of two people, and the emptiness of white, blank space filled by a vibrant fog.

The first, imperative movement he made was sweeping his opponent over with his eyes; nothing too complicated about him, no weapons that he could see. Nothing more than another, simple fist fight against an enemy with no etiquette, no name, no face, no life.

Not content with being charged at, Mathias began his own rush. He broke into a sprint, his heart already pounding in his chest (although it felt like his head - thump, thump, thumping against his brain). As the distance between them closed, he attempted to draw first blood, jumping into the air and sailing through the unobstructed space, aiming a kick at the dead center of his enemy's chest.

[Breaker]

I moved methodically, my body a lethal machine. Each step brought me nearer to the kill, nearer to the objectives which pounded through my head.

Destroy the target! Kill him!

The target turned, spotted me, and I saw the whites of his eyes. He looked fit and carried no weapons, a trained fighter. Shorter and less muscular than myself, I did not predict any problem in overcoming him. "Don't underestimate an opponent," I cautioned myself, repeating the advice of every fighting instructor I had ever met.

Stop thinking and kill him. Now!

I exploded forwards. No point in moving slowly once you've been seen. The target mimicked my action, sprinting at me recklessly. The colourful mist swathed his pumping arms as his feet pounded on the unseen floor. I wondered how he expected such a tactic to work. I had at least twenty pounds on him, and all of that muscle. If we collided, he would be the one taking damage.

Stop thinking about it and kill him!

"Shut up!" I screamed at the voice in my head. I could make no sense of it. My memory drew a complete blank. I could not recall where I had been prior to this strange dimensionless domain, or how I might have arrived there. The voice did seem familiar though...

Colors shifted. A blanket of mist layered itself between the enemy and me, turning an opaque shade of burgundy. I lost sight of the target and for the slightest moment, stopped moving.

“Why am I fighting this man?”
Attack! Move! Kill!
"Would you shut up alrea--"

Like a lightning bolt striking from the heavens, the enemy streaked through the wall of color. My well honed reflexes failed me. His foot crashed into my chest with shocking force and I tumbled backwards. My lungs locked up, momentarily paralyzing my breathing, but the years of hard training I had put in paid off. Instinctively I rolled over my left shoulder, finishing in a compact crouch. My chest felt bruised from the impact, but already my lungs pumped fresh, clean air into my body.

"Attack immediately," I thought, "He’ll kill me if I don’t."

For once, the voice in my head did not respond.

I sailed across empty space and entered striking range. Faking a right hook I dove forwards, my long arms reaching out to wrap around the target's hips. If I managed to snag him, my momentum would bring us both to the ground.

[Mathias]

Satisfaction rushed through Mathias as his boot connected with its destination and the punctuated sound of agony and choking greeting his ears. Although adrenaline was already overtaking him, he still cringed with disgust at the thought of losing himself to his base emotions. But that revulsion was easily wiped aside as he hit the ground with a thud. He rolled backwards, coming up to his feet as he did so, and attempted to assume a martial stance that would allow him the facade of defense, giving him the time to assess the situation. No dice, however, as he noticed his opponent had recoiled and recollected himself.

Before Mathias could even think, the man had surged forth into another charge. A fist came up on his left and, with all the grace that a cage-fighter could have, he retracted himself to the right. The hand quickly subsided, and Math realized that it grasped for his waist. The weight of the enemy crushed him, driving him backwards as they toppled down to the nonexistant floor together.

He was proven wrong, however, by gravity and physics, once again. Despite the nothingness, the ground rushed up and greeted Mathias's back with a hard crash, knocking the wind out of the young vandal. A puff of colorful mist sprang up around him, obscuring the face of his attacker, almost like a cloud of dust. Instantly, Math's mind was rushed to the several weeks, not so long ago, that he'd spent at the fight clubs in Scara Brae, and how vulnerable he'd been in while in positions like this. Usually, once a fight reached this point - and reached it as quickly as this - it was nothing more than the person on top pommelling fist after wave of fist into the pinned-down person's face.

Coming back to reality, the imperativeness of the situation hitting him once more, like a blow to the head, he realized that he had to act now, continuing to land his own punches. The faster, the harder, the more you had on the other person, the quicker you wore them down.

The planeswalker's arms immediately shot out, raining blow after blow, swinging wildly in hopes of hitting his antagonist's hidden visage, hoping even more to throw him off of him, although he doubt that would happen. There was a bit more weight on him than in his whole body. Well, this is going to suck, he thought bitterly, closing his eyes. Wrestling like this, he remembered, was never his forté. But then again, this was all about instinct, and that's all he'd ever relied upon.

[Breaker]

We collided, my kinetic energy driving both our bodies downwards. In the never-ending whiteness I could not predict when we would hit the ground, but waited, my arms wrapped tightly around the target.

Crunch

The impact jarred my bruised chest. I had been moving for under a minute and already my breath came in short gasps. As I grappled for a dominant position, my mind raced. I knew a multitude of ways to kill a man from this position. Once in the Citadel I had tackled a wizard named Xos and finished him with a crushing elbow to the throat. Once again I wondered frantically what this strange place could be. Unfortunately, I had not time for such thoughts with my dangers opponent writhing beneath me.

Do it! Kill him!

The bloodthirsty voice lit upon my memory of Xos and egged me on. Driven by my own battle lust, I postured up and lifted my arm, prepared to bring it down like a hammer on an anvil. Colors swirled around me before I could act, obscuring my vision, and I hesitated. How badly would I hurt myself if I smashed my elbow on the intangible floor? As I teetered on the brink of attacking, my enemy took the initiative, his fist shooting up like a piston and breaking my nose.

Stop fooling around. Destroy!
"Arrgh... Whoever you are, leave me alone!"

I ducked my head out of the dense mist, tucking low to avoid being struck by the smaller man's frantic punching. Blood poured from my nose, causing a strange illusion as it pooled on apparently empty space. I tasted the metallic tang at the back of my throat as I opened my mouth to breathe. With my sinuses clogged, I would tire quickly. Finishing the battle became imperative.

With a quick jerk I lifted my head and shoulders slightly, keeping my left arm up to protect my damaged nose. Several of the enemy's haphazard punches landed, but they were glancing blows. A cut opened up under my right eye and my ear heated quickly as it began to swell. I pushed the pain aside, focussing on my attack. With my right arm I rained elbow strikes down at the other man's face, the hard bone a relentless pile driver intent on crushing his skull.

[Mathias]

In some code of ethics, under some religious doctrine, somewhere, somehow, somewhy, and somewhen, it was probably considered extremely wrong to feel the amount of pleasure that Mathias was feeling at that particular moment. Being close to death (even if in exaggeration; not every fight meant staring the Reaper right in his eyes) made him feel so alive. It was a cliché he'd heard repeated so many times, and yet.. he couldn't help but feel it so true at a time like this. The feeling of fist against flesh was astonishing. Power was something to be attained. To be wielded with impunity. Those who had power had the right... the obligation... to enforce their will. It was the imperative of natural selection... the perogative of all things to exist as themselves, and above that, exist against all others.

And so, Mathias was content in completing that objective that fate, nature, and science had assigned him. He knew, despite all his wishes to be free of the slaving binds that tied him, to leave his "Master," and cease the experiments and tortures inflicted upon him... all of that dissipated in the resolution of His lessons. All this anger, frustration, all the things he barely had the nerve and the care to express came welling up inside of him, released in crashing waves against his enemy's face.

Wild, untamed, and ruthlessly sloppy, he was pounding his way out of the submission. But, through the haze of the vibrant murk, sending the colors spiraling away in misty threads, an elbow came out at him. He attempted to squirm, moving back. As he tilted his head to the side, the elbow connected and he felt an explosion rocket through his face. The world went black for a second that spanned all eternity. Pain ricocheted through his head and he realized he'd heard something smash, like rock against rock. His jaw hurt... His jaw really fucking hurt.

Through the agony, he'd realized he wasn't even able to groan. His mandible wouldn't even move. Grunting like a savage, like his lips had been sewn shut, he thrashed and writhed, when suddenly, his body just evaporated into nothingness. The whole world blinked away and he saw true nothingness. It was so much more real than the arena the monks had ushered him into. This was pure, unobstructed nonexistance. It was a plane unlike anything he remembered. But before he could linger, his essence was yanked away from the precipice of the void he'd been standing in.

He materialized once again underneath the weight of his opponent, staring up at his bloody face through his own haze-colored eyes. He felt his veins bulging, thudding against his flesh as his whole body screamed out from pain - not simply from the fight, but also from his ripping through the planes as he'd just done. An intense hatred suddenly gushed through him, the fear of the possible permanence of the damage to his face, the possible outcome of this fight... the fear of losing ; not because he was afraid to admit defeat... he was afraid of the punishment at the hands of his enslaver.

Tears started to stream down his cheeks, salting... burning his wounds and mixing with his blood. He choked out the sobs that were flooding through him for no other reason than the absolute humiliation of defeat... it was uncontrollable, and it continued into a torrent of emotions that whirled through his heart, all his fears and grudges flowing up and pumping through his body, thicker than blood, blacker than oil.

He let out an agonized yell and brought his leg up - his right leg... it had gotten free when he planesripped. Atleast something had made it worth the excruciating pain it had caused him... - He brought his leg up, swinging it over the combatant's head and attempted to choke him at the neck with the pit of his knee. He pushed all of his weight into it, hoping to switch positions and pin down his enemy, even as he would choke him. Reality was fading... if the tide didn't turn now, then it wasn't going to change at all.

[Breaker]

Like a jackhammer my elbow thundered up and down, intent on destroying the enemy's face. I felt his jaw crack as one blow landed and the voice in my head cried in delight. My own thoughts echoed the cry, a ravenous bloodthirsty howl at the joy of destruction. Blood from my busted nose streamed down my front staining the black shirt blacker. It dripped like a loose faucet, raining onto the blond boy's face and the white area around him. I thirsted for blood like a baited shark, yearning to spill the boy's blood in collateral for my own.

He is nearly gone. Finish him! The voice in my head cackled.
"Yes," I agreed, "Time for him to die."

My arm lifted for one final, crushing blow.

And then he was gone.

I froze, splayed on all fours like a cat, my head whipped from side to side. Nothing. No sign of the boy I had nearly destroyed. Where did he go? I tried to sniff the air, seeking his scent, but got a lungful of blood instead. I coughed and spat up the crimson fluid, a high velocity spatter on the white plain. More blood ran from the cut beneath my eye like a red tear of rage, personifying my frustration. I panted through my mouth as I continued my search.

"Where is he? People don't just disappear!"
Don't just lie there, find him! Destroy him! The voice commanded relentlessly.

A sudden burst of color swirled all around, and the enemy reappeared beneath me. Disregarding the question of how he had vanished, I refocused on the kill. But before I could make a move, his leg draped over my neck and clamped down. Immediately the blood flow to my head slowed, my major arteries inhibited by the pressure. Despite this my mind stayed clear; my training in meditation was paying off. I had used a similar jiu jitsu technique called a triangle to subdue Madison Freebird when she challenged me in Dajas Pagoda. The young woman had escaped my relentless choke by biting my groin. Fortunately, that would not be necessary in my case.

"Trying to grapple with me," I thought darkly, "not a good decision."

I drew my legs forward until I was standing in a tight crouch. With an explosion of energy I stood up straight, grabbing for the boy's right ankle as I did so and attempting to pin it to my chest and straighten his leg out. Practically in the same motion I threw myself down to his right, turning as I fell so that I landed on my back. The instant I hit the ground I lifted my right leg and attempted to press my heel down on my opponent’s thigh, to help hold his leg in place. My left foot then crossed over my right, reaching in an attempt to push the enemy's left leg away. The resulting tableau showed me lying on my back beside the enemy, legs and arms crossed. If the technique worked and I managed to keep his ankle pressed against my chest, the blonde’s knee would be painfully hyper extended.

What are you doing? The vicious voice demanded, berating me. This technique is useless! You are suppos--
"It's not useless," I interrupted the voice, surprised that I could do so, "It's called a knee bar, and he's in a whole world of pain right now."

"At least... I hope he is." I thought to myself, wondering if the voice could hear. The fall had jarred my chest once more, leaving me gasping for breath.


Due to the complex nature of the knee bar, I am providing this link (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g92JEWFTSs4) to a youtube video which demonstrates the knee bar Josh is using. The demonstrator in this clip starts from a different position than Josh did, but the ideal end result is the same.

[Mathias]

Through the blood and broken bones, a gargled scream erupted from the depths of Math's throat. Blood sprayed out of his mouth, causing even more pain that erupted through his jaw. He felt muscles in his inner thigh rip, along with his knee popping out of place. For one perfect moment, all the anger and all the pissed-off feelings ran together in an indiscernable swirl of angst and self-preservation. He swung his arms wildly, balled up in fists, trying to land as many frantic blows as possible. He twisted and turned without any comprehension of the hazards of his disadvantage, trying to get in just a bit closer to hit his enemy with as much force as his final charge could muster.

But only as that moment passed away, so too did all of his enthusiasm and energy. His punches started to die out, becoming softer, sporadic, and then nothing. Out of breath and unable to take in any more through the pool of blood in his mouth, Mathias ceased all struggling, his legs pinned and his mobility crippled. His heart kept beating and his veins were still burning with fire, but the coals fueling his mind started to die out. A choked exhalation marked his slip into unconsciousness, the world turning black the moment the last ounce of energy left him.

All the fire... the passionate, primal essence... the base emotions that erupted forth... All of those things cleared, just like the dissipating mists of the room. The fog of battle lifted up, and nothingness rushed to greet him. Victory always left him with a tired, sated blur, but defeat... it always let him rest. Sometimes, he may have even preferred that sleep over that high... Sometimes.

The room itself, also lost it's life, along with its first occupant. From its vibrancy-filled incarnation, it returned to normal in a single blinking instant. A barren, brown chamber with nothing but walls, a ceiling, and a dark, mahogany floot. It held only two occupants, one: a conquerer, grappling his opponent's still body, and the other, the defeated: whose world knew nothing more than emptiness.

~

Mathias awoke - a slow process that started to revitalize his consciousness, groggy and reluctant. Through a haze, he saw a brown-robed, balding man over him, pinning a needle through his cheek. Instantly, the though of the Master and his favorite servant of tortue, Needles, came to mind. But this wasn't the same atmosphere... this was far more medical. Less sadistic. This was still the Citadel and this was still an Ai'Bron Monk.

The surgeon noticed his awakening and placed a hand over the planeswalker's eyes. A brief, bright light exploded from his palm and Math knew nothing more.

...When he awoke next, he was alone. Arising to a sitting position on his comfortable, but plain cot, he started to gather his surroundings. The cobwebs of sleep cleared from his mind, his brain starting to work correctly once more. His heart, however, sunk to a pit in his stomach, as the revelation of his defeat dawned upon him in a full, painfully apparent epiphany. The Master would be displeased.. possibly furious... and Math shuddered at the thought of what sort of wrath the sorcerer may have in store for him.

A small night-table lay next to his bed, holding a mirror and an envelope. Picking both up, the vandal first looked at his face. It wasn't that he was particularly vain... but he had yet to fully grasp the damage done to him, which was - ... nothing at all? His skin was smooth, unblemished, his jaw and cheek perfectly aligned. He saw himself gaping, and then realized a lingering pain still ripped through his visage.. But for the most part, the monks were every bit their reputation, and even more.

Relieved at his reconstruction... he set the mirror down and opened the letter. It bore no seal, nor any address. On a simple piece of parchment in elegant hand-writing, was a small, simple directive. "Mull over your defeat. Stay there until you tap your potential."

Taking in a deep breath, Math crushed the letter and laid back down across his cot, closing his eyes. He'd need a rest before his next bout.

[Breaker]

Bunnying approved.


As my opponent screamed, I tightened my grip and arched my back. He flailed madly, a useless tactic. His knuckles pounded my bruised face, opening the cut wider, and then landed a strike on my exposed neck. My head swam but I gritted my teeth and bore down. No amount of pain would make me give up this victory. Adrenaline pulsed in my arteries, and with it came the voice.

You have him where you want him! Release the leg and finish him!
"This is good enough!" I argued, "Either he'll give up or I'll break the leg."
Break it now, the voice urged, Then break his neck! He is no match for your skill. Show him.
"I think he's already got the idea."

The boy's wild punches became fewer and less powerful, a gesture of helplessness rather than defiance. A wet rattling sound came from his throat, and then he lay still. I gave the leg an extra tug to make sure he wasn't faking, then released the crippled limb. The torn muscles failed to pull it back to a natural position, and it flopped awkwardly away from me. I sat up. He looked like a fallen, battered scarecrow. I breathed slowly through my mouth, tasting blood, my bruised chest heaving. Then I saw it. The boy still breathed; his chest moved up and down fractionally. And what I saw, the voice became aware of as well.

He's not dead! The mental shriek grated across my brain.
"He doesn't need to die!" I shouted out loud. I could feel the voice's compulsion welling within me.
Finish what you started. The fight is not over until one of you dies. You coward, why won't you kill him?
"Because I have no reason to!"
Kill him!
"No!"
Kill him!
"I don't even know him! I don't know where I am or why he attacked me--"
Kill him.

Like an automaton I lifted my right arm, the hand stiffening into a weapon meant for death. I felt numb; I could not move my legs, couldn't control my hand as it drew back then fell like a meat cleaver. The hard edge of my palm crushed the boy's throat cartilage, snuffing out his life with a sickening crunch. I stared helplessly as blood dripped from the corner of his mouth.

The clouds of colors swirled all around me, becoming darker and darker until everything went black.

~~~

Awake.

I lay on the unforgiving stone floor. My eyes snapped open, ever alert. I recognized the room. The bare grey walls, the wicker rocking chair, the robed monk. In a flood, the memories came rushing back. The past three days training with Laertes. My request to be sent to a battle. The surreal world Laertes had sent me to, without memory of where I came from. The vicious short lived battle, and finally the cold-blooded murder.

I sprang to my feet, bruised chest heaving in pain. Rage further distorted my battered face as I rounded on the stoic monk.

"You son of a bitch!" He did not respond. "What in the hell is wrong with you, you sadistic bastard?" Laertes merely looked at me. "You manipulated me! That was your voice in my head, I knew I recognized it! You forced me to--"

"I did not force you to do anything." The simple statement left me flabbergasted. In all the time I had spent with him, Laertes never spoke a word of lie. The anger exited like an exorcized demon, leaving me deflated and numb. All I could do was stare as the monk went on.

"I sent you to a battle, yes, as per your request. And I repressed your memory of having asked to go there. But the only other alteration I made was to focus your subconscious on "the single goal of destroying your opponent", as I believe you put it.

Too much. I sank to one knee, my head in my hands. He was right, of course. It was my own voice that had commanded me, forced me to kill the unconscious boy. My head imploded with unanswered questions, like a vice crushing my temples. Could I really be such a bloodthirsty killer? I had never taken life before unless I deemed it necessary. The fact that the Ai'Bron Monks would heal him changed nothing.

At the time of the murder, I had not known I was in the Citadel.

I cowered on the ground, for the first time in as long as I could remember truly afraid. Afraid of my own mind, of the barbarism it displayed. As tears ran down my cheeks, stinging the cut beneath my eye, Laertes' calm paternal voice permeated my damaged psyche.

"Meditate on this, Joshua Cronen. I will return this time tomorrow, and our training will continue."

He left my battle wounds unhealed, to my relief. The pain of my bruises was all I had to distract me from the pain of what I had done.

[Skie and Avery]

The Runt and the Ruin

It's been a while since I've seen an open Citadel thread that flowed like this. Well done. For all purposes, Mathias is purple and That Numbers Guy is dark red. Bruises and blood, get it?

STORY

Continuity
--8 Your narrative was very clear here. Even though some key details like how he became enslaved were missing, I still got the basic jist, and could make some pretty educated guesses into the backstory without having to go and read any other threads which is something to definitely be proud of considering how involved the backstory is compared to the simple premise of the thread.
--8 Very nicely done here. While it would be a little easier, not having as intricate a backstory to tie into this, I liked the way you waited until the end, just before revealing the truth, to put the voice to the monk. This could have gone very wrong very easily, making me more confused instead of more interested, but it's something to be said to your skill as a writer to pull this off correctly.
Both of you, well done.

Setting
--7 A very interesting concept, and while it was described well, with a setting like this it would also be advantageous to explain it as well. I get that it was much like a plane that he had once walked, but okay...what's that supposed to mean? Why is it important? What is it's place here in the story?
--8 Stepping into someone else's playground can be a difficult task. I thought you handled this well, and I loved how you used the colorful wisps of ethereal wind to hinder your character here and there. The confusion that you portrayed, and the internal fighting it caused was believable as well.

Pacing
--8 Ah, brevity. Good job, hoss.
--7 A good part of this was the simple fact that you used some difficult moves that involved a lot of intention and if/then theory to keep from being outright bunnies. Also, the time I took to stop, watch the video ((which was pretty hawt. Rawr for men crawling all over each other)) and then wonder how you were going to explain the motions if Mathias decided not to take the damage did some damage to the momentum. I'm not saying that you should stop using these moves, because the very fact that your character knows them and can perform them is integral to who he is. Finding a way to make the description flow more smoothly would definitely help here.

CHARACTER

Dialogue
--4 While it's good that you didn't go into a huge speech in the middle of the fight, your character never spoke at all. No curses, no threats. That didn't take as many points off as your lack of internal dialogue. A narrative, hearing the thoughts of your character if they aren't giving them out loud, is important to help the reader identify with your character. If you can get the reader to feel a personal connection with your character, they will continue to stay with you through your storyline.
--7 Your internal fighting here was really great, though it did come pretty close to stealing the show.

Action
--9 I really loved how you portrayed Mathias here with the actions. They say that actions speak louder than words and despite your low dialogue score, you managed to give me a very clear perception into his character with the things he did, and the expertise, or perhaps lack thereof, to which he performed those actions. It could be that this was all I had to gauge him with because of the silence, but I thought you really shined here.
--7 Good, everything I've come to expect from Joshua. I did like how the murder at the end really encouraged the character growth and I awarded extra points for that, but not in this category. I felt that they were better deserved in Persona.

Persona
--7 Overall, I thought you did pretty good. The way your character acted was stellar, but your poor dialogue is what hurt the most here. Even if it's just a thought, the characters own words will help bring them to life so much better than just explaining their emotions.
--10 I think that this is possibly the most important thread for Joshua Cronen that I have yet to see. Althanians do terrible things every day, and it's so seldom seen to have them feel the horror and succeed in making it real and tangible.

WRITING STYLE

Mechanics
--10
--10
Both of your posts seemed to be carefully proofread with no noticeable spelling or grammar errors that weren’t made for the sake of the narrative.

Technique
--7 Your writing can be a little choppy at times, as if the flow wasn’t quite right. Refining your work and tossing in some little things such as allusion, alliteration and other little literary devices to really turn this into prose.
--8 You’re settling in nicely with the 1st person, though I would like to see a little more refinement in your style. Try and get more into metaphor, and descriptive adjectives and adverbs will be your best friends. All five senses are exceptionally important in first person.

Clarity
--7 When you “ripped” planes, I was so confused. I had to go check your profile. Whether it’s clarifying the background of a story, or using a spell or ability, you always want your writing to be able to show what you mean to a degree that someone new to the Mathias storyline wouldn’t have to open a new thread and go searching for a fact or description to get what was going on. For one, it’s the worst way to get someone to read your other threads. If you dazzle them with the first impression, they’ll be hungry for more.
--9

MISCELLANEOUS

Wild Card 7 - I’m giving the both of you the same WC score, so I won’t mess around with the tags and saying the same thing twice. It’s been a while since I’ve read an open battle on Althanas that ended up being as well written as this one. Not in just the words that were used, but in the gravity that this possessed as an important touchstone in the future history of your characters. This is the sort of battle that made Althanas great back in the old days, and I hope to see more in kind from the two of you.

TOTAL
74
81
Winner: 016573

Mathias receives 300 EXP and 111 GP
016573 receives 1300 EXP and 620 GP

[Witchblade]

EXP and GP added!