Hot Under the Collar

[Duffy]

At the heart of a desert, Duffy Bracken stood sweating in some white shirt and brown trousers, desperate to get out of the heat. Unfortunately, when he had said to the monks of the Citadel he’d like a heated battle they had taken it utterly out of context. An easterly wind offered little reprieve and kicked up plumes of sand that rolled and frolicked over the arid landscape like carefree sprites. Behind him, on the edge of the dust bowl stood five imposing monoliths, their purpose unknown saves for making Duffy paranoid. The bowl itself was two hundred feet wide. It sloped inwards on all sides save for along the northern edge, where ten feet drop separated there would be battleground from the flats beyond.

“Remember to be more specific next time,” he chided himself.

He looked skyward at the rolling clouds, white plumes of vapour set against a brilliant blue sky. He figured it was a mockery of Fallien in summer, though the shattered island was this hot all year round, the cranes flocking overhead only ventured south to Irrakam in the hottest months. Despite fighting here more times than he could remember, the bard was always impressed by the attention to detail the mons gave to their illusory creations.

“A new challenger approaches!”

Duffy blinked. The voice shuddered the sand and bounced around the arena like a thunderstorm. He tensed every muscle in his body, ready for anything.

“Well that’s new,” he said softly.

In the northern face of the bowl a door appeared, cunningly disguised by the jagged outcrops where the dunes had collapses in the shifting whorl of a desert’s life. It was the same iron bound oak frame that marked the entrance to each of the Citadel’s fighting arenas, but all the same, it’s appearance never failed to put the bard on edge. He bent his knees and began to bounce from foot to foot, trying to ignore the beading sweat as it rolled down the curve of his spine and bridge of his nose.

With only fifty feet between himself and the door, and likely nasty death, he held on to his advantages and produced two short swords from the ether. Blue ribbons spiralled away from where Althanas briefly touched the Tap and the brief cold clasp of steel excited his sense. He cut them in concentric circles, the rush of a blade’s edge through heated air his own private battle cry. Poised like a hawk, with both blade tips pointed at the door frame, he awaited his return to the front lines and all the merry little madrigals of pain that came with it.

[Ashla]

It was dark, lonesome. Ready for yet another battle, a young woman extended her dominant left hand towards the door.

As her gauntleted hand pressed against it, a sigh was emitted from a young woman. The rough oak door threatened to give her exposed hands splinters. Closing her eyes, the woman spoke, "Ready?"

A voice from behind peeped in an energetic, boisterous shout, "Yep!"

A smirk crossed the more down to earth woman's face. Pressing her palm against it, she shoved open the door. Suddenly, the darkness was replaced with blinding sunlight. The young woman, a brunette, with a simple garb and light armor, lifted her eyes to a heated desert. The endless dunes of sand covered the landscape for miles, marching into the horizon. The burning temperatures were similar to Fallien, especially in its summer seasons. Already feeling sweat develop, the woman's eyes, one blue and the other burgundy, rested on the image of a man with weapons already drawn. He had a simplistic set of clothes. His pure white shirt was already damp with sweat, and his brown pants were coated lightly with kicked up sand. His blue eyes and black hair were oddly similar to Eiskaltians, although his complection did not share their strict pale skin. He was only a small distance away from them, his small swords were a wonderful masterwork steel, with engravings of I Want to Be Your Canary on them.

Overall, he seemed to be the simple sort. Looks could, however, be always deceiving. The person standing behind her reinforced that truth only too well.

He held his blades at the ready. The woman was familiar with various forms of swordsmanship, and his did not match the olden styles of HEMA, Akashima's jutsu's, or any others. Had he stuck to his own individual style like she still preferred to herself? The inquisitive young woman immediately held her arms out, speaking not to him, but the person behind him, "It's like freaking Fallien out here, Fel. And our opponent is right here. Watch your step."

This post will be followed up by my alt. The posts go hand in hand.

[Flamebird]

"Seriously?"

Stepping out into the sunlight and coarse, gruff sand, Felicity Rhyolite growled as he pulled her elkan round shield off her back. Her lisp made the R and L of that single statement slurred, but her voice screamed of annoyance. "It had to be like Fallien??"

Her tame burgundy shorts, green shirt, and magim leather jacket modestly swayed in response to her movements. Her hair was pulled back into a simple braid, streaks of neanderthal war paint coated under her eyes. Standing side by side with the more mature brunette, the youth glared through the blinding light and looked at their opponent.

Simple outfit, cool blades. . . "Hey, what do your weapons say?" The girl pulled out a delyn arming sword from her sheath. Holding it out, the girl let the metal dazzle in the rays of sunlight, "Mine says My Heart Is-"

"-Not important, Felicity." Her serious partner growled.

Immediately catching herself, the girl cleared her throat. Putting her weapon back in her sheath, the girl pulled off her leather jacket, which already burned in the blazing heat. As the jacket fell, causing a puffy cloud of sand to come up, she pulled her shield in front of herself and drew her sword again. As the weapon glistened, held out at her waistline, Felicity looked her teammate.

As the young woman's blue tunic blew in the light and still unrelieving desert winds, she whipped out her damascus hand in a half sword and raised in in the Wrath Stance. She muttered two words, "Maneuver Eleven."

"'Kay, Ashla." Felicity understood. Smirking, she made the team's first move against their opponent.

The fury redhead immediately rushed their opponent. Moving to close the little distance between them, Felicity put into practice a move she learned from studying HEMA. Her plan was to strike his blades with her shield, bashing him and off balancing him. If this worked, she would follow up with a low strike cutting up. Her shield always kept close, she would still keep left side protected as her right made the risky cut.

Ever watching her back, Ashla would rush in from her right. Switching to using her right hand for Felicity's sake, Ashla would keep her sword in the Longpoint Guard, keeping her right side defended as well.

Would this attack work? How much skill did this humble appearing man truly posses? As the sand around them shifted, the winds quickening as if they themselves were thrilled with the concept of battle, the clashing of blades began.

[Duffy]

Duffy raised an eyebrow as the duo, most unexpected, closed in on him. They made short work of the sands, which only served to prang his nerves into life. The one with the shield made a straight line for him and forced his hand. Ever the one to challenge fate he charged right back at her, blades poised like hawk’s wings and hair whipping into a frenzy in his wake. He did not have time to see what they had planned, and just before the bulwark of the shield connected with his all too often broken nose he dissipated. The bard became nothing but broken promises and a merry ditty brought to life in a whorl of blue ribbons of light.

He re-appeared five feet from whence he’d vanished, his momentum still intact and a sudden rush of blood to the head sharpening his senses. Though the realm he vanished too was cool, the return to the sweltering heat brought his neck out in hives and moistened the small of his back. He spun about, skidding over the sand to a halt and dropped to one knee to steady himself. Remaining there, eyes set on both his assailants and heart pounding, he set one blade to the ground and spread his fingertips. They touched the hot grains and steadied him, like a sprinter ready for the big race. His right hand remained raised, sword tip pointing skyward in a reverse grip.

“Now then,” he said between heavy breaths, “let’s try that again, shall we?”

Waiting for them to catch up, he gestured with a nod for the duo to try to commence proceedings a little more fairly. The rush of blood eased off, leaving the bard with a clear idea about how to proceed. Carefully. Very bloody carefully.

[Ashla]

"Dude, he teleported!" Felicity shouted in awe. As the blue glow of pure magic caused him to disappear, only to reappear several feet away again, Felicity's eyes glowed in curious fascination.

He seemed agile and quick. His form was still unrecognized by Ashla, but everything about him screamed of ages of experience. A smirk crossed the ice mage's face. He was unpredictable. She liked unpredictable. After he motioned the group to attempt another attack, Ashla pulled her sword into a lowered side guard. She was now leading the offensive. Her feet light above the grains of sand, the half-elf darted ahead of her younger companion, "Remember your form."

Even if Felicity was no longer her student, Ashla was always watching her back. Keeping her in check. Felicity was still young, like herself, and Ashla had the feeling that this humbly dressed opponent was far more experienced than the young redhead. Her pale face was serious from ages of war. As her mismatched eyes glared into simple brown, the Eiskaltian Executioner of the Wicked made her move. If this opponent was capable of teleportation, the ultimate speed, the girls would need to play it dirty.

The sweat coated Icebreaker's movement's were simple and clean. As she dashed up to her opponent, Ashla dug her steel plated boot into the sand. Kicking it up, she hoped it would get into his eyes as she aimed a simple upper cut at his chest.

The dry desert was empty and burnt. Acting in turn to turn movement, if this attack failed, Ashla would step aside for the sturdier Felicity to take over. While Ashla was capable of being much more agile and even faster, the peredhel knew very well that energy was to be preserved in this dry lake of yellow. The waves of sand lightly tossed and turned as the storm of three duelists continued.

You can go, Duffy.

[Duffy]

Duffy admired the women for just long enough to give them an opening. Whilst he would have expected a sword to the gut, the sand and salt in his eyes hurt just as much. He dropped his swords into the ether and brought his hands up to cover his face. Unfortunately for the bard, his common sense only worked in bar fights or when drunk. Though he guarded his eyes and nose, his opponent’s fist connected neatly with his chin and span the arena through twenty rotations. He fell backwards and cracked his head on the sand with an unceremonious thud.

“Fu-” he mumbled, trying to swear through grit teeth and a swelling sensation running down the muscles in his neck.

He watched the sky blur, a tapestry of pristine clouds swirling into a maelstrom of grey and navy-blue regret. Memories of past shortcomings in his form flooded his mind, like a nagging school teacher chiding the class clown. The taste of blood focused his senses and he rolled onto his side, browbeat and confidence knocked.

“Perhaps I sphoke too soon,” he chuckled. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees and bolted upright. His head span, he swooned, and he swore again. “If a dirty thight’s what you want, it’s what you’ll get.”

A sweating middle-aged man with red eyes and a sodden shirt wasn’t exactly a terrifying prospect in a duel. Fighting to correct that, Duffy slicked his hair to the left and wiped the sand trails from his cheeks. Two short blades were grand for fighting a single adversary, but two at once required a little more finesse, a little more style and edge. He pulled his katana from the ether and into the confidence of his right hand. He held it horizontally, bladed edge outwards and reflecting the coruscating heat of the desert along it’s blackened form.

“Let’s even the odds.”

He flicked his free hand into the air and three purple ravens, ablaze with hellfire shot out from his fingertips. They circled overhead, cawing in a deadly cacophony and then dived, full-force at the ice mage. As the bird’s descended, power stolen from his brother Leopold, the bard broke into a sprint towards the swordsman and brought the katana down in a two-handed slash aimed at her weapon arm.

[Flamebird]

Ashla looked up at the sight of royal black birds circling like vultures above her. They were pitch black silhouettes of shadow birds eclipsing the golden sun. Ashla was sure that if they were made of magic, there probably was not blood to freeze in them. As they dive bombed down, Felicity sprung into action.

~~~

Upon seeing the flaming birdies soaring down to Ashla like comets, Felicity bolted to her old friend, "Duck!"

As Ashla spat out a puntastic correction of "raven", she swiftly knelt with elvish grace. Felicity raised her elkan sheild. As the ravens hit the shield like darts.

*Plat!*

Felicity smirked for a split second, then heard... was that crackling?

"FIRE!"

Felicity's wooden sheild was ablaze with orange flickerers of plasma energy. Her garden green eyes widened, adrenaline burst into waves as she immediately chucked the burning defense weapon into the sea of sand below. A disappointed and begrudging moan fell out of her mouth as she slouched in disappointment. Felicity was used to fighting with a second hand, whether it be her shield or a secondary blade. With her strictly one-handed arming sword being the only weapon to fight with, she realized she was at a massive disadvantage.

Evening the odds indeed.

~~~

Meanwhile...

[Ashla]

...
While Felicity picked up a fight with her own shield, Ashla faced a secondary attack. The black katana this man summoned out of nowhere was an inverted contrast to the yellow sands surrounding them. No relief of the hate came from wind or rain. As sweat collected on the ice mage's back, she rose from the ground as he expertly wielded his Akashiman sword. A heavy but percise blow was aimed at her left hand.

Ashla was facing immediate regrets about entering even a sand arena without her delyn plated gauntlets.

In her elvish speed, she lowered her hand-in-a-half sword in just enough speed to avoid losing her dominant hand, but the heavy impact at the hilt sent shockwaves that caused her to drop her weapon immediately. As the grains of broken rock cushioned the damascus weapon's fall, Ashla quickly decided to distance herself from this master of the unorthodox.

Despite the discomfort the hot desert floor caused, Ashla pushed herself to summer salt away. Landing about forty paces away from his footing, she pulled out her steel dagger. Really, her crosspistol would be useless against someone capable of teleporting. He obviously mastered both melee and missile combat. He was powerful enough to evade and throw back two opponents at once...

... as Ashla and Felicity were both at some form of disadvantage.

[Duffy]

“You know what?” Duffy eased off his defensive stance and let the katana hang loosely at his side. “This isn’t working.”

Though not the most confident of people, the bard could see that despite the numbers being on their side, the duo was catastrophically outmatched. He thought about how he could balance the scales, and smirked wildly when the perfectly obvious came to his attention.

“I remember what it felt like to be so unsure of myself.” His stomach rumbled. “When the world was still so damned amazing.” It had been centuries, but seeing the women fight so hard for a scrap at the table reminded him that he was no god – he was every bit as humble as they.

He changed before their eyes. The brooding, debauch bard turned into a relatively strapping twelve-year-old and the katana, a more pig sticker in the hands of his elder turned into a near great sword. As soon as the transformation completed, he realised his mistake.

“Oh, man, you two are scary!” He bit his lip. “But I isn’t backin’ down!” He waved his blade to suggest he meant it, but his awkward grip and sweating brow betrayed his confidence.

He gave them no chance to recover from the moment he had to recover his mistake. With flat-feet, the kid charged over the sands, leapt over the still smouldering shield and rolled into a criss-cross whirl of unskilled fury at the dagger wielding woman that skulked on the edges of the sand caldera.

[Ashla]

"What the-"

Ashla was lost for words. This full grown, skilled man transformed into a child. A child...

He could teleport, instantly change weapons, summon firebirds, and now he became a kid. What would he do next? Would he summon a rainbow spewing kitten?

Ashla took several steps back, her mind at a blank as she instinctually blocked his unskilled strikes. As the child brought an onslaught of wide, untalented strikes and broken words; she fully came to the fact that she was fighting a little boy. Was this his real form? Was that man just a guise? Was the kid a guise? Ashla's eyes narrowed as she realized she did not even want to fight him anymore.

What do I do?

As she fell back, Felicity shouted in a half amused, half annoyed tone.

"You told me stories of people with lava for blood, races made of coral, and rainbow spewing cats. How are you surprised by this?!"

Ashla growled as she deflected the kid's sloppy attacks, "Maybe you could help me instead of throwing a funeral for your shield!"

As the wind started to pick up, Felicity childishly placed her free hand on her hip, "It's elkan! It's good wood!"

"This is the Citadel!" Ashla's patience was hastily draining, "You'll get it back!"

"Still!" Felicity's shout was muffled by a powerful gust of wind. Between her easy sword blocks, Ashla noticed that in the dunes beyond, grey pillars of cloyd were forming. Was a storm coming? Ashla looked back at the bright eyed, clumsy boy and growled. If it weren't for him being a kid, she would kick him. With her moral code, however, she realized she was unable to lay a finger on him in wrath.

This psychological trick was playing with her mind well.

She needed distince. Easy enough, she pulled her foot up and kicked up a cloud of sand. She used her top speed to advantage, attempting to pull away from the young boy as she started to think.

"FELICITY!" She shouted.

Felicity ran up to her, holding her arming sword in her best defensive stance, "Can't fight a little boy, can you?" Her voice was soft and full of a yet unseen maturity.

As she winced through the blinding sunlight, Ashla looked upon the child. Her face was glazed with gentleness, "How could I?"

OOC: Duffy can go. The sand wasn't necessarily kicked into him, but I'm still nervous. If you want me to edit this please let me know!