Matches begin May 7th 12:01 AM CST. Good Luck!
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Matches begin May 7th 12:01 AM CST. Good Luck!
In a myriad of iridescent strands, the light rebounded from the wave that made up the sharpened side of the blade of "The Bastard," focused into one point, then then sent scattering. Holding this sword, based on a design of an ancient Dwarven King, the Nightingale stood, watching the skies. Her eyes were wide, rounded with awe as she perceived the vision in the sky that would not, should not, could not be Althanas.
After the expanse of the scrub-land earthy desert, which stretched before her plain and flat for miles upon miles, the sky met and kissed the ground in the gleaming horizon. Hovering just above this, the glowing orb of the usual sun took centre stage. Except - just beside her, in this deep orange sky there was a fainter, but just as proud, second star, sending a wide second arc over the landscape. Three dark blots also indicated three moons; one was exceeingly fast and racing across behind the clouds, as if there was no time to lose - the other two were just as lazy as the twin suns.
The monk had led her here, with a grumpy expression. Over the weeks of the tournment Philomel had, in some way, gotten used to these Ai'Borone or Ai'Bron or Ai'Ai-whatevers-they-were, comparing them with some glee to her good friend and "patron" Mister Draak. The serious inhabitants of the citadel were in no way as world-reknown or daring as the massive troll who worked as the herbalist for the multi-god monstery in the lower town. Instead they offered very little explanation when they showed her a door, then practically shoved her into this bizzare and unreal world.
Out of the mouth came a sigh, and slowly the faun turned around, looking over her surroundings. Of course, the doorway was completely gone. All there was was the expansive low-lying bushes, the dust under her hooves, spare rocks to throw at a being's head. Severe heat, presumably caused by the duality of the suns, caused her to begin to sweat in her hairy buttocks. Growling, the assassin-whore strode a little away, the tip of her sword dangerously close to being dragged along the ground. Her eyes still scanned the area, but she still found no sign of her opponent.
All she saw instead was the ginger-tipped ears of her beloved earth-spirit companion, who was sniffing at a rosy-leafed bush. She smiled a little, then returned to her irritation.
Seriously, she muttered under her breath, This is pointless.
"What," Tobias drawled as he stared into the distance at a warped, unknown world, "the fuck."
He had narrowly escaped a hailstorm of arrows and dodged catastrophic carnage only to find himself in a world bereft of not only life, but also devoid of normalcy. "You know, I'm just going to stop asking questions." The obviously jaded Tobias brushed the mess of brown from his eyes and snorted belligerently.
The abnormal heat that blazed over the sand-blasted world seemed more annoying than impeding; the training he had done across several different climates had rendered him oblivious to most of the elements. Severe cold, severe heat, and everything in between offered him a specialized endurance that only a soldier could boast. Perspiration lined the inside of his clothing and stained lightly through, but his breathing remained steady.
Across his back, a black hilt protruded from behind his shoulder, and wrappings like a bandage covering a wound concealed a weapon the size of a short sword. He had grown accustomed to the weight, but it was still far more cumbersome than his previous Dwarven weapon. Each step burrowed a bit deeper in the sand. Tobias pretended not to notice.
He saw the strange, half-goat woman in the distance and narrowed his eyes. "Wild guess," he muttered, and small brush crunched beneath his boots. His hand hefted the weighty weapon and he slid it deftly into his grip. Wrappings slid away to reveal a blade like the dark of night, and it seemed to swallow light instead of reflecting it.
"My name is Tobias," he called to her, "and I wager that you're my enemy."
Her chest moved as she regularly breathed, keeping every muscle in check and every heart flutter under control. As the words came to her ears she found herself startled, but her practise and self-taught control showed no sign of the fear. Instead her eyes rose, caught the attention of those, there, before her, of the other creature who had now come across this desert land. Dark pupils ringed by gold. Strong shoulders, proud stance. Slightly shorter than her.
Philomel tensed, her body on high alert.
Stay down, she said quickly to Veridian, Stay hidden.
And the giner-tipped ears disappeared behind the shrub. A very slight rustling to her ears told her he was merging himself, making his body one with the shrub.
And thus, then, she stepped forwards, directly to the man who had called, raising her chin as she did.
"I am only your enemy if you call me so," she answered back, as vehemently as he had called. "I am Philomel, they call me the Nightingale."
Her lips quirked a subtle, dubious smile.
"In that spirit, are you here for your death?"
Gently, into the air, she raised The Bastard. He shone like a beacon of justice in this red-tinged world, this un-Althanasly place of strange hopes and dreams, bizzare imaginations. Her tongue snaked across her lips; her full-bodied luscious lips. If her fighting did not quell this man, her feminine wiles would.
Should.
Would.
"If Death be my fate," he replied in an earnest, almost nonchalant tone. Few people were as unafraid of the inevitable as Tobias; he had faced oblivion enough times to know her face. They were old friends. In his grip, the gauche blade reached for the hot sands and sent a tremble up his arm. He was unused to handling Blackheart with a single arm and would most likely wield it with two hands in the coming battle. The effort gave him a bit of satisfaction, if only by showing him he was getting stronger. "Just try not to hold it against me if it takes you instead."
His damnable signature smile mocked the "Nightingale" with its sincerity rather than animosity. He took a sturdy step toward the Faun and exhaled the breath from his lungs; hot air like the breath of a Dragon swirled rhythmically toward the sand. "Well then..."
The black cloak that covered his ragged, faded uniform- stripped of any insignia that might identify him as a deserter- fell from his mantle. As the cloth settled on the ground, Tobias hefted Blackheart intently.
He had no interest in small talk. The woman before him offered only one indulgence: war. It was the only thing he knew, and the only purpose he had been truly trained to have. Morose, amber orbs belied the gentle soul trapped forever within Tobias- he was proof that no man among the living would ever know peace.
The twin suns seared down and ravaged the land. Light reflected from the white grains forced Tobias to squint in order to see properly, and he spat with a dry laugh. "Shall we?"
He brought his free hand to the elongated hilt of his blade and gripped it tightly. Another breath, and he brought it into guard. Tobias defied the world and held his head high beneath it's weight. It was as nothing in the moments he truly felt alive.
Once more unto the breach...
Her eyes followed the movements of the narrow sword intently, depending on the validity of her sight for the sake of her life. Life and Death, they seemed so close, yet so definitely different, two sides of the same copper coin, two notes played upon the same steel string. Either was the brother of the other, twins who were intertwined into the melody of existence. For though the absence of one meant the reign of the other, neither could one really mean anything without true existence of both. It was an underestimated timeless paradox.
Unsubtly the faun raised an eyebrow. "Indeed," she replied, her soft lips imitating his.
This human seemed perversely interested in settling the fight now and now later. From what she could judge by his appearance his past had been entangled in the army - militia or otherwise. His pose was that of a proud man, his eyes sparked something of the ferocity of battle. She had very little reason to believe he would grant her the while to get to know him better.
Gently, mutely, she shrugged and gave her blade what it longed for. What it yearned for. What he desired for. It sang through the air as she whipped it up into attention; just as she flipped her hair over her shoulder with a cocky flick of her head.
In mocking preperation she danced out a couple of steps upon the ground, sending out a flurry of dust. Her hoofwork was swift and agile, the mere beginnings of the speeds at which she could move.
She leapt forwards with a yell, the Bastard clashing with his blade for a single moment; yet as soon as she had knocked it one way she skipped back, jeering.
"Well come then," she purred. "If you want it, come and claim it, baby."
In the air, she twirled, spinning backwards as she did, inviting him into this deadly dance.
Their blades met with a callous clang. Tobias shrugged off the impact with a bit more disregard than he actually felt, heaving a long sigh to mask his effort. His muscles rippled then relaxed, and he watched her back away in a flurry of movement. He had a mute appreciation for her exuberance, though his stony features hinted nothing of that fact. His gaze followed her carefully and assessed her motions.
He wasted no effort to chase her. The heat was a monster all its own; too much wasted movement could exhaust a fighter quickly. Instead, when she called out to him, Tobias stretched his neck until it let out a crackling pop. "You move well," he praised, but he offered no rise to her taunt. He knew all too well the way of words.
Several slow steps brought him closer to the Faun, the nightmarish blade dragging along in the sand. He could not boast any match to her quickness, and he knew that he would be outclassed it he attempted to fight on her terms. Instead, he would play to his own skillset.
He knew nothing of the woman he was at odds with. She knew nothing of him. That was one of war's worst injustices. Even breaths carried him across the gap she had created, but his smile never faded. She wanted for the violence, but he cared little about it. Tobias only desired the joy that combat brought, the meaning in a meaningless existence.
Blackheart rose again and Tobias tore the weighty weapon through the air toward Philomel. The jet black Dehlar gave a shrill scream, and he jerked backward hard. A grunt escaped him. Sweat poured down his back. His feet dug into the dusty ground as he twisted.
A quiet wind brushed over the lonely world. The hellscape that was not Althanas offered the two combatants a brief respite from their deadly dance. Tobias tugged the blade back from the feinted forward slash and brought it hammering down at the Faun from above to complete his tight turn. "I'm afraid I'm not much for fun, m'lady," he offered as an accompaniment to his attack.
Words, like the wind, were fleeting.
Her patience bade her well. It was an art form she had honed through the years - the ability to wait, willingly and passionately, until the right time to let the darkened claws strike. After her many years of assassination she had begun to transform into the woman she longed to be, whom she dreamt of. That faun, that dominatrix of all whores, who had what she wished for at the stomp of a hoof.
Natural abilities from her racial status allowed her a certain amount of graceful speed advantage over this adversary. Her hooves could move from side to side in a beguiling dance, swiftly enticing him to give the attack as she moved backwards. Her first strike - the single blow to that sharpened blade - had merely been meant to rile him. And rile him well and good it did. He attacked almost viciously, with the strength of a rock and the expression of a dull bored orc, grunting almost as he slipped forwards to attack. She fended off his few blows easily, and barely listened as he complimented her.
Yeah I know I move well, she retorted, and beat her merry tune.
One, two, three, she spied his feint, and caught sign enough of his sweet twisting blow from above. It was skilled enough, pure and fast and effective, and did not allow much room for movement. Yet, her senses kept her aware of those things that moved around her. Things that were not rational in thought, or had no reason, but that were alive enough of their own accord. The shrubs around her - she was aware of them. Her slight dodge, also, that was due to the fact she could see the falling strike, and it caused the blade to clatter not with her skull but with her horn.
His, that is, the human's, weapon grazed over the natural curve of her ram's horn, forced to the side. Philomel took the short few seconds there to butt it away with a sharp upper thrust of her skull, then quickly ducked away. Wishing, and desperately hoping that she was blessed by Drys she moved further back, around two paces away and revealed a charming smile.
The Bastard raised itself into guard as she stared at the man. Full in the face, full in those glistening golden eyes.
Come to me, she said, Come my dear and follow me to your doom.
He stopped short when the heavy blade met her horns. The pressure from her shunt was admittedly fantastic; the body of a Faun granted the girl strength in the legs and natural defenses that Tobias had no equal to. He did have an answer for them, however. When the girl pressed into him, Tobias held the weapon steady.
As she moved backward, the blade's sinister tip angled toward her. It dared her to try such a fledgling defense a second time. Tobias held Blackheart steady with both hands and drew it slowly back. His first test of her mettle had borne unexpected fruit. The soldier's golden gaze flickered in the late day sunlight, finally adjusted to the glare. Her horns provided an efficient defense against a glancing blow, he noted, but he doubted if they would hold against the full might of his weapon.
There was always doubt in the back of a man's mind. A whisper in his head that he would fail plagued him worse than any sickness. For Tobias, that fear had become an eventuality. A new enemy allowed him to learn new ways to battle, but it always presented new possibilities of death. It was that fear that drove him madly toward self improvement.
His enemy presented a wall to be overcome, and Tobias rose to the challenge. Her strikes, her blocks, her rhythmic movements- they would dance to his tune. Her choice not to answer his calm words told Tobias everything he needed to know. She had intended to play with him, and she was wounded beneath the surface by how he had spurned her. Each time she had denied his blade, he felt the waver of noncommittal strikes. Surely this woman had more to offer.
Tobias gave another laugh, one that sounded rife with disappointment. "I had expected more," he told her honestly. "You're playing with me like a virgin holding a stiff cock. Timid. Uncertain."
His eyes gleamed with amusement. "Bring me to life," he implored, "before I give you to death."
There was a monster in Tobias that had never shown itself before. His blade dipped toward the sand and tore a gash in the earth. His shoulders sagged, and he stared at her through those wretched eyes. "Or are you afraid?"
As soon as he said it she stopped. Froze, rooted to the spot. Her eyes flashed with sudden anger.
"I had expected more."
Her jaw tensed, back teeth grating together. It was at this time she wished she had a tail, a rarity amongst fauns but nevertheless possible. If she had such she would be swishing it, angrily back and forth, merely exentuating the expression of her anger as he continued. His eyes sparkled, his mouth curled in a fucking cocky smirk.
"Are you too afraid?"
"Fucking hell I am not afraid!" she roared, flipping her mighty sword to one hand.
As it lay snug into her right palm her other swept down and bade parallel to the dusty ground. As her ire rose her chest she felt her chin rise up. Head tilted back she expanded her vocal chords, as she glanced from him to the cold strike in the earth, then back to him. Her breath was ragged at first, as her whole body was shaking with both ferocity and passion for this fight, but she quickly gained control over it. Letting out a savage goat-like bellow she moved, hooves moving like nimble toes of a gazelle, first one, then the other, then the first again, aiming a decisive kick straight at his groin.
While she did so, and her defiant bleat cascaded over the alien landscape, her sword swept down. The Bastard, like a majestic bird, took flight and matched the speed of her hoof. She aimed to kick, the sword aimed to strike, and it focused its interest for his neck. Her eyes were focused straight on this madman, this codpiece of human nature, whom she was so disgusted by. The faun was riled, savegely so, and it was only a few seconds until she would break.
His lips shifted subtly, but he gave no verbal response to her declaration. It was good enough. Tobias grasped the hilt of his blade tightly in hand and eyed Philomel silently. She roared defiance to the heavens, her body swayed with anger, and Tobias' smirk slipped into a broad smile.
At last, he would face a foe worthy of the title. The man who had began the Magus Cup as a timid trickster had evolved into this beast, eager to slake his thirst for violence with blood. He caught himself and stifled a tremble of anticipation. His tongue flicked dangerously across his teeth. As she jolted forward, he hefted his sword.
The flat of the weapon greeted her powerful hoof. He pressed his palm to Blackheart and felt it's malicious beat as it shivered from the impact. Tobias spat on the ground as he slid backward from the utter strength of her strike and his boots dug into the white hot sands. Though she had proven her point, Tobias did not waver in his tenacity. Her strike had drawn a gleeful laugh from him- a masochistic and maniacal sort of laugh.
Her bastardly blade swept for his neck and Tobias tilted his body backward. The Dehlar blade shot upward, punched into the motion by the hand that had previously been reinforcing his block. The resulting collision gave an earth-shattering shriek. Tobias stared at he woman above their interlaced blades in the way a lover might suggestively stare at his mate.
He winked at her.
Satyrs are the fauns that are borns from ire. They have larger, rounded horns and tougher bodies. Their spirits can rarely be dulled and neither can their attitudes. They are ugly, cruel, rape-loving brutes who are all related, all absolutely insane and all think they are pretty much the best the world can offer in terms of concious life.
Not being a satyr Philomel was lacking a certain vigour when it came to proclaiming her anger. If she did have the strenth, the upbringing, or the inbred madness to support her maybe she could have let herself go completely at this moment; let herself become overwhelmed with the rage she was feeling, and turn into some sort of blood-lustful berserker. But as it was she had been brought up a prostitute, and later an assassin, and their style of life was somewhat entirely different. Her mother, the first faun-whore had learnt the more secret, charming ways of winning battles, that did not need as much bloodshed. Instead they needed patience. They needed courage. They needed a strong will. And above all, they needed a quick and witty mind.
That which Philomel had in abundance. All her years within the fucking and killing industry had taught her how to rely on her speedy tongue, and wisdom. Her lithe and appealing body were merely tools to apply to the methods - they were not the key to the final goal. Instead, that was her brain, her dedication to strategy, and thus, thus, Philomel knew she could not be weakened by a mere wink.
Though it boiled her blood, enflamed her spirits, and sent her tongue cursing his name with a snake-like hiss, the mocking did not take over. No, she was far too practised for something as such as this. She had already committed her entire life.
And so she kept fighting the same way she had done - slowly retreating, one hand on the hilt of The Bastard, eyes watching the enemy before her. She pressed against his weapon, and he against hers, eyes matching, hearts soaring. A simple parry broke the contact of the blades with a shimmer of steel, then the faun took another step back. Easily she kept up her guard against his strikes, not letting herself be daunted. When far enough she stopped retreating, and simply struck blows for a while until the right time came.
The right time and the most auspicious of places. Gathering her breath the assassin-whore prepared. She stretched her neck and extended her arm, holding it parrallel to the earth beneath her cloven hooves. Her sword swish, clash, clang-ed against the other dark strange metal as a faint wind began to pick up over the surface of the planet.
Then - unexpectedly, even for her, there was a small nicker, a gackle. A swift patter of paws, a flash of russet red and the creature leapt from the shubbery. Correctly, within the perfect position now, it gained the two feet it needed to assault the ankle of the solider-human, claws and ivory teeth flashing. It took one - perhaps two - seconds, for the small but killer jaws to aim; ready to latch themselves around the area above the boot.
Tail swished, Philomel's sword rose up with the realisation of this advantage. Savagely, she aimed for her - their - attacker's head.
Tobias continued his backward falling motion with a practiced grace. His back arched and the sword flicked backward in a high arc. He batted away the oversized sword of the Faun with his blade as it sailed along. Tobias was carried upward like a bird in an updraft, dragged clear of his assailant by continuous momentum. His body coursed with adrenaline as he ripped through the air and twisted to face his opponent proper.
A streak of orange from one side caught his eye as Tobias threw his legs viciously overhead, his body a perfect counterweight for the bulk of his blade. The Fox leaped and clamped on air, mere centimeters from a perfectly executed distraction. The soldier let out an indignant huff.
Her blade cut through air with savage skill. Tobias landed with a thud on one knee, several feet clear of the feral pair, and pressed off of the sand with his free hand. His chest rose and fell with effort, and Tobias shook his head. "Lucky for me, I suppose," he muttered, eyeing the fox and the Faun in turn. "Seems she has friends in low places."
He rose slowly to his feet, this time with Blackheart in a low guard. He brushed a hand over the cut in his wrinkled shirt, pulling his hand free with a crimson blush. His head shook. "I moved a bit slow," he called to her with a laugh. "It won't happen again."
It was almost disturbing how little he cared about a wound. He looked oblivious to the pain, or like he enjoyed the rush. Blackheart had begun to feel light in his grip, familiar. The excitement danced in his eyes as he offered his opponent a smile. The woodland creature changed the paradigm a bit, but not much. It was just another enemy. Just another corpse.
Sand kicked up in the dull breeze and buffeted the trio. Tobias lifted his ratty sleeve to his forehead and wiped away the beads of sweat that had amassed there. "My turn," he said with a hint of amusement in his grim voice.
Driven forward by a force akin to madness, Tobias surged toward the Faun and her companion. His sword dipped into the grainy ground then ripped upward in a fluid motion and sent a wave of sand toward them. He lunged forward behind the wall of dusty gold. His arms ripped the dark blade across with immense effort, and Blackheart erupted through the sand like a massive tongue from the mouth of a monster.
There was a curious strength to the way the man moved, one that could not be easily comprehended. His blade, after all, seemed to not just be a weapon or a tool but an extension of the man himself. It was, if one could call it such, an additional appendage, a fifth feature, a living limb. The seemingly dullness of the metal was not to be underestimated, however. That was an easy assessment to make; it seemed to give the warrior some form of extra bought of courage. Philomel was no stranger to magical weapons, of course - she had had her fair share of wizards - but when it came to recognising and detecting magic within things ... that was not a talent of hers. Therefore she could not be sure if the thing itself had any enchantments surrounding it.
She cursed under her breath as Veridian's jaws closed upon whatever gases made up the atmosphere in this habitat. The Bastard rested still, lonesome, in her right hand, and she used this moment to let it rest upon the ground. As the human did a sort of somersault midair she took time to gather her breath.
The thin form of the earth spirit, now visible to the eye and no longer hidden, streaked low to the ground and over to her. Golden eyes pierced before him, claws ripped through the crusty earth of the ground.
Images of the villain's face, plus a raging sense of irritation battered her mind, and the faun-whore could not help but agree. It happened to choreograph perfectly to the man's landing - then subsequent attack, as his blade scooped up a mount of the dust underhoof and underpaw. Vehemently it cast it straight towards the two defenders. Thoughts were quickly cut off, and simply proved correct as the two of them hurriedly hid their faces behind hand and foreleg.
"Villianous wretch!" Philomel cursed. In readiness she flicked up the end of The Bastard again. He sung through the air, a light god - though likely very little match for the heavy, strong wanker who had just made her temporarily blind.
She flung her blade around as she retreated, widening out her natural sixth senses to keep in tune when the earth around her would be disturbed. In that way she could keep a check on his approach, be ready when the danger did come.
Curses and low-blows, her thoughts exploded, Bastards and brigands.
Steady, steady was the way to go, surely. If only she could hold herself for the time that passed.
Blackheart met the Bastard with a powerful crash, then there was silence.
The last vestiges of sand rained down between Tobias and his flighty prey to reveal the soldier with his head bowed. A quiet laugh escaped him and slowly rose into a bemused chuckle. "Now we're both fighting dirty," he said as he glanced up, an evil flicker in his golden gaze. "Isn't that what you wanted?"
His inane laughter halted, but his smile remained. With a stare that could carve through stone he watched her run. Every step brought her further from danger, each increment of distance brought a sense of disdain into his chest. "Fight me." The words fell off his lips like spittle from a drunkard, then echoed with ferocity. "Fight me, all the gods damn you!"
It was unfair; he had tasted the pain from her blade, but it was not enough. He felt the rush of battle welling up, and she sullied it with a hidden ally. Then she had the audacity to flee from his reprisal to her demeaning act. Even his gracious attempts to lower himself to her level met with dishonor, and Tobias felt despondent. He thirsted for a battle worthy of the title, and with each moment, he lost hope that he had found it.
He stood slowly and exhaled, his grip tightly wound around his blade. He stared at the ground between he and the Faun as it became more plentiful and his smile began to fade. "There was a time," he said, more to himself than to his enemy, "when I was afraid. I feared battle, and I feared dying. I feared myself and for what I was capable of," he strode forward in a slow, stalking stride that offered him respite from he wild battle. "Only through adversity I was able to find find the error in that. Living in fear is not living."
He wasn't sure that she could hear him; in fact, he doubted she would be listening if she did hear. Blackheart drew a fine line in the sand as it dragged along the ground behind him. His eyes were darkened again, devoid of the life that their short lived encounter had stoked in them. He longed for that sensation once more. He desired no more than that. "Fight me," he begged, his voice wrought with despair, "just fight. Forget victory and defeat. Just validate me for a little longer, and you'll be rid of me."
A single tear stained his cheek, out of place. He did not see Philomel as friend or foe- she was simply his fix. He knew nothing of her, nor she of him. He wagered, though, she might understand that sentiment. The feeling of being empty. Everyone knew it. He did not jump to strike her or rush to take her back. He just stood there.
Truly, she was shocked by the sound of his desperation. It was a sorrowful noise, a mourning in some sense. As she listened to him the faun-whore could not help but begin to awaken her curiousity to this character further. His heart beat as steady as any warrior, yet his facial expressions were devoid of much passion, much love, much of anything really. Hard lines, deep valleys and rifts, dark circles beneath the eyes.
As she listened to his words, as he said, "There was a time when I was afraid. I feared battle, and I feared dying." She was reminded of his expression when she had truly battered at him with her equisite blade. As the two of them had met his eyes had danced; a light had literally shone in them. It made her realise that this man was a warrior - once it had been his whole entire existence, and now he was starved of that which he craved the most.
Simple, honest violence.
As the sand and dust whistled away on the wild wind she looked pitfully at the man. The tip of The Bastard drooped somewhat and her head tilted gently to the right. A gentle amount of calmness came over her, and a high amount of respect for him. Slowly her lips curled into a smile. A small knowing smile.
"I will willingly fight as you wish," the assassin-whore said in a clear voice, "If you admit defeat to me."
Her hand still facing the earthen ground moved slightly, inching towards her belt and the dagger hilts portruding there. Near her hooves the fox-spirit stood up, stretching as if to prepare for playtime.
"Say that I have won this round, and I will give you a battle to whisper to your grandchildren."
Tobias watched her in somber silence and drank in her words. Indulgences of the flesh, carnal and futile, danced through this faun. To her, victory mattered above all else, and in that, the empty husk before her felt a tinge of pity. It dissolved but a moment later, but for as long as it lasted, he offered her a discontented frown. "You would take an empty victory over one you worked for?" He questioned her with conviction in his tone that had been earned through immense loss and suffering. "I offer you a middle ground, Lady Philomel. Come take your victory, and in so doing, validate us both."
It was a simple response, yet it resounded like thunder. He remained implacable and stoic, and the dull golden gaze never wavered. "What have you got to lose?"
He reached up with slow, steady fingers and brushed away the inkling of a tear that dared to stain his face. "Show me your resolve. Perhaps then you will find the victory you seek."
Tobias took a slow, almost painful step toward the woman and raised his blade to point at her accusingly. "You may learn something of yourself." His smile was no longer mocking, but soft and sincere. "And, perhaps, of me."
Tobias waited patiently for her answer.
Softly she laughed, mouth transforming into a gentle smirk.
"Never ask me about my resolve, human. You know nothing of me."
Her eyes glanced at the ground briefly, lost as she was in thought. Veridian kept his gaze upon the broken warrior, wary of any sudden movement. As she considered, or rather simply thought, Philomel's mind began to consider images of her past: of that time when she had stabbed her old teacher after he raped her mother; of that time she had watched Mort, her pimp, get stabbed to her hearts content; of that time when she had wandered back in time and stabbed her father. Stabbing with the blade of her keris knife, the waving beauty.
Stab. Stab. Bleed.
"You beg me to fight?" She said quickly, lifting her eyes to him, "Beg like a dog?"
Her laugh turned into something macabre, mocking as her spare hand now drew out the Keir's dagger. That steel piece that had stolen so many lives, stopped so many hearts ... Stolen so many resolves.
It had changed the fate of her whole life.
"Well then, if that be, come at me."
She dared him with her expression, bade him with her romance. Spread her arm wide, exposing the naked flesh.
"Come at me stranger."
And with her hand-and-half sword at the ready, her dagger in rearguard she summoned her strength. The faun-whore readied herself for a fight worth dying for.
"When you have nothing else," he replied, "the method of procurement becomes meaningless."
Tobias ripped forward like a stain of darkness in broad daylight. His eyes beheld the powerful form of Philomel with nothing but the respect an honorable opponent man ought to offer his enemy. Blackheart lunged outward. The sorrowful sword scoured sand with a familiar touch as it sought the Faun's blood.
Her voice seemed so faint now. His smile had become a mask of contentment as memories boiled over in his mind and the battle consumed him, but he could not hear Camille. Not even when straining. How short a time ago it had been that she stood beside him, crooning in his ear. Her touch was love, her scent was life. Now, though, she was nothing. She was dead.
He had hated her just before the end. She had thrown aside their love for the backward promises of power and the notion that she would rise high on the updraft of murder and lies. In spite of all those things, to see her bleed out the last moments of her life had been too much for him. It had ripped open a wound that had far from closed, and he had fallen so far from the man he once was.
The only thing that gave him any peace was waging war.
Blackheart streaked like a Stygian blur to and fro in powerful swings seemed mismatched to the frail form of Tobias. Each moment was a duality of heartbeats- one his own, and the other, vibrations from the dark blade when it made impact. His breaths were one with the wind; constant, immense, loud. In spite of his joy, Tobias was lost in a world of suffering.
If he were to die, he would die fulfilled. If only for a few moments. The agony of this tournament was it's lack of finality. He had come so far and grown so much, yet now that he longed for death, he could not have it. His only choice was to move forward, and Philomel or he would fall in pursuit of that lofty achievement.
Either, Tobias was convinced, would be a fitting end.
Sweetly the moment, the opportunity was there, and she wholeheartedly took it.
Dancing as lithely as a gazelle in the wild wild Alerar plains, her movements were one with the earth itself. The twisting grains of dust, sand and soil merged as one to greet those hooves and touch the darker tones of her flesh. With this new need to prove herself came the chance to display her vigour, and vigour she did display.
Hoof after hair after skin, the two of them clashed and danced together, their steps making elegant scars in the landscape. Grey eyes, gold eyes - they were two of the same, of similar spirit. Both willed it so, both wanted it so.
Clang, clash, graannnggg...
Sounds of symphonic nature, the pickaxe in the mine. The blades met and kissed, then parted. Again and again and again...
Paradise could be found. Paradise in a sense was found, at least for him. The solemn soldier. The man who could not live until he felt the release of violence.
Her dagger and sword were one, and she was one with them. Subtly, she smiled, and urged Veridian into action. As she attacked from below and above his belly, he lunged for the human's waist.
Three silent moves. Three silent attacks. Perfect synchronisation.
If only there were such beauty in normality.
Cloth and flesh were torn without discretion. As Tobias clashed with the Faun in a brilliant display of deadly force, his ragged breaths slowed. She was blurred around the edges, his twisted savior, a woman obsessed with victory. She would have her murderous thrill, he was certain now. Springs of blood welled up on the surface of his flesh in the wake of newly opened wounds. Cracks in the foundation of his stoicism formed, but he refused to falter. Each blow was a stain in his courage, and as he sank to a knee beneath the weight building on top of him, Tobias shook violently.
The dagger and sword ripped through flesh and blood spewed from gashes Tobias seemed oblivious to. Amber eyes settled on Philomel as her fox met his hand and clamped down. Blackheart clattered to the sand without sound, and Tobias clamped his fist around the creature's lower jaw as it sank it's teeth into him.
The deathblow had already struck. Deathblows. It would never be known which of the blows had ended him, but Tobias' body had long since failed. Willpower alone kept him conscious. "Perfect," he managed, his voice not rising above a whisper. Tears streamed down his cheeks at the release as it rushed toward him, and he smiled up at the Whore Faun with honest thanks. "I can... I can see... her..."
Blood ran down his chin as he slumped forward. His body trembled with a final surge of defiance before it deflated in defeat. His broken form sank to the dusty ground and silence gripped the lonely world at last.
There was little to even say, or be said. Of the phrase "silence fell" rarely just it mean what it proposes. Yet ... of that day, of that time, in that place ... silence did fall. The wind fell to utter nothingness, even the smallest of breezes refused to blow. No mild shaking of branches within the low dry shrubbery, no scratchings or shakings of earth beneath the feet, not even the smoothest breath from between the smoothest of lips.
She was caught in a state of shock and unduress, and he was dead. Dead, as a doornail, as an ended state of existence. Gone, until the last inch of warmth that had abused his long and tiresome body and all but become one with the earth. Of the dust we come, and to the dust we return. She removed her blades from his shoulder and belly. Gets and sweet red life-juice poured out - the smell pungent to the air. Thick miasma of a death long needed, a death long sought for.
Gently the faun leaned down, noise now coming into the world by the sound of her breath. The fallen warrior slumped over her, his head resting on her shoulder. Freshly, she felt the warm blood begin to soak up the fabric of her corset. He was heavy, but not too heavy for her to deal with. Very gently she swung him around, cradling him for one moment, before lowering his body to the ground. A small scuffling spoke of the fox, still clinging onto the hand. Veridian was limp, but his teeth were well and truly fixed into the man, the dead man, as if he longed to just devour him now. Russet tail twitched back and forth, sending a shallow shower of dust sprinkling over the exposed and ruined flesh.
Blood, and dust and bones and flesh. This is all we are in the end.
As the blood mixed with the dirt and grime, Philomel found herself gazing into those golden eyes. He seemed dim and distant, yet at peace, broken yet whole. After all, she had given him what he had wanted. She had given up and played at this game; participated in the gods' casual fancies.
Today I took I life. Tomorrow I shall take another.
Death to death, life to life. In the end we are all just dust.
Overall, this battle was boring. The story didn't develop until after a faux climax & that temporary momentum did not carry into the conclusion. That isnt to say there weren't moments of excellence from both of you -- parts of posts 13 and 14 were great. I simply feel like there was a significant amount of unnecessary "fluff" added to this battle that needlessly delayed the battle. Tobias, you overused the pronoun "he," starting several consecutive sentences in multiple posts with "He [did this]." Also, as we discussed in chat, post 7 was internally inconsistent as you struggled to add something of value to the story. Philomel, you committed a number of silly grammatical errors. You also seemed to base many of your posts on material Tobias gave to you. For example, in post 6 you identified Tobias' military garb, but only after he'd singled it out in the previous post. Don't be afraid to go your own way.
Scores are below. I'm limiting commentary to save time.
Tobias Stalt
Story - 5
Setting - 5
Pacing - 5
Action - 4 (You clanked swords and then parried at least six times in the battle. You dragged your sword in the sand at least three times. When you weren't busy performing the same actions over and over again, neither you nor Philomel would take the initiative to interact. Essentially, the battle degraded to two drunk frat boys hollering emotionally charged insults at one another because neither of them wanted to take the first punch)
Communication - 5 (Better dialogue than Philomel. I could hear your character's growing arrogance in his words moreso than his actions)
Persona - 5
Mechanics - 6
Technique - 5
Clarity - 5
Wildcard - 5
Total - 50/100
Philomel
Story - 6
Setting - 5
Pacing - 4 (Flashback sequences can help and harm a story. In this instance, it harmed your pacing. In several posts you would begin with a flashback (which is generally passive writing), then use short sustinct fragments to convey urgency at the end. These inconsistencies hurt your score. Frankly, it made it look like you were adding things simply because you couldn't think of anything else to write)
Action - 4 (See Tobias' comments)
Communication - 4
Persona - 6 (I saw alot more of Philomel than Tobias in this battle. This is an instance, perhaps, where your flashbacks may have helped some. The flashbacks themselves weren't that helpful, but you related them to Philomel's current thoughts well)
Mechanics - 5
Technique - 5
Clarity - 5
Wildcard - 5
Total - 49/100
Tobias Stalt advances to the semi-finals of the Redemption Bracket against Callan.
Philomel is eliminated.
I'm on a slight time crunch, so Lye will add rewards.
Tobias Stalt Gets:
1,000 EXP
100 GP
Philomel Gets:
300 EXP
50 GP
EXP & GP Added.
Tobias Stalt Levels to Level 3!
Congrats!