Congratulations for making it into the Tournament of Champions. Both teams receive two Fate Points for making it this far! Posting can begin at 1 PM EST on the 7th and the battle closes at 11:59 PM EST on January 28th. Good luck to both teams!
Arenas were arranged at random, and your prompt is as follows:
You will fight atop a mighty stone disk floating within a vicious thunderstorm. Watch your step, for a metal grid lines the disk’s surface.
Out of Character:
The world changed without passion, pivoted only by the perspectives of the people who saw the path upon which they paced. Accelerated or slowed, it made no difference. What mattered was how one used those subtle shifts in time.
Every detail was crystal clear, every blade of grass sharper than the perfect edge. As Kryos spun through air the granite cliffs enclosing the valley whirled past his vision, and the halo of light that illuminated the land of the Garden pulsed with emerald power. Twisting his head left, obsidian strands of hair fluttering as the gentlest breeze, he looked for an opening. His shining, ruby eyes watched every move and shift in stance, while his right arm rose higher and higher, clenched hand skimming next to his cheek before shooting forward. The cold, metallic sword sliced through the air. Closer, closer. Kryos had him.
The staff came from nowhere. It had been on the other side of the elkin a moment before but had met his blade just before impact. The clap of the oak and steel collision pierced the silence of his world, and his muandrian changed direction, sliding across the worn, wooden weapon within Jericho’s grasp. He let the sword flow away with the blow and stepped forward, fist already flying through the air. His partner’s staff raced across the space between their chests and struck his forearm, deflecting yet another blow. But Kryos moved with the speed of water that raged down a coursing river and the fluidity of the tall, yellow grasses of the savannah, bending gracefully to the will of the wind. His spine arched and his weight shifted back, arm and sword racing horizontally toward Jericho’s neck. The elk, in turn, flitted backwards, dodging the blade by inches. Taking his staff in both hands, he raised his only weapon to the sky, as if he were offering it as a gift to the heavens. Kryos’ sword slammed down upon the oak with all the force he had put in his downward follow-up attack, and the blade burrowed into the slender bough. Kryos narrowed his eyes as they pushed against each other, weapons slowly descending until they interlocked between their bodies.
He’s good. Better than I expected, he thought. At first glance, Jericho hadn’t looked like much, as he carried no armor or weapons, save for his personal staff. Ever since they agreed to team up, he had been skeptical of his combat ability. Now, his doubts, while not vanishing completely, eased and set his fears at bay. The hint of a grin played across his features, and he glanced at Jericho’s face.
What?
His concentration slipped, if only for an instant, and Jericho used that against him. The elkin spun his staff like a windmill’s sails, wrenching Kryos’ sword away from them. It landed several feet to his right, and the dwiilar jumped and danced back, out of the staff’s range. He stopped when they were several yards apart, mind whirling, before looking once again at Jericho to confirm what he had seen.
Jericho’s eyes were closed.
He had fought their entire duel without once opening his eyes? Kryos shook his head in confusion, mentally stunned by the concept. How was that possible? Even now he stood there, waiting, blind to his surroundings. Jericho’s ears, too, stood motionless, not bothering to hear his approach.
Annoyance flickered through his soul. He would end this now. The experience he had in combat gave him the upper hand, even against one as unique as Jericho. He stepped forward, knees bent and ready. He breathed once, deeply, before calling upon the powers bestowed upon his race. His red-stained irises quivered before breaching their natural bounds, scarlet completely flooding over his eyes, glowing with the fire of his soul. His vision changed, colors smearing like wet paint on canvas, before solidifying once more. He released his breath in a rush of air. He was ready.
Kryos blasted forward, legs pounding with all the energy they had, eyes locked on the form of his opponent. The swordsman saw his foe shift his weight, watched him move his arms, and knew what Jericho was beginning to do. The soul-mage raised his right arm, ring glinting like the purest flame with the mystical light of the valley, and swung it in a horizontal arc in front of his body, fingers outstretched. He recoiled the limb, bringing his hand back to his right shoulder as a fist in one fluid move. Jericho’s staff erupted with the obsidian flames of the Bane spell and, as they flickered against his hands, the elkin screamed, staff dropping from his grasp. Horror filled his face and his eyes opened at last, allowing Kryos to see the emotions that tore through his mind. Fear and, perhaps more disconcerting, dread. The look of utter despair. He clutched at his head and gasped, and Kryos took that opportunity to strike. He dodged around the hunched figure, eyes scouring the russet colored fur of Jericho’s back, before finding his target. He straightened the first two fingers of his right hand, muscles locked, and struck his victim’s right shoulder. Jericho’s breath caught, and his left arm went limp. Kryos continued his assault, wrapping his arm around the elkin’s soft neck and heaving backwards, throwing him to the ground next to the discarded muandrian. In a fluid movement, Kryos took up his sword and thrust his weapon downward, blade ripping across the flesh and fur of Jericho’s arm, point thudding into the ground. Jericho’s teeth clenched in pain, and he stared into the dwiilar’s burning eyes as the bloody color within slowly returned to normal.
Kryos breathed slowly and deeply to regain control of his emotions. Beneath him, he heard Jericho’s own breath, ragged and fast as he recovered. They were finished with their exercise. He pulled his sword from the ground and wiped the little bit of blood that lined the edge of his blade off with two fingers. Reaching back, he sheathed his weapon and turned back to Jericho.
“Not bad,” he said. Jericho simply looked at him, still stunned by his Bane spell, no doubt. Kryos dropped to the ground next to him, adjusting his sword straps so that he could sit properly without the weapon running into the earth. While absentmindedly rubbing his fingers in the grass to remove the blood, he watched his comrade sit up out of the corner of his eye. Blood flowed steadily from the wound on his arm, but that didn’t seem to bother the elkin. He just nodded absently to the warrior, lost in his own thoughts.
The dwiilar turned and looked out into the valley. They faced the glowing light that hovered above the massive construct in the middle of the valley. It was early in the day, as the small window of sky above the land was just beginning to warm with the fiery orange of dawn. The air, a cool breeze filled with the night’s memories and kisses, felt good against his freshly flushed face, like a woman’s gentle touch, the tracings of her fingers along his skin. Whispers of peace and solace filled the morning, undisturbed as many were just now waking, roused as their inner clocks summoned them from their sublime slumber. Several hundred yards to their left, ruins housed other strangers, and more structures could be seen in the distance around them. Yet, the tranquility of the moment seemed unnatural, as he knew what lay in store for everyone in the valley. He would need to be prepared.
Thinking back on the fight, he recalled any information that could be useful in planning how they would work together when their first battle began, whenever that would be. He had held back during the duel, but that wasn’t to say that defeating Jericho had been easy. The ease and, dare he think it, foresight, at with which his acquaintance acted was unnerving. What power did this young warrior have, one who spoke with the meekness of the downtrodden beggar, but also with the deep tenderness of a loving mother? And how on Althanas had he mangaged to fight so well with his eyes closed? Against any normal opponent, Kryos would have killed them in the first few seconds had they closed their eyes, but Jericho seemed to move with the knowledge of what Kryos was going to do before he actually did it. The ability matched the power of his own eyes, yet that was out of the question. Could it have been telepathy? He was fairly sure that he would have noticed if his mind was being assaulted, so that wasn’t an option either.
He shook his head. These thoughts weren’t helping. This roundabout way of thinking would only confuse him more, distract him from his objective. He needed to stay focused so that he could dispatch his enemies one after the other. No doubt his opponents would be highly skilled, so he would need to be perfect in every way possible. Only then could he learn and become better. Only then, could he have his wish granted.
Lorin, he thought, remembering the face from his youth. That short, somewhat spiky blond hair and that joyful expression he always wore. Kryos smiled at the memories that flitted across his mind, all the fun adventures they had when they were little. He wished that Lorin were here with him now, instead of the strange creature who sat beside him.
Is this right that I fight for you? For a chance to bring you back, to undo the past? He didn’t know the answer. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Still, he had to try, didn’t he? The promise of the voice in the cave did not lie to him. Their hosts had power. Power greater than the elves. Could such a thing be possible? And what were their intentions for organizing whatever they had in store for the people gathered in the valley?
He redirected his thoughts. Focus was essential to victory. There were many questions, but the answers would come. He was certain of that. For now, he needed to face the issues at hand. He glanced at Jericho. The warrior had not moved in the past few minutes of their musings, watching Kryos with deep and oddly thoughtful cervine eyes as blood continued to run down his arm.
“Jericho,” he said, voice sharp. “Take care of your wound.”
The elk jolted, brought back to the present by his words. He glanced down at his injury.
“Of course,” he replied, voice soft, but deep. His head bowed and his eyes closed once more.
You can’t be serious, Kryos thought. Maybe he had been wrong in accepting such a young person to be his teammate in the fights to come. He waited for Jericho to sigh, stand up to get a bandage, anything. But the elkin did nothing of the sort. He just sat there, eyes shut. Kryos’ patience was wearing thin, and the temptation to give Jericho another more serious wound was growing extremely entertaining.
But the bleeding had stopped.
Taken aback, the dwiilar looked closer. The wound was sealing itself, the skin pulling together and healing. So, Jericho was gifted in magic as well. That could explain his fighting ability, he thought.
“Jericho. What exactly was that? How could you fight so well with you eyes closed? And what else are you not telling me about your abilities?”
“Wait,” Jericho interrupted, hand held out. “Something is happening.” His large ears moved back and forth, and his eyes darted about the landscape before them. Kryos looked around, waiting. He felt it as well. The air, charging with an invisible current, lifted the hairs on his skin. He looked to the halo of light at the heart of the vast valley. It pulsed and flared to life with sapphire flames before exploding with emerald luminescence. The intensity blinded Kryos for a moment, and he shielded his eyes. Then, he heard the voices. The great personages of the Cabal, the magistrates of the Tournament of Champions, and the true residents of the Garden of Secrets. Their words rang throughout the valley and Kryos had no trouble hearing them, even though they stood such a great distance away. Utter silence filled the Garden save their voices. As they continued, the wreath of light spun faster and faster, radiating power and intensity. Thin tendrils broke off from the crown, growing and extending outward above the participants. There, they waited, rippling like the rolling waves of the sea. As the Cabal finished speaking, the ethereal arms lowered, descending towards the ground, marking the gateway to their fates. The closest staircase slowed to a stop just down the hill from where Jericho and Kryos sat, as if the magical strand knew where they were and beckoned them to come forth.
“Are you ready, Kryos?” Jericho asked. “To fight for that which is important to us?” Kryos stood in reply, not bothering to answer. But he was ready. Amazing that the elkin would use such a choice of words, as Kryos had told him nothing of Lorin, or his true reason to fight. He breathed deeply and strode forth, down the slight incline. A quiet shuffling and soft footsteps let him know that Jericho had risen as well.
In what seemed no time at all, they had reached the shimmering staircase, swirling with shifting shades of blues and greens. Kryos began his ascension without hesitation, climbing the glowing staircase quickly. Anticipation for the coming battle built, a time when he could let loose against his foes, holding nothing back. Blood called out to him. It had been a long time since he had destroyed an opponent. A half smile flickered across his lips, and the light grew. He felt a pulling on his arms, like the wind was dragging him onward. He could not resist. His limbs moved without his consent. Then, he crashed through a window of glass.
Time vanished.
Kryos did not know where he was, only that he existed. He was falling and flying at the same time, wisps of grays, blacks and blues filling his vision in a cyclone of power. And something else as well. A voice, strong and deep. Whirling around him and through him. The voice of Jericho.
No, not his voice. His mind, he thought. He could hear, or rather, see, what Jericho was thinking. His mind was chaotic with this new development of a portal. Kryos guessed that he had never traveled through one before. Flashes of images raced past his mind as Jericho scrambled to get ahold of himself.
A windswept peak with snow covering the ground and the sky hidden by monstrous clouds. Unsteady footprints pushing ever upward, until he collapsed. A fitting end.
A strange wooden room, filled with tools for working wood. The calm and careful carvings of an older and wiser elkin before him. Tools in his own hands as he worked under meticulous direction.
Him and his friends racing through the forest, alive with joy and passion.
Kryos drew back. These memories were not his, but Jericho’s, buried within his mind. Even now, he could sense the young elkin’s attempt to bring them back, to close off the outlet to his past. Kryos remembered his own youth, his own friends, racing through another forest. Perhaps the two of them were not that different. Perhaps his earlier judgements had wrong.
Darken’s cave flashed through his mind, and Lorin’s tortured body made him freeze with remembrance. He forced the memories back, the event that had changed his life, and locked them away. Yes, they were different. Jericho still had his innocence.
The jeering laughter of drunks and the darkness of the alley, hiding what was happening. What he was doing. His mind was out of focus, but somehow clear enough to realize that he was acting on his own. Beneath him, the beautiful girl they had met. Her fur, as golden as the sweetest drops of honey, felt so soft and welcoming under his hands. His heart pounded, and he smiled. The girl screamed again, but he didn’t care. The hour was late and . . .
Kryos heard Jericho’s yell as the memory tore across both of their minds, before wrenching the images back and out of sight. With an almost audible sound, Kryos felt Jericho seal away his past and turn inward. He could still hear the elkin if he wanted, but he was too shocked. He wasn’t sure what he had just witnessed, the images had gone by so fast. Thoughts raced through his consciousness as he fought to understand. The forest and friends. And the girl. What did they mean? And what was that mountain he had seen earlier? He knew the significance of that was great, as only the memories buried deep within Jericho’s mind had been released. But he could not find the link between what he had seen and what he had learned from being around the man. Questions raged about his mind as time, or rather, existence, wore on. But before long, one became more evident, more pressing. One question that Kryos needed to be answered before this came to an end.
Jericho. Just who ARE you?
Out of Character:
Not there not there no!
Nothing and everything was in this place, this in-between. This and other, there and here, before and now, all the same. No seams between him and not him, inside and outside, secret and known, but not there! Not there, no! He had buried that memory, buried it deeply, but here there was no containing it. In whatever space this was, this between the Cabal had hewn open for their passage, Jericho could find no edges, no borders of his mind to pull closed. He felt that night—that night—break free, surface, slip away into whatever else was here that was him, that was not him, that was...Kryos...
He could see. Kryos could see it.
NO! He raged, he raged against that night, against that shadow. NO. Not there. Not there. It would not be seen, it could not be seen, it was forgiven!
He found a crease, some purchase in the blankness. He had practiced binding that memory for years, so in a moment he had torn it free from the emptiness, wrapped it up, and leapt from nothing into nothing, from the space into the void, plunging into the darkness at the bottom of his mind where no light could fall on what he was—on what he really, truly was. What he tried so hard to redeem, to relinquish, to repay. Somehow, in that bodiless mindscape, he gathered himself. He would become once again what the One had called him to be. Pure. Strong. Faithful. The kind of creature he needed to be in the battle ahead—not the petty skirmish against whatever opponents the Cabal pitted them, but the battle of powers and souls for which he had been sent. The battle for Kryos himself.
So he once again erected the walls and buttresses of his faith, built up his righteous fortress around a soul that curled up, cowering, in the shadows of his mind's dungeon. And as he wept within the emptiness beneath his facade, he felt other things in the seamless space of the vortex. Things he had forgotten he remembered, things he had remembered to forget.
Kneeling over the broken man. Don't worry. I have been sent to help you—to heal you. The man draws his knees to his chest, bows his head to hide his eyes. The call came, and I answered. And if the One has called me, it means that you are at salvation's door. You must believe me. He makes a sound like something starving. What happened to your son, your wife—was not your fault. He is weeping, now. The cellar walls fold over us like cradling arms. The door is opening for you. The way into the Light. Because if the One could save a creature, a fiend, such as I, then there is nothing that can stand between Him and an innocent like you.
The house is quiet, the timber sleeping. Sharp smell of sawdust on everything. I sit up in bed and press my ear against the part of the wall with no splinters. Father and Caanen are still in the workshop. I hear the saw. “I don't know, Caanen. It's gotten to the point that I can't tell whether he just refuses to try or genuinely can't improve.” The saw whines, and Caanen grunts. Must be remaking the table I cracked. “Maybe it's not his fault—maybe his hands just weren't made for this. We could try to find him something easier. Sarai and Habbakuk's boy broke his leg last week; maybe they could use some help tending their pigs...”
He saw others, too. Images and sounds he didn't recognize, but in a voice that was familiar. Kryos.
Steel rasps around the clearing in blinding arcs. As we crush the grass, the pungent sage mingles with the tang of sweat. Can't keep this up, even though he's holding back. I know what he wants me to do. Have to try harder, have to look, have to see. Look beneath, open my real eyes. Come on, look! This is important, why can't I do this? Have to learn...
Light. Light everywhere, in shades and hues familiar and bizarre, splashing over the landscape like dripping watercolors. What is this place? The valley, the forest, the lake—too strange to be real, too familiar not to be. I've heard of a place like this. But if I'm here, that means...
He laughs. Again with that dopey smile. Crazy kid with his bright, ruffled hair and ever-undaunted grin. Whether blue or silver, his shining eyes always argue that it's all just a game, that it'll all be fine. Maybe it will be. What's another run through the forest...we'll call it practice...
NO! STOP IT LEAVE HIM DON'T TOUCH—
A scream rang, flooded, flared through the thoughtspace of the vortex. Wrenching, rotting fire slicked like bile through his heart and into what lay beneath, twisting, turning, corroding. The concussive jarring of the memory shook the elkin to his core, and the vortex itself seemed to recoil from that stain upon Kryos' mind. The shadows drew apart like rending gauze, and with a roar of crashing crystal the world—with all its edges, corners, and seams—came rushing back.
Jericho fell to his hands and knees on a cold, hard surface, shivering hard. He felt crazed, frenzied rain sweeping around him in mad spirals, borne on a demon wind, and the thick smell of nitrogen burned in his nostrils. Though he kept his eyes clenched shut, he could feel the static crackle of lightning flashing all around, followed by bone-cracking impacts of thunder. When he finally opened his eyes, the sheets of rain masked the tears flowing in rivulets over his fur. That had been the worst pain he had ever known. It left no scar or bruise on bone or tissue, but it felt like some great claw had cleaved his heart from his chest, leaving a writhing, twisted cavity in its place. And in that hollow, a myriad of images flickered behind his eyes. Trees, stone. A cave. Black fire...and a name.
Lorin.
Slowly, the elkin lifted his gaze from the black, marbly floor. His ward stood framed by the tempest, at once both contrast and complement to the storm. Kryos' hair, black enough to stand out against the gloomy backdrop of the thunderheads, flailed in the wind like a dark halo, his loose, billowing tunic akin to the tattered feathers of some Stygian raptor. The warrior's sharp features and wraithish complexion defied the squall's wan ambience like a constant flare of lightning. But Kryos possessed one trait that bore no resemblance at all to the storm: His carmine eyes blazed with wrath and bloodlust the likes of which no thunderburst had ever mustered.
For a heartbeat, Jericho wondered if he had been charged with a demon.
Straining, more against the fatigue of his soul than of his body, he lifted his torso upright, shifted back onto his haunches, and stood, taking up his staff. Kryos continued to stare blankly into the boiling sky. A thunderclap shattered above them, jarring Jericho's sternum.
"I'm trusting you, Jericho, to keep us both alive and to fight in the coming battles. But that doesn't mean that I trust you," the swordsman said, just loud enough to be heard over the storm. "How is it that you came to the Garden of Secrets? Why are you here?"
Jericho closed his eyes and breathed, seeking the Voice. Please, Father, guide me through these dark waters. “I have been sent to find you, Kryos. And found you I have. For now, that is enough.”
Pure. Strong. Faithful. That had to be enough.
Another snap of thunder rent the air. The sound reverberated up through the rock, as though the storm were above, below, and around them on all sides. Kryos' gaze sharpened like a dagger drawn from its sheath. “I am not one to play games, elk. Who sent you, and what does he want with me?”
Jericho's ears rocked forward, and his countenance creased, meeting that bloody gaze dead on. “This is no game, Kryos. It may have players, and rules, and even an objective, but it is no game.”
The thunder stilled, and Jericho was unsure if the static crackling in the air had its source in an impending lightning strike or in his glowering ally. For a long, silent moment, they sparred with the sharpened edges of their gazes.
“Get ready,” Kryos said, looking out into the storm. “If our opponents have not arrived already, they will shortly.”
The elkin turned as well to the battlefield. The ebon platform stretched before them for several hundred meters, meeting the storm in an oddly nearby horizon. It looked to be circular, carved of smooth stone made all the slicker by the rain. A kind of pattern lay etched over its surface, but between the quick flashes of lightning, it was impossible to scrutinize. From the looks of things, their competitors had yet to appear.
But then, that was not true. Jericho glanced askance at his partner. Bitterness, vengeance, loss. These adversaries were already all too present, the battle already begun, boiling in the fabric of Kryos' mind.
And in your own, Jericho.
The elkin winced, digging his fingers into the quarterstaff. He had glimpsed the true battlefield in the shadowed gyre that had brought them here, and it had rocked him to his marrow. What hope did he have of doing the will of the One, of warring against such deep shadows as he had been called to do, when he was so compromised? After spending years locked away in the recesses of his nightmares, his sin had clawed its way into his consciousness twice in only a few days. The principalities that governed this place had found his weakness—what chance did he have, then, with the flaw on which all his armor hung exposed?
An outraged bellow of thunder exploded through the clouds, but the dark and churning heavens offered him no reply. In the icy grip of the storm, they awaited the start of the battle—but another much greater tempest, another much greater war, had already begun.
-
Out of Character:
Lavender. A freshly picked stem smouldered in a porcelain cup, the smoke dancing into the air and into the black nostrils of the beast. Each breath was slow, taking in the world, analysing it, and exhaling thoughts and conclusions, forcing the grey smoke to scatter. A deep murr escaped the orange lips, eyes closed, mind ticking over with the fox-man scholar's concerns.
"You may die this very battle. This may be your last chance to see the world," The voice echoed within the beast's mind. His journey across the land and over the oceans took him to many refuges of peace, a Buddhist temple coming to mind. Residing there was Martin, the monk who taught him to calm his emotions, to focus on the task at hand- or in Syaoran's case- at paw. Breathing out, the fox eased his concern.
"I am alive, therefore I must die. If it is today, so be it, if it is tomorrow, so be it," Syaoran whispered as he sat in the middle of his preparation room, naked but for his fur. He sat in full lotus, paws folded in his lap, the silver grimoire in front of his legs. The beast's fur shone in the light of the room, sunlight coming from an unknown origin reflected off Syaoran's covering, turning his fur's browns, oranges and reds into a blaze of colour. The incense turned to ash, signalling the end of the meditation session.
The beast removed himself from the cold floor and picked up the silver book in the one movement. He opened it casually and began to write with the enclosed charcoal.
On his arrival, Syaoran had impersonated the Cabal to save his own life. He was confronted by a man named "Flameweaver". The person was assumed to be royalty but nothing more was obtained. The beast was able to get away quite quickly after the encounter. It was then he was told to come here by what he assumed to be the voice of a Cabal. The fox did not oft have a chance to be as he was meant to be: naked, so he jumped at the chance to do so. The scholar took pause as he stared at the vanilla pages, running a padded paw down its rough surface in remembrance of that fateful day.Quote:
Round One, day one
I have spent a long amount of time meditating over my mixed emotions towards the first battle. Firstly, I have quashed my feelings of inadequacy in war, and second I shunted any inkling to my own dying. If I die, I die, but then what am I worried about? These Cabal (if they do not hate me for impersonating them) will not allow death to occur within their arena. In death I shall find resurrection in their capable hands...if they have hands.
"Son. SON! There isn't time to explain. You remember that game we used to play? Where you'd run and I'd chase you?"
"Yes Papa, I remember."
"Well we're gonna play that right now," Syaoran's father, a tall man in elegant attire, grabbed the young Syaoran by one of his gloved hands, almost dragging him along through the sewers. The town had discovered the child's existance, and so, swiftly and daringly, the man spirited him away into the sewers to escape the riot.
"Papa! You're hurting me!" The boy cried out noisily.
“Shh! They will do worse to you than I ever could!" His father retorted harshly. The echoed screams then reached them. They cried out for death, for destruction. The boy, hearing this, ran faster with his father, not knowing why, just knowing he should. They stopped abruptly at the end of the large pipe, leading out into the wild forests. The father, gasping, looked back at 'civilization', and then got to his knee, his bright green eyes looking into the boy's teal ones.
"Son- son- son," Tears were in his green orbs. The boy hugged him, once more not knowing why, just knowing he should.
"Please Papa! What's happening? I don't understand..." The father pushed the boy back, tears silently flowing down his cheeks. Their eyes met, the background noise of chaos growing closer, but ignored.
"You don't need to understand. Just know that we love you. Here," The man took a leather bound book from his ruck sack and thrust it at the boy's chest, forcing him to grab hold of it tightly. "Syaoran- run to church. Do you remember church?" The boy blinked his teal orbs, turning his head to the side a little.
"Yes Papa. But why the book? Why must I go to church?" The father looked pained by the child's questions and turned the boy away.
"Stop asking questions. Just go! GO!" Tears swelled in the child's eyes, not understanding why his father was being so harsh. What did he do wrong? Being a good boy, he did what he was told and began to run, the silk of his hand-embroidered pyjamas rubbing together, tail waving madly behind himself. Still clutching the book, the youth glanced backwards, pupils small and fearful. There he saw his father cower backwards, set upon by the town.
The youthful eyes melted into the dark ones of the present, all emotion void of them. Syaoran continued his entry:
The beast signed his name at the bottom in lavish fashion and closed the book, clasping it shut and placing it on its desk. It was time to mask his ugliness. He looked to his uniform neatly laid out on the provided bunk, running his other paw down it in the same fashion as the book. He then began to get ready, thinking about Grin. Suddenly he stopped, thinking himself quite stupid as he forgot his promise to Grin.Quote:
This may be my last entry.
Father, if some how you come across this, or someone shows it to you, know that I have forever missed you. Your kindness and loyalty gave me the strength to run. I dearly hope the town did not kill you.
To Mother, I still hate you.
Syaoran quickly moved to a bowl of water and some soap. When the partnership was made, it was promised that the beast would try to cover the scent. Syaoran rubbed his paws together with the bar of fats and tried scrubbing at his glands on his maw. It didn't seem to be working. The cleaning apparatus seemed to do one thing, mess up his fur.
"Bah..." He exclaimed to himself, throwing the soap aside. Rather than using his paws, he shoved his face into the bowl of water and shook it around, removing the offender immediately. The beast removed his head from the bowl and began to dry it by manipulating the water off of his fur, going back to getting changed.
A few minutes went by and he was in his metallic pants, slowly doing up the belt, the silver chain hanging off of it minus the book. Syaoran held his paw out and it shook slightly, manipulating the chest plate into the air. He slid it onto his torso and it automatically snapped shut. The beast took his trench coat and whirled it around onto his right arm, sliding the left in after. Syaoran arced his head back and closed his eyes, his unclad paws touching each pocket and saying what was in it, trying to remember each bit.
"Flint. Waterskin.. Birdseed." He stopped at the last item and grinned a little, reaching into the pocketed pouch and taking out a pinch of the seeds, depositing it in his mouth. Birdseed was essentially low grade popcorn, which Syaoran enjoyed munching on once in a while. To complete the bottom half of his armour, the fox stepped into his metallic shoes, thus covering his beastliness.
Syaoran looked at his paws, noting that he needed to do his nails soon, they were getting extremely long. He slowly slid them into their metallic covering and they tightened with the use of metal manipulation. He looked them over with a little sadness. Covering up was not the most favourite of rituals, but it had been necessary his entire life. The fox sighed gently, his feet clicking on the floor as he moved towards the portal, and picked up his straw hat from the nearby desk and his book. His pointed ears flattened back and the hat was placed carefully on top, the veil falling in front of his eyes, completing the transformation. The fox gritted his teeth a little, straightening his legs so they appeared human, cracks from old joints echoing around the room.
The Scholar snapped the silver book onto its chain with a loop and latch system, standing in front of the portal. If the beast was to die today, he would die with his memories. Closing his eyes, he stepped through.
Time disappeared. The feeling of freedom flowed over Syaoran, making him lose breath. It felt so perfect to be free of the invisible enemy of time. The fox thought it a shame he would not have a chance to record this event until after the battle.
The world came to. The human-disguised beast-man was in a storm, the wind blowing his trench coat to the side, his veil fluttering in a chaotic dance as air battered it. His animal eyes allowed him the privilege of seeing the area and there they were, the enemy. One was an elk! Instinct began to rise. The beast licked his lips as he thought of the connection with elks, so delicious with wild garlic. No, he's an opponent. The beast tried to suppress the urge and focus on the battle. His training as an 'elementalist', one with such a connection to nature that they could manipulate it to their will, allowed him to feel the elements around himself: the fresh rain, the rough air, the marble rock and the plynth metal rails. This was perfect for him. Then, perfection was improved, lightening bolting in the background, lighting up the humanoid form of Syaoran to the enemy.
Suddenly, Grin materialized in front of Syaoran. It was at that moment the beast had his plan.
"Move right!" He shouted at Grin, shooting his arm up in the same moment.
Grin, the heavily armoured defender was ever trusting of his partner and rolled quickly to the right. A bolt of lightening shot down from the cloud above, twisting itself around the elementalist's arm. The control of the lightening caused Syaoran to shake violently, his body taking on the characteristics of lightening: chaotic movement. The bolt spiralled around the beast's body, keeping his mysterious, covered form visible to the opponents. Syaoran took a hard step forward with his left foot and thrust his left arm forward, loosing the bolt towards the pair.
The fox gasped for breath, the exertion quite a lot for an opening move, but he overcame his sudden tiredness for the plan must be followed through with. Grin needed his boost. Syaoran's metallic paws began to gather air into a spinning, whistling orb in front of his chest, the left paw above the orb, the right one below to control it, focussing and amplifying the air's energy.
This was battle, and it was glorious.
Out of Character:
A faint grey ribbon of smoke rose from the end of burning stick of incense. Grin watched it rise, straight at first, then wiggling like a snake before fanning out and fading away. With a grunt, he ground it into the stone-paved floor of the cramped stone-block room. Syaoran, his partner, claimed that the lavender incense would relax him, but all it did was give the mercenary guard a headache. Perhaps the fox-man just liked the smell because it helped to mask the awful stench his body made. He chuffed at that thought in mild amusement before turning his mind to more important things. What would help to calm him was his usual 'ritual' before a job: going over the details.
His 'target' was his partner: a tall, capable fighter with the ability to bend the elements themselves to his whim and will. To a certain extent, anyway. But as with every 'spellcaster' Grin had ever met, time was the fox-man's greatest weakness. He required time and focus to use his abilities so Grin's primary objective was to provide him with what he needed. His secondary objective was to hack, slash, bash and stomp his opponents into the ground. Of course, allowing Syaoran the opportunity to 'soften them up' first would make his secondary objective that much easier to complete.
With no sign of effort, Grin picked himself up off the floor and walked across the well-lit stone room, several bronze oil lamps with thick wicks cast bright yellow light across the room and gave Grin's normally silver-coloured suit of plate armour a golden hue. He walked across the room to face a full-length mirror of polished metal and glass and went through the careful process of adjusting the straps, plates and joints that made up his armour. It was imperative that his armour was fitted just-so for combat. Any gap, any loose strap or misplaced plate would provide a vulnerability that a skilled combatant could and would use make use of against him.
When he had checked over the whole suit of armour for a third time and once again assured himself that all was right with it, he collected his helmet from the armour rack to the left of the free-standing mirror and slid it over his head. His armour almost complete, he picked up his sword from the weapon rack on the right side of the mirror and checked it for nicks, scratches, dents or any warping of the blade. Of course, there were none. The enchanted damascus blade was magically resistant to such things and he'd had the weapon repaired before coming to the tournament. He placed it back on the weapon rack and collected his back-up weapon: a three-foot long 'cleaver'. The broad, single-edged blade would provide ample cutting power within a short range should it be required and the thick, blunt back of the blade had been known to break bones and joints in the past. He slipped the blade into its sheath and fastened that to his belt, then took up his delyn shield and checked every facet of it. The strap and handle were firmly fixed, the reinforcing lengths of wood and steel were stout and the plate itself was buffed to a mirror finish. While its propensity to explode under magical stress was ordinarily a fact against the choice of delyn for a shield, its ability to completely absorb direct magical assaults was enough to sway Grin into using it. Several times a caster had been caught off-guard by his spell having no effect when cast at Grin's guard and almost every time that moment of confusion had ended fatally for the magi.
The mercenary smiled beneath his helmet as he slipped his shield onto his left arm and took up his hand-and-a-half sword once more. This was it: the point of no return. How had he ended up in a so-called 'Tournament of Champions?” Was he a champion? He didn't think so. A skilled warrior, someone with a knack for understanding how protecting something properly, a guard by nature and training. All of those things he was, but he had never competed in such a tournament before. He supposed that should he and Syaoran win, they would be champions.
As he crossed the room calmly towards where the portal to the arena was supposed to open, he thought back on how they had met. It was not long after he had received a strange invitation to this tournament, then been set upon by assassins who had met a brutal end by the blade of his sword. Apparently, their lives had been forfeit as a test of the mercenary's skill, though he had later learned that those running this tournament had the ability to bring the dead back to life. That fact rather cheered him up, truth be told. The idea of dying permanently was not one that gave him a warm, fuzzy feeling inside. He had then found himself wrenched from the world and dumped somewhere else, although where exactly he still didn't know and didn't care to ask. He had been informed that he would require a partner in the tournament to come and having decided that a spellcaster of some type would best fill the gaps left by his choice of skills, he had gone in search of one. Perhaps it was the will of the Gods, the 'cabal' who were running this competition or simply luck, but whatever the driving force, he had encountered Syaoran, the 'elementalist' scholar who was as much fox as man, if not more. The fox-man's smell had been off-putting- to put it mildly- but Grin could not deny his ability. The added bonuses that the scholar wore some armour and could still cast and that he was a skilled mêlée fighter were simply too good to overlook and the Fox-man was quickly accepted as his partner in this event. Knowing that their success hinged largely on their understanding of each other's strengths and weaknesses, they had spoken at length about what they could and could not do, had run together, had sparred and nearly killed each other and themselves doing so. But it was all worth it. Although they had known each other only a short time, Grin couldn't help but feel that if there was anyone anywhere that he could trust his life with, it was Syaoran. He knew that long after 'Tournament of Champions' was over, he and the fox-man would be friends. Heck, if he could stand the smell of Syaoran's uncontrollable musk for long enough, he might even take a break from his usual places of work and travel with the scholar. While Grin had no past issues that needed dealing with, Syaoran did and Grin felt it only right he help the fox-man in any way he could.
But all of that was for another time. The portal appeared inside a ring of precious metals, engraved with arcane markings that demanded awe, even given their simplicity in some cases. Grin looked at the swirling blue-white circle before him and wondered for a moment what in the heck he was doing. He shook the thought off, took a deep breath and stepped through the portal. His first foot through found no purchase and he tumbled in, holding his breath by instinct.
Time and gravity and all sense of being a solid object in a solid world was lost. He had the sensation of falling, but as he could not seem to find his body, he wondered how he could fall. Old memories of his past surfaced as if his mind were grasping for some reprieve from the strange blue-white existence it had been thrown into. The last moments of those Grin had killed in the line of duty flashed by one after the other and, Grin suspected, in order. But the man felt no remorse or regret for those deaths he had brought about. Those people, every one of them, had chosen to try and take that which did not belong to them. Whether hired or self-motivated, those people had attacked that which Grin had been charged to defend knowing that they may die attempting to take it, just as he knew he may die protecting it. He was not a sadistic man; he took no pleasure in the suffering or death of others. He had brought about the swiftest end he could to each and every one of them, even if he had done so with a smile that threatened to split his head in half. He did not smile for the reasons many people thought he did; he smiled because in those moments of combat, in those times where it was kill or be killed, he felt most alive.
Suddenly and without warning, the white was gone, replaced with hard ground and a storm not just above but around as well. He staggered, found his footing and waited a moment for his eyes to adjust. Just as they did, he heard Syaoran's familiar voice telling him to move to the right. Without a moment's thought, he dived to his right and rolled over his shoulder, ending the manoeuvre in a crouch, his shield raised in front of him and sword held down but most certainly in a position to be thrust forth if an attack was needed. For a moment, nothing happened and Grin took that little slice of time to take in his surroundings. The ground glistened in the pouring rain like a precious gem and when a flash of lightning lit the massive arena, he recognised the markings as being marble. Having worked for a lot of rich people, he had seen a lot of marble in his life. The arena itself had no walls, but spread out before him for several hundred feet at the very least. There was a criss-cross of some other material inlaid in the marble that did not shine the same and while Grin couldn't tell what it was exactly, he was careful to avoid it at least until which time as he did know, if not after. He shuffled over to his right slightly to get his left knee and foot off the length of unknown material and was taken by surprise when a bolt of lightning went horizontally through the air to his left. Only a few seconds at most had passed so that must have been what the command to move was for. Grin stood and shouted for Syaoran to fall in behind him as he tried to make out their opponents in the poor light. One appeared to be rather large, but Grin couldn't make out the race or appearance of either just yet. That unknown annoyed him, but he was sure he would be getting up close and personal with both of them soon and that would have to be good enough for him.
As ordered, Syaoran stepped across so that Grin was once again between himself and their opponents, moving up so he was but two feet behind the warrior.
"Can you see them, Grin?" Syaoran asked.
"Not clearly. You?"
"I can. A humanoid and the big one is like me, but an elk. The humanoid has a sword. Nothing grand. The elk has a staff, no metal."
"Sounding good so far. There's gotta be a catch,"
"Be ready. We don't know what they're capable of yet."
"Ready to move when you are," Grin told the Fox.
-
The silence and anticipation stretched long between the two combatants as they waited, wrapped in the mottled light and numbing wash of the massive storm. As his cloak grew ever heavier with rain, Jericho held his staff close and tried to keep from shivering, and while his charge stared stoically past the arena's edge, the elkin's own mind raged with greater and greater agitation. Weakness, so weak, on every front...the sheer momentum thrumming from the heart of the thunderclouds only accentuated how small he was in this place. A tiny soul that had thrown himself into a tumult of powers far greater than he.
A thunderclap like the cracking of every tree trunk in Raiarea crashed around him. He jumped visibly, cowering a little as he watched a fissure of lightning lace away into layers upon layers of clouds.
Hush, be still, my child small,
beneath the transom, 'tween the walls—
the thunder cannot reach you here.
My child, you have naught to fear.
He knew this memory. It always came back to him in his best of dreams, from when he was young and bare-crowned, from before his mother's sickness. For a moment, he imagined her supple arms folding around him in place of his waterlogged cloak, substituted the silken tendrils of her lullaby for the brash and howling wind.
Lay your head down, go to sleep,
for yet the Shepherd tends his sheep,
and though the storm may fill the sky,
a stronger One is standing by.
More memories followed unbidden—but purposely, as though someone else were plucking them with care from the folds of his mind. It was not like the maddened, panicked flurry of the portal. These memories laughed.
Joyful tears gleaming on the face of a hardened soldier in Salvar; dungeon doors buckling before him and the refugees in his care; clear water suddenly gurgling from the earth in the Nirrakal; a mother's eyes, bright as emeralds, as he carried her lost son through the doorway. The One had done these things—he had done them with Jericho's hands. Men had called him mad, called his goals outrageous. Called the odds impossible, much as they seemed now.
I have called, and you have answered, Jericho. Why do you doubt me? Only follow, knowing I have marked the way.
Jericho released the shuddering breath he'd forgotten he was holding. Slowly, he lifted his head once more, opening his eyes to the battlefield. His heart still raced, but some sliver of it felt anchored, solid.
I have trusted you before, he prayed. Help me to trust you again. The Voice flared in acknowledgement—and then he felt the shadows.
They whickered over the platform like a thin flock of warped birds, invisible but for the crackling of their wings on the far reaches of Jericho's spirit. The unseen ripples, creases, cracks of energy, wove through the clouds and settled on the far side of the disk, converging, intersecting.
And then there were two figures standing where none had stood before—heavy, formless smudges on the storm's canvas.
The Voice moved, and his limbs followed, not waiting for his sluggish brain to understand why. Such surrender had been forged by long years of experience. The One always made a way—surely, even now in this maelstrom of thunder and lightning and old wounds, he was clearing the path once more.
His left arm pressed against the air, throwing a wave of gossamer light hard against his teammate. As his right arm rose, spreading a second shield between himself and his adversaries, his mother's lullaby echoed in his mind.
And though the storm may fill the sky, a stronger One is standing by.
The world blazed white—
—and blackness.
-
Out of Character:
Wind. Water. Air. Fire.
The elements ripped at Kryos, thrashing his frame this way and that, attempting to throw him down. Flashes of light broke the sky apart with deep, resonating booms. And always, the consuming shadows of the thunderheads engulfed all.
Kryos waited. Waited for the inevitable battle to start. In the barrage of rain, his scarlet eyes glowed with life, twin pools of the eternal pit. He watched the clouds shift, bulge, and diminish, using every flash of the storm to scan the platform once again.
Jericho moved.
At the edge of his vision, Jericho spun his arms, and a gleaming golden lens blasted into Kryos. The glowing, curved wall struck his right side, the transparent magic firm and solid, and lifted him with the force of the collision. Kryos grunted and spun his body against the shield, pushing away from it with his left hand. As he landed, his boots slid across the slick, cold rocks, splashing rainwater onto his already wet pants. His left arm shot down, hand pressing against the stone as it rushed by, keeping his balance while his right hand reached up to grasp his sword. Fury rose within him like a woken beast against Jericho. He didn’t trust the man, but he hadn’t expected betrayal. This was unacceptable and, if he didn’t know any better, completely out of character for the elk. Eyes full of accusation and anger, he glared toward his “friend,” before seeing the crackling bolt of death rip past him.
The air filled with thousands upon thousands of shrieks and cracks as the air was rent in twain. Pure, unpolluted light snapped, hurtling toward the elkin. Another glimmering shield hovered between destruction and life, Jericho’s arm just finishing the summoning of the barrier. The lightning bolt impacted, breaching and splintering off into seven or eight smaller bolts, each curving around the mystic shell and flying off in different directions. The terrible force threw Jericho back, his body and spine arching, limbs outstretched, eyes open and mouth gaping. As his large form struck the ground, the ethereal barricade blossomed with lines, deep tears in the purest of magics, before breaking completely. Golden fragments rained down upon the earth like the tears of the sun before wisping off into nothing, the spell overcome with the raw power of the storm.
Or perhaps, the power of their adversaries.
As he skidded across the marble, finally slowing to a stop, Kryos twisted his head, eyes piercing the darkness. Searching. Lightning snapped once again. Two tall, strong forms stood silhouetted against the momentary illumination. They had arrived. Kryos pulled with his right hand, his long blade rasping as it abandoned its sheath. The dark edge glinted in the dim light, and Kryos rushed forward toward his ally. He narrowed his eyes against the water droplets streaming across his face and hair. Protecting Jericho was priority now. Struggling to keep an awareness of the movements of his foes, he halted next to his comrade.
The warrior lay on his back, eyes closed, fists clenched, fur the color of mud and clay. Kryos glanced at his opponents once again, but they were still some distance off. He had a few moments. He reached down his left hand to press against the wet, matted fur at Jericho’s neck. A pulse beat strongly, if a little slower than normal. And it didn’t appear that the elk had sustained any severe damage. Probably magical backlash.
“Jericho!” Kryos called, voice rising in the wind. “Jericho! Wake up!”
The body under him didn’t stir. Kryos slapped his cheek once. “Damn it, Jericho. Get up!” Yet try as he might, the man did not wake. Whatever had struck him must have knocked him pretty deep into unconsciousness.
He was on his own.
Retracting his hand, he took a deep breath to steady his nerves. Jericho falling so quickly had taken him by surprise. Now, he would have to defend them both, either until the elkin arose, or until he fell.
Hair and shoulders dripping with black water, Kryos rose from his crouch and turned, facing his enemies. The wind picked up, howling even louder in his ears and pulling against his loose clothing. Streaming silver tears of its own as the rain washed downward, his sword came up, ready, and he shifted his feet. Lightning flashed twice more, illuminating the change in Kryos–the burning fury and cold cunning that filled his gaze, and the erupting crimson that covered the disks of his eyes just as the the onslaught of the storm covered the disk of the arena.
Out of Character:
Aka, confirmed them.
The beast peered over the shoulder of his armoured wall of an ally, observing the repercussions of the lightening. One down. It wasn't dead, it was stunned, just as its dumb equivalent stops at bright lights from a bullseye lantern. An indication of the elk's status was the fact his partner did not charge but stayed at his side. Only a lunatic would defend a corpse. That shield was powerful, so powerful it split lightening into individual strains. Syaoran then assumed that the anthropomorph's power was beyond himself, being assisted by a higher being, much like the holy monks who gave the fox his Cross of Saintly Spirit.
That humanoid was left. A quick look indicated him to be a warrior, meaning the elk was the primary spell caster. The fox, holding the whizzing air in paw still, leaned his maw, still under the veil, to the side of Grin's helmet to convey the information.
"The elk is still alive. The one standing is their warrior. We need to finish off the spell caster before it wakes. On mark, we charge," The defender nodded, his metal clunking at the small movement. Syaoran took a small step backward and shoved the air-ball forward, a small blast erupting around Grin as a layer of air formed around him as a membrane. The scholar then gritted his teeth and stepped forwards, thumping the ground to make a long, cylinder of marble shoot out of the ground, landing in front of Syaoran. The beast remembered his tactic sessions with Grin.
The half drunk man laughed heartily in their small common room between their preparation areas, slamming the tankard onto the wooden table, soaking it once more with the remainders of the cup.
"Nows...we gots to know our plans...what'll we do if theres an...a thing where one is down...the other up..." Syaoran narrowed his eyes, taking a sip of his goblet filled with milk. He tried deciphering what Grin had said and eventually came to: We need to know a plan, what will we do if one of our opponents is injured and the other isn't.
"Oh...well I think what should happen is we will charge, I will bombard the uninjured one, and you slay the downed one. I just throw air and rock at our opponent...or something..." Syaoran raised an eyebrow at Grin wobbling in his seat, taking another sip of milk.
"On second thought...you should go to bed...I'll write it down for you to read tomorrow..."
"Mark!" Grin, now under his new found speed, charged forward, his hand-and-a-half sword raised along with his shield. Syaoran ran forward too, but lagged behind because he had 'stuck' the marble cylinder to his left paw using manipulation, dragging it along the ground. His right metallic paw flicked back and forth over the top of the marble quickly in short, sharp movements, manipulating the marble, in pawfulls, to be small, razor sharp chips, flinging them at the warrior standing at the ready. His aura glowed a deep brown, the essence of earth flowing through his veins, allowing the elementalist commands over reality.
The beast kept his keen eyes on the warrior, throwing the rocks quickly and accurately, forcing as much velocity into the chips as they moved forward. Suddenly Syaoran found that moving his paw flung no more rock, his cylinder having disappeared. Phase two begun. He increased his running speed behind Grin, almost at the destination, his hands grasping at air once more and pulling it in, preparing another air ball. This next attack would nearly be the end of his magical energy reserves. Luckily enough, the power of nature was not in connection to his physical strength. Yes, he needed to breath more for magic, but his body was not tired. Phase three was a physical bombardment.
The whole time the scholar was concentrating, forcing his mind and soul to be pure for the battle to be won. It was tough to achieve, for secretly, the travelling writer dearly loved battle. This was almost bliss. The rain splashing itself against his body did not matter, the wind was but an annoyance, the lightning cracking across the sky lit this visage of glory. The beast was settling in for his treat, for his meal of war.
Out of Character:
”Mark!”
Grin found himself suddenly travelling faster then he had been before, but with no extra effort. He had experienced this before in training.
”Okay, are you ready?” Syaoran asked.
“Yep. Hit me,” Grin replied and with those words, the 'air buff' was cast. He ran forwards and was taken by surprise at the speed. He had expected some improvement but not as much as he had received. He slammed his right foot down in front of himself, but both of his feet slid across the pebble-covered dirt patch went out from under him, landing him on his back.
“That. Is. Incredible!” Grin barked, then burst into laughter and got up to try again.
The thin sheet of rainwater splashed out with each footfall, each step landing before the spray from the last step had landed. He didn't want to charge right on through his opponents, so he began a kind of hopping step which quickly washed off his speed. He gave Kryos secondary attention, aiming to stab the fallen Elkin Jericho while he was vulnerable. He angled his sword for a downwards thrust at the upper torso of the elkin, but just as he got in range and pushed forth his sword, it was driven aside by Kryos' own muandrian. The bastard sword point struck the marble and shattered out several chunks before digging in and stopping. Grin twisted his body to the left and threw his right shoulder into Kryos, sending the ebon-haired young man tumbling away as Grin himself tripped. Because the air spell cast by Syaoran was still in effect, Grin's speed was still improved, allowing him to roll and return to his feet quickly, his armour clanking as it struck against itself and the marble ground.
It seemed that Kryos would not allow Jericho to die so easily, but that was hardly surprising. While Grin remembered the plan to kill any who fell as a priority, he couldn't simply leave Kryos to his own devices. “Change of plan! On your target!” Grin barked at Syaoran and moved up on Kryos. He swung as soon as he was within range, using a diagonal-down slash at Kryos' chest. Kryos stepped back out of range just in time, but before he could counter, Grin had twisted his right arm around and using his shield to stop the first swing by pressing the edge of it into the inside of his right elbow, he swung the sword wielded with his right hand back out as he stepped forwards again. His sword swung out in a backhand sweep with blinding speed and Grin's shield was once more raised before his chest and lower face, his sword slicing raindrops as they fell, dividing them in half but not changing their direction at all.
Kryos took a quick, light step in towards Grin during the brief opening the heavily-armoured warrior had created. With speed matching Grin's backhand, Kryos slashed across the top of Grin's shield at his head, but Grin showed that his speed was not restricted to his sword and the muandrian glanced harmlessly off the top of Grin's helmet as he raised his shield, the passing contact of metal on metal screeching out like a bird of prey. As Grin lowered his shield, brought it aside and swung another torso-height horizontal chop in one smooth action, he found Kryos to be gone. Not gone, but moved off to Grin's right, aiming to blind-side him. Kryos twisted and rolled away from the sword, using the same damage-lessening technique he applied to blunt weapon impacts. The point of Grin's hand-and-a-half sword slashed open the skin over Kryos' left shoulder-blade. The hit was superficial and the bleeding would be negligible, but any pain Grin caused Kryos was another bonus to himself.
Grin knew Kryos' kind. Sneaky, fast, dexterous. He often dealt with thieves and assassins, almost as much as he dealt with thugs. They always underestimated him but he would never allow himself to underestimate them. One slip up and one would end up with a knife in the face, or neck, or kidney. He was relying on Syaoran's air buff to keep up with the crimson-eyed lightweight fighter, but he hoped that he could drive Kryos far enough back that Syaoran could lend a more active hand in the fight.
Out of Character:
Blood dripped from his arms and leg. Now his back, too, added a stream of slithering scarlet to the thin rivulets flowing down to the groung. His side slammed into the pitted, uneven stone. Forcing his muscles to move, he rolled across the hard rock. An explosion erupted next to him as his opponent’s heavy sword transformed marble to dust. He pushed himself off the ground with clenched hands and rose to a crouch, turning to face his opponent. He paused for a second to steady his shaking, bleeding limbs.
The tip of his muandrian quivered, droplets of shrouded water breaking free from the edge.
The world flashed white and the earth shook with the shockwave that followed. Kryos flinched backwards and to the side, bringing his hands up in defense. Lightning struck ten feet to his left. Surging electricity flew past his feet, illuminating the lifeless, polished texture of the rock. The terrible might of the storm raised the hair at the back of his neck as it raced along the metal grid embedded in the stone. Taunting him. Daring him to leave Jericho’s side. Movement as the metal-clad warrior came alive and charged.
Parry. Parry. Dodge. Strike! He flowed from one movement to the next. Watch him. Watch him. See what he’s doing before he does it. Wait! Now! Lunging forward, sword plunging through the air, he attacked his target. The dull breastplate of his enemy. Impact.
Shift grip! Readjust! Back off!
His body screamed at his mind before it could comprehend what had happened. He shuffled backward, eyes filled with anger. The armor hadn’t even dented. A breath hissed past his lips as he ground his teeth, and he shook his dripping hair from his eyes. Another flash of lightning froze the warrior’s frame in an instant of heavenly wrath, the blazing highlights of his armor cutting a portent of doom into the writhing clouds. Then the rain washed away the light, and Kryos engaged the opponent once again.
Downward, across, and straight inward. Each time, no matter the blow, the footwork, his blade was met by unyielding metal. It was too much. No matter his speed and evasion, the gashes where the enchanter’s marble shards had sliced his calf and arms throbbed, weakening him. Even dodging the subsequent column of air hadn’t saved him. None of it mattered in the end. He couldn’t keep between Jericho and the danger that approached.
The dancing swords spun, twisting. Kryos followed his weapon, stumbling after it to keep his grip. Fire lanced across his right leg, and a heavy boot crushed into his left side. He buckled. The stone rushed up, hard and unforgiving as ever. He rolled again, but couldn’t get to his feet in time. His eyes flashed, darting about, looking for a way to save himself. Undo his single mistake. His one lapse in concentration. His clothes, sopping with rain and blood, clung to his body like webs. A flash of steel, and of lightning. The twin cracks of earth. His mind’s freezing realization when he rolled into a straight, hard surface too reflective to be marble. The relief and anxiety as the jolting current charged past him. And the hate that burned his mind as the shining knight in armor raised his great sword into the sky, tilted the blade downward, and begun his thrust. Death’s sealing kiss that would pierce his soul.